The Ironies Of Getting My Second Book Of Poetry Published

Two days ago, I received a letter from Milkweed Editions rejecting my second book of poems, which is called All That Struggled In You Not To Drown. In explaining his decision, the editor wrote, “Although I recognize here an original and compelling persona, I felt that the preponderance of first-person poems with an autobiographical slant limited the potential appeal.” In other words, if I understand him correctly, he thinks that the first-person narratives dominating the book will make it hard both to sell and to get a decent level of critical attention. Whether or not that is true, his perception of the manuscript is accurate–it is made up almost entirely of first-person narratives–and, given that accuracy, if he cannot find within his own aesthetic sense and/or his sense of where poetry is these days and/or his sense of the market enough enthusiasm for publishing my book, I think his rejection is a fair and reasonable one. It’s also ironic, because CavanKerry Press, publisher of my first book of poems, The Silence Of Men, rejected All That Struggled In You Not To Drown because there was not enough of an autobiographical slant. “I’ve seen this a lot,” CKP’s publisher told me. “A poet whose first book is deeply personal will often write a second book that is just the opposite. You’ve written a good book; it’s just too impersonal for our list.” This rejection (more irony here) also seems to me to have been fair and reasonable. For while All That Struggled In You Not To Drown is, to me, deeply personal and autobiographical, it possesses and explores those characteristics differently than The Silence Of Men does, and if CKP’s list is slanted towards the kinds of poems that are in The Silence Of Men, then it makes sense that CKP would also reject my second book.

I have a lot of respect for the work that small press editors and publishers do, not just because it is so often un- or underpaid work–which it is, and which is something that any writer who deals with them needs to understand and appreciate–but also because publishing books requires a commitment to understanding, articulating and either implicitly or explicitly defending one’s own aesthetic sense in a highly saturated and competitive marketplace. Especially when it comes to poetry. Sometimes it seems to me that everyone and her or his aunt or uncle in the United States thinks that he or she is a poet whose work the world absolutely must have between the covers of a book or burned onto a CD or DVD. More to the point–at least in my experience–more than a few of the people who think this way haven’t read (or at least write like they haven’t read) a single book of contemporary poetry. To be a small press editor and/or publisher in this kind of environment is to submit oneself to a mind-numbing onslaught of language, which takes a level of commitment that most literary people I know, including myself, cannot and will not make; and that commitment ought to command our respect, even when it means that a given publisher decides not to publish a book we have written.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I think anyone who wants to write poetry should write poetry. The impulse towards poetic expression is a powerful one; witness the way people turn to poetry in times of difficulty, from personal tragedies like the death of a loved one to national tragedies like the September 11th attacks. Moreover, the good that poetry does for the people who write it, and for the people who read it, whatever kind of poetry it is, is not something that can be measured by either the dollars and cents that a publisher commits to putting a book out or the unpaid hours that the poet sweats through trying to make her or his lines bespeak the particular experience he or she wants to communicate. Still, there is a difference–actually, there are probably many differences–between being someone who writes poems and someone who wants to publish books of poetry, not the least of which is that once you decide you want to publish books of poetry, you have made the decision to treat your work as a commodity. You have entered, whether you like it or not, the world of (usually very small) business; and so I have to confess that the letter from Milkweed Editions is one I should never have received. Instead, I should have written to them and withdrawn All That Struggled In You Not To Drown from consideration because a third press had already agreed to publish it.

I didn’t contact Milkweed because I’d allowed my record-keeping to become sloppy and so I’d actually forgotten I’d submitted the book to them; and so I am relieved that Milkweed rejected my book, since it means I do not have to deal with the awkwardness of having to choose between two very fine publishers. The world of small presses is not like the world of commercial publishers, where the bidding war that can result from having more than one editor eager to publish your book can be a very good thing. There is not enough money in the small press world to make such a bidding war possible. I may have only a verbal commitment from the press that has accepted All That Struggled In You Not To Drown–which is why I am not naming that press in this post; our agreement will not be official until I have a contract, and a lot can happen between a handshake and a contract–but precisely because of the aesthetic and other kinds of un- or underpaid editorial commitments I was talking about above, the verbal commitment I have with this press means something to me, and so it is a commitment that I want, all else being equal, to honor. If all goes according to plan, I will be very proud to publish my book with this press, as I would have been proud to publish with Milkweed, or with CavanKerry Press. But here’s the final irony: The press that accepted my book did so for precisely the reasons that Milkweed rejected it, because of “the preponderance of first-person poems with an autobiographical slant,” which the editor feels will help to garner All That Struggled In You Not To Drown some serious critical attention, while at the same time making the book something that people will want to buy. Go figure.

Cross-posted on It’s All Connected.