"My readers’ vision is their business. My business is the quality of my poems, wherever they appear—" This sounds like freedom to me, opening the door for great Art. I'm keeping this close to my battered writer heart!
I am at a crossroads. I have written a lot, and I have decision fatigue. What do I want to publish in my personal Substack? What do I want to submit to journals? What do I want to put in a chapbook? At the end of the day, it is all for the love of writing.
Stubbornness and positivity are crucial in the writing game and always have been--and a willingness not to just revise but to *enjoy* revisions. Taste is highly individual and you cannot know who is reading your work and under what circumstances that are personal and professional. I keep sending out my new work and just had my 70th essay publication since the height of the pandemic. My substacks can be new but some are re-purposed from my blog because they're about writing and publishing. Sometimes I offer micro essays that have been published elsewhere because I think readers will find them intriguing. And then there are the pieces I write for Lit Mag News Itself.
I appreciate you writing this and thinking about these things, so I don't have to. At various times, I've thought a lot about it -- mostly in a mode of shame and despair. Early on in my love of writing poetry, many years ago, I saw clearly that the apparatus of what passes for success in this sphere is mostly a sham and a joke. So I mostly gave up on seeking a legitimate route. (I do have a submission to The New Yorker that's been sitting in their Submittable queue for six months, and I expect a rejection any day now.) The small press under the imprint of which my books have been published could be described as a group effort in self-publishing -- which I think is not too uncommon among small presses. My friends and I serve as each other's editors, and I think we've helped each other produce better products than we would have otherwise, and maybe better than if some more legitimate publisher took us on. And I've taken it a step further by editing and shepherding into publication a few works by poets outside our circle. That said, I don't think there need be any shame in self-publishing. If you believe in your work, then you shouldn't care how it gets out there -- and with self-publishing your odds of connecting with at least a few readers are probably much better overall than slogging through the rank and file of bedraggled gatekeepers and their stupid and snobbish predilections. Substack, too, is a different beast. There's an upper stratum here of very polished, professional writers. You and Sherman Alexie and Maya Popa, among others, make me feel alright about shouting to the whole neighborhood that, yes, I have a Substack poetry newsletter. Before there was Substack, I also had some luck getting my work noticed by Garrison Keillor, and quite a few poems of mine appeared on The Writer's Almanac. That is and was a venue where a lot of small-time poets like myself had work appearing next to the likes of Billy Collins and Mary Oliver. The journal Rattle seems to have something of that spirit as well (even though nothing of mine has ever gained any traction there). Something else that needs to be mentioned is the pleasure of getting involved in your local literary scene. At the end of the day my advice is: (1) Do not waste your money on an MFA -- unless you want to go teach in an MFA program and perpetuate the cycle (which is a pretty good racket if you can stomach it, so if you can, go ahead, you have my blessing); (2) Go ahead and occasionally submit to big name journals that will pay you nothing or next to nothing or maybe even a little better than nothing, but don't waste much time at it and definitely do not submit to little journals that will most likely not accept your work either anyway and if they do will create a momentary ripple in your so-called career as a poet, before the surface of that pond goes back to glassy stagnent stillness; (3) go ahead and start a Substack newsletter and feel absolutely no shame or embarrassment about it -- let your freak flag fly and tell the fuckers to go to hell; (4) Get involved in your local literary scene in some fashion; (5) Read a lot of poetry, get feedback, hone your skill, develop your voice; (6) Don't accept all the dour defeatist bullshit about never being able to make a living doing what you love, even if that's poetry; keep writing for the love of it, but it's not unreasonable to expect to make money doing what you love if you've developed a legitimate skill at it; keep trying to find a way, and don't listen to all those asshole naysayers; (7) Turn to a life of crime if you have to to support your poetry and your family.
All great advice. I don’t have an MFA. I am a PhD/ABD in Romance languages and literatures, with a concentration in poetics. Although my experience of grad school was positive overall, I still wake up grateful every day that I can read whatever appeals to me and not mountains of assigned texts. I got $200 once from a poem that appeared in Rattle. That’s the most money I ever made from poetry until starting Diary Poems here on Substack. Anyway, thanks for your wonderful comment, and for the restack
I stumbled my way into writing and sharing my poetry. I don't have any published work to show for it other than my own self-publishing here. I've sent a handful of things into the abyss, and I doubt at this point to even hear a rejection. I see this and Jonathan's reply here and think how the hell did I get even in the same neighborhood as these poets? And yet these people struggle just the same. I worry I'm too isolated and not honing my craft well enough. Or, worse, wouldn't know how to if I even could. So I keep at my discipline, such as it is, and try to trick myself from worrying about what real writers must think of my weekly stuff and how it's not been through the salt mines of sufficient revision and sage know-how. It's good to know I'm not entirely nuts.
I feel about poetry the way I felt about life in my early twenties. It seemed to me then that everyone but me had secret knowledge about the way the world works. My partner at the time was a cultural anthropologist. “Everybody feels that way,” she said.
Thanks for this – I read the closing manifesto of And Now, a Sonnet with interest, and your reply was timely for me. By some fortunate instinct, I made a few conscious choices when starting my Substack: I publish every poem I write. I post as frequently as reasonable. I do not intend to revise once published. I revise rarely, and without urgency – there's always something that can be tweaked and the daily habit of NEW is more important to me than perfection. I will not attempt to monetize. I will also submit to publications but if they don't like that I self-publish, it won't stop me from self-publishing. I will improve without obsession.
Sounds like a plan. And, yes, writing poems gets you better poems. You might like a little book I'm always recommending: "Every Writer Has a Thousand Faces," by David Biespiel.
Just the title makes me like it already. I'll have to check it out. Does he get into anything about "finding your voice?" I sometimes wonder if the concept of voice-finding is unnecessary or even unfortunate.
The book has more to do with revision, and one thing you said ("there's always something that can be tweaked") led me to think the book might interest you.
Voice: I don't think that's something you have to go out and find. You already have it, as you also have a voiceprint. Just listen for it. Pay light attention to the stream of words/thoughts always running through your mind (if that happens for you). Or if you're up for it, record yourself free-associating about anything at all, then listen for your signature way(s) of saying and seeing things. "Finding" your voice is more about getting out of the way so you can hear it. Also, read the poets you really like (not the ones you don't really like but think you should). You will probably find some kinship in their voices that will help your own become more present to you. I hope others who read this exchange will chime in.
"'Finding' your voice is more about getting out of the way so you can hear it." That's a helpful thought, as well as reading the poets I really like rather than the "should" poets. Thanks for your advice.
Reading this thread with interest. The "finding your voice" factor/challenge is HUGE in the visual-art field. Most experienced artists agree with X.P. (see comment/reply below) that you already have a voice. That said, a poet's voice can change over time. Listen to the poem--it is an echo of your own voice.
I read James' eulogy for "And Now, A Sonnet" with mixed feelings. Overall I laud his decisiveness and commitment. Every road, like a good sonnet, comes to a turn eventually. You packed a lot of op-ed into your post, X.P., but the idea of the voice of a poet in the wilderness (aka vacuum) is the one I'm thinking most about. As we all know, vacuums can't sustain life and yet it seems that most roads travel through one or more vacuums at some point in the life of most if not all poets. Or it can feel that way, which is the same thing as arriving at a choice only you can make. To be or not to be is never the question. Poets are always poets whether writing or not, publishing or not. There is no doubt a measurement for vacuum suck-strength but does it matter? If it feels bad, write about it, then share. Look at how many of us are feeling it!
Good on James. There’s nothing that says anyone has to do a Substack for the rest of their life.
Reading your poem, I was reminded of what the late Walter Becker talked about at the end of the Classic Albums documentary on the Steely Dan album, Aja (on Prime Video). How people would sometimes come up to him on the street and say, Hey, aren’t you that guy from Steely Dan? And when he’d say, Yes I am, there would be a pause, and then they’d say, No you’re not.
From Steely Dan’s famous hit that seems to be playing somewhere on Sirius/XM every time we’re in the car: “They got a name for the winners in the world / I want a name when I lose / They call Alabama the Crimson Tide / Call me Deacon Blues”.
This piece reflects so many of my thoughts and questions. I do appreciate the new term of “curated work.” I’ve written two posts so far and I’ve used previously published poems. And there are so many poems published once and never heard from again so posting them is a nice way to bring them back into the light. But I haven’t shared new work here. Most poems I send out I’ve shared with my poetry group first, but I’ve considered posting some of the couplets I write each day. You’ve just given me so much to ponder. Thank you.
I appreciate this! I definitely struggle with the pressure to write stuff for Substack to have “content” even though I feel like I sometimes jeopardize my quality.
I’ve been trying to get poems published in journals for a while now with minimal success. I know that it’s a tough world to break into but I’m going to keep trying because of the challenge. One of my poetry mentors once told me: “You have to write a poem that is good enough to wow everyone—people of every kind of ideology, background, and taste. It’s the hardest thing in the world to do.” I like the challenge.
Challenges are good. I used to enter the New Yorker’s weekly Cartoon Caption Contest, where they supply a drawing and readers submit captions, with the caption judged the funniest winning. I never won, but I did have the same joke one week as the winner, whose caption was worded better than mine.
It was hard work, a real time suck. Probably every bit as hard as writing a good poem, requiring inspiration, revision, every word exactly right. And even if you have all of that, it must also be found funny by strangers.
Here’s an example of a particularly good user-submitted caption:
Film critic Roger Ebert submitted regularly for years before he won, proving perhaps that being good in one field doesn’t necessarily predict quick success in another. Yet, practice can make perfect:
This engaged discussion resonants with me as a visual artist! For me, as soon as the eyes of others enter my studio, creative exploration comes to a halt.. especially if they are the eyes of someone I am only imagining! I have to find the motivation for my mark-making between me and my studio practice, nowhere else. As soon as I "paint to please", depth and intrigue fly out the window. What happens to the work after it is done is a completely separate question and has its own challenges and directions.
This is so much what Maggie Nelson said at last night’s talk with Claire Dederer! I love the idea that there’s not enough space in the writing room (or painting studio) for an imagined reader (viewer).
Pamm told me about this last night and said to be sure and read all the comments. I totally missed reading it and am so glad she mentioned it. I love your poem and I trust that the saguaro cactus image will come to mind again and again as I write. I am a very reluctant submitter although occasionally have a modest burst of enthusiasm. I have very few publication credits to my name as a result. Each published poem or work of short fiction or memoir has been pleasurable, mostly because I can then share it with friends beyond my small group of poet/writer friends. Reading new poems through a monthly poetry zoom with five other poets and participating occasionally in public poetry readings is immensely satisfying. I love your Substack and find it inspiring! I am most inspired by how you immerse yourself in poetry in so many ways (including with other poets’ Substacks and submissions elsewhere than Substack). I’ve admired James’ Substack and will miss it. Thanks for this very thought-provoking post, this poem, and for the gift to my own life that you give through your Substack posts of every kind (especially your poems!).
Thank you, Mary! As for submissions, I don't do many, either. Maybe I will do more and maybe I won't. In many ways it seems like a waste of time, since the audience for literary magazines is so small, publication so ephemeral (whether in print or online), and the odds of book publication so statistically forbidding. In the end, what you have with a well-published piece and/or book is a chance to form or join a personal literary community. And it sounds like community is what you already have. I'm working on mine. And trying to write good poems.
"My readers’ vision is their business. My business is the quality of my poems, wherever they appear—" This sounds like freedom to me, opening the door for great Art. I'm keeping this close to my battered writer heart!
I am at a crossroads. I have written a lot, and I have decision fatigue. What do I want to publish in my personal Substack? What do I want to submit to journals? What do I want to put in a chapbook? At the end of the day, it is all for the love of writing.
So your post is very timely for me.
Enlightening
Stubbornness and positivity are crucial in the writing game and always have been--and a willingness not to just revise but to *enjoy* revisions. Taste is highly individual and you cannot know who is reading your work and under what circumstances that are personal and professional. I keep sending out my new work and just had my 70th essay publication since the height of the pandemic. My substacks can be new but some are re-purposed from my blog because they're about writing and publishing. Sometimes I offer micro essays that have been published elsewhere because I think readers will find them intriguing. And then there are the pieces I write for Lit Mag News Itself.
I appreciate you writing this and thinking about these things, so I don't have to. At various times, I've thought a lot about it -- mostly in a mode of shame and despair. Early on in my love of writing poetry, many years ago, I saw clearly that the apparatus of what passes for success in this sphere is mostly a sham and a joke. So I mostly gave up on seeking a legitimate route. (I do have a submission to The New Yorker that's been sitting in their Submittable queue for six months, and I expect a rejection any day now.) The small press under the imprint of which my books have been published could be described as a group effort in self-publishing -- which I think is not too uncommon among small presses. My friends and I serve as each other's editors, and I think we've helped each other produce better products than we would have otherwise, and maybe better than if some more legitimate publisher took us on. And I've taken it a step further by editing and shepherding into publication a few works by poets outside our circle. That said, I don't think there need be any shame in self-publishing. If you believe in your work, then you shouldn't care how it gets out there -- and with self-publishing your odds of connecting with at least a few readers are probably much better overall than slogging through the rank and file of bedraggled gatekeepers and their stupid and snobbish predilections. Substack, too, is a different beast. There's an upper stratum here of very polished, professional writers. You and Sherman Alexie and Maya Popa, among others, make me feel alright about shouting to the whole neighborhood that, yes, I have a Substack poetry newsletter. Before there was Substack, I also had some luck getting my work noticed by Garrison Keillor, and quite a few poems of mine appeared on The Writer's Almanac. That is and was a venue where a lot of small-time poets like myself had work appearing next to the likes of Billy Collins and Mary Oliver. The journal Rattle seems to have something of that spirit as well (even though nothing of mine has ever gained any traction there). Something else that needs to be mentioned is the pleasure of getting involved in your local literary scene. At the end of the day my advice is: (1) Do not waste your money on an MFA -- unless you want to go teach in an MFA program and perpetuate the cycle (which is a pretty good racket if you can stomach it, so if you can, go ahead, you have my blessing); (2) Go ahead and occasionally submit to big name journals that will pay you nothing or next to nothing or maybe even a little better than nothing, but don't waste much time at it and definitely do not submit to little journals that will most likely not accept your work either anyway and if they do will create a momentary ripple in your so-called career as a poet, before the surface of that pond goes back to glassy stagnent stillness; (3) go ahead and start a Substack newsletter and feel absolutely no shame or embarrassment about it -- let your freak flag fly and tell the fuckers to go to hell; (4) Get involved in your local literary scene in some fashion; (5) Read a lot of poetry, get feedback, hone your skill, develop your voice; (6) Don't accept all the dour defeatist bullshit about never being able to make a living doing what you love, even if that's poetry; keep writing for the love of it, but it's not unreasonable to expect to make money doing what you love if you've developed a legitimate skill at it; keep trying to find a way, and don't listen to all those asshole naysayers; (7) Turn to a life of crime if you have to to support your poetry and your family.
All great advice. I don’t have an MFA. I am a PhD/ABD in Romance languages and literatures, with a concentration in poetics. Although my experience of grad school was positive overall, I still wake up grateful every day that I can read whatever appeals to me and not mountains of assigned texts. I got $200 once from a poem that appeared in Rattle. That’s the most money I ever made from poetry until starting Diary Poems here on Substack. Anyway, thanks for your wonderful comment, and for the restack
I stumbled my way into writing and sharing my poetry. I don't have any published work to show for it other than my own self-publishing here. I've sent a handful of things into the abyss, and I doubt at this point to even hear a rejection. I see this and Jonathan's reply here and think how the hell did I get even in the same neighborhood as these poets? And yet these people struggle just the same. I worry I'm too isolated and not honing my craft well enough. Or, worse, wouldn't know how to if I even could. So I keep at my discipline, such as it is, and try to trick myself from worrying about what real writers must think of my weekly stuff and how it's not been through the salt mines of sufficient revision and sage know-how. It's good to know I'm not entirely nuts.
I feel about poetry the way I felt about life in my early twenties. It seemed to me then that everyone but me had secret knowledge about the way the world works. My partner at the time was a cultural anthropologist. “Everybody feels that way,” she said.
Thanks for this – I read the closing manifesto of And Now, a Sonnet with interest, and your reply was timely for me. By some fortunate instinct, I made a few conscious choices when starting my Substack: I publish every poem I write. I post as frequently as reasonable. I do not intend to revise once published. I revise rarely, and without urgency – there's always something that can be tweaked and the daily habit of NEW is more important to me than perfection. I will not attempt to monetize. I will also submit to publications but if they don't like that I self-publish, it won't stop me from self-publishing. I will improve without obsession.
Sounds like a plan. And, yes, writing poems gets you better poems. You might like a little book I'm always recommending: "Every Writer Has a Thousand Faces," by David Biespiel.
Just the title makes me like it already. I'll have to check it out. Does he get into anything about "finding your voice?" I sometimes wonder if the concept of voice-finding is unnecessary or even unfortunate.
The book has more to do with revision, and one thing you said ("there's always something that can be tweaked") led me to think the book might interest you.
Voice: I don't think that's something you have to go out and find. You already have it, as you also have a voiceprint. Just listen for it. Pay light attention to the stream of words/thoughts always running through your mind (if that happens for you). Or if you're up for it, record yourself free-associating about anything at all, then listen for your signature way(s) of saying and seeing things. "Finding" your voice is more about getting out of the way so you can hear it. Also, read the poets you really like (not the ones you don't really like but think you should). You will probably find some kinship in their voices that will help your own become more present to you. I hope others who read this exchange will chime in.
"'Finding' your voice is more about getting out of the way so you can hear it." That's a helpful thought, as well as reading the poets I really like rather than the "should" poets. Thanks for your advice.
Reading this thread with interest. The "finding your voice" factor/challenge is HUGE in the visual-art field. Most experienced artists agree with X.P. (see comment/reply below) that you already have a voice. That said, a poet's voice can change over time. Listen to the poem--it is an echo of your own voice.
I read James' eulogy for "And Now, A Sonnet" with mixed feelings. Overall I laud his decisiveness and commitment. Every road, like a good sonnet, comes to a turn eventually. You packed a lot of op-ed into your post, X.P., but the idea of the voice of a poet in the wilderness (aka vacuum) is the one I'm thinking most about. As we all know, vacuums can't sustain life and yet it seems that most roads travel through one or more vacuums at some point in the life of most if not all poets. Or it can feel that way, which is the same thing as arriving at a choice only you can make. To be or not to be is never the question. Poets are always poets whether writing or not, publishing or not. There is no doubt a measurement for vacuum suck-strength but does it matter? If it feels bad, write about it, then share. Look at how many of us are feeling it!
Good on James. There’s nothing that says anyone has to do a Substack for the rest of their life.
Reading your poem, I was reminded of what the late Walter Becker talked about at the end of the Classic Albums documentary on the Steely Dan album, Aja (on Prime Video). How people would sometimes come up to him on the street and say, Hey, aren’t you that guy from Steely Dan? And when he’d say, Yes I am, there would be a pause, and then they’d say, No you’re not.
From Steely Dan’s famous hit that seems to be playing somewhere on Sirius/XM every time we’re in the car: “They got a name for the winners in the world / I want a name when I lose / They call Alabama the Crimson Tide / Call me Deacon Blues”.
This piece reflects so many of my thoughts and questions. I do appreciate the new term of “curated work.” I’ve written two posts so far and I’ve used previously published poems. And there are so many poems published once and never heard from again so posting them is a nice way to bring them back into the light. But I haven’t shared new work here. Most poems I send out I’ve shared with my poetry group first, but I’ve considered posting some of the couplets I write each day. You’ve just given me so much to ponder. Thank you.
I appreciate this! I definitely struggle with the pressure to write stuff for Substack to have “content” even though I feel like I sometimes jeopardize my quality.
I’ve been trying to get poems published in journals for a while now with minimal success. I know that it’s a tough world to break into but I’m going to keep trying because of the challenge. One of my poetry mentors once told me: “You have to write a poem that is good enough to wow everyone—people of every kind of ideology, background, and taste. It’s the hardest thing in the world to do.” I like the challenge.
Challenges are good. I used to enter the New Yorker’s weekly Cartoon Caption Contest, where they supply a drawing and readers submit captions, with the caption judged the funniest winning. I never won, but I did have the same joke one week as the winner, whose caption was worded better than mine.
It was hard work, a real time suck. Probably every bit as hard as writing a good poem, requiring inspiration, revision, every word exactly right. And even if you have all of that, it must also be found funny by strangers.
Here’s an example of a particularly good user-submitted caption:
https://humorcode.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/alleged-killer-whale.jpg
Film critic Roger Ebert submitted regularly for years before he won, proving perhaps that being good in one field doesn’t necessarily predict quick success in another. Yet, practice can make perfect:
https://www.newyorker.com/cartoons/bob-mankoff/roger-ebert-wins-the-cartoon-caption-contest
The New Yorker caption contest is a great example!
This engaged discussion resonants with me as a visual artist! For me, as soon as the eyes of others enter my studio, creative exploration comes to a halt.. especially if they are the eyes of someone I am only imagining! I have to find the motivation for my mark-making between me and my studio practice, nowhere else. As soon as I "paint to please", depth and intrigue fly out the window. What happens to the work after it is done is a completely separate question and has its own challenges and directions.
and PS. I love the poem XP!
This is so much what Maggie Nelson said at last night’s talk with Claire Dederer! I love the idea that there’s not enough space in the writing room (or painting studio) for an imagined reader (viewer).
Pamm told me about this last night and said to be sure and read all the comments. I totally missed reading it and am so glad she mentioned it. I love your poem and I trust that the saguaro cactus image will come to mind again and again as I write. I am a very reluctant submitter although occasionally have a modest burst of enthusiasm. I have very few publication credits to my name as a result. Each published poem or work of short fiction or memoir has been pleasurable, mostly because I can then share it with friends beyond my small group of poet/writer friends. Reading new poems through a monthly poetry zoom with five other poets and participating occasionally in public poetry readings is immensely satisfying. I love your Substack and find it inspiring! I am most inspired by how you immerse yourself in poetry in so many ways (including with other poets’ Substacks and submissions elsewhere than Substack). I’ve admired James’ Substack and will miss it. Thanks for this very thought-provoking post, this poem, and for the gift to my own life that you give through your Substack posts of every kind (especially your poems!).
Thank you, Mary! As for submissions, I don't do many, either. Maybe I will do more and maybe I won't. In many ways it seems like a waste of time, since the audience for literary magazines is so small, publication so ephemeral (whether in print or online), and the odds of book publication so statistically forbidding. In the end, what you have with a well-published piece and/or book is a chance to form or join a personal literary community. And it sounds like community is what you already have. I'm working on mine. And trying to write good poems.