Sandra Beasley's Blog, page 24
March 13, 2011
A DC Day
When walking beyond my apartment, down Wisconsin Avenue, the first thing I pass is the National Cathedral. I am wearing a long leather jacket, which I bought eight years ago from a down-the-block secondhand store when I first moved to DC. That was back when I lived in a tiny apartment at 18th & S, overlooking a gas station.
This leather jacket is maroon, which shiny gold-rimmed buttons. It feels kitschy on days when the Redskins are playing. There were no football games on today.
For the first time, I notice a graphic sign defining the neighborhood ahead of me. "Welcome to Glover Park," it proclaims, picturing a line-up of optimistic rowhouses.
I take a random swerve to the right at 35th Avenue, and snake my way past Federal-style houses, one after another, plus a few that have gingerbread detail and tempting porches. I discover an outpost of the Corcoran College of Art & Design, where I (in the downtown locale) taught a Writing 101 class. I pass the Duke Ellington magnet school for the arts, which features an oversize sculpture of a green deck chair.
When 35th meets M Street--the heart of Georgetown--I look across the busy intersection, see the Key Bridge, and think...well, why the hell not. I walk out halfway and look out on the water, which is frocked with winter waves and the occasional bird.
The C&O Canal, which I've seen run with boats pulled by mules, is drained and trash-strewn on its bed. I dip down to it, then quickly veer away, back into the maze of storefronts I recall in their many incarnations. I remember where The Red Balloon used to be, where Commander Salamander used to be. Still, as I pass the narrow passageway that leads to Blues Alley, I am reassured that some things always stay in business. Stanley Jordan, the simple black & white marquee proclaims for the weekend.
Mental note of restaurants to try: Hook (for the oysters), Cafe Milano (for the obligatory chance to spy a celebrity), Surfside (for the fish tacos), Rocklands (for the BBQ).
On the return, I examine a house lived in by George Washington's second-in-command. I wander a cemetery populated by headstones dating to the early 1800s.
I stop to look at the same "Glover Park" sign that marks the south end of the neighborhood. The credit is given to an artist named "Schwa." Really? I used to hear Schwa perform at the Tuesday open mics at Staccato, back in my Adams Morgan days.
5 miles. 2 hours. Love for my city.
This leather jacket is maroon, which shiny gold-rimmed buttons. It feels kitschy on days when the Redskins are playing. There were no football games on today.
For the first time, I notice a graphic sign defining the neighborhood ahead of me. "Welcome to Glover Park," it proclaims, picturing a line-up of optimistic rowhouses.
I take a random swerve to the right at 35th Avenue, and snake my way past Federal-style houses, one after another, plus a few that have gingerbread detail and tempting porches. I discover an outpost of the Corcoran College of Art & Design, where I (in the downtown locale) taught a Writing 101 class. I pass the Duke Ellington magnet school for the arts, which features an oversize sculpture of a green deck chair.
When 35th meets M Street--the heart of Georgetown--I look across the busy intersection, see the Key Bridge, and think...well, why the hell not. I walk out halfway and look out on the water, which is frocked with winter waves and the occasional bird.
The C&O Canal, which I've seen run with boats pulled by mules, is drained and trash-strewn on its bed. I dip down to it, then quickly veer away, back into the maze of storefronts I recall in their many incarnations. I remember where The Red Balloon used to be, where Commander Salamander used to be. Still, as I pass the narrow passageway that leads to Blues Alley, I am reassured that some things always stay in business. Stanley Jordan, the simple black & white marquee proclaims for the weekend.
Mental note of restaurants to try: Hook (for the oysters), Cafe Milano (for the obligatory chance to spy a celebrity), Surfside (for the fish tacos), Rocklands (for the BBQ).
On the return, I examine a house lived in by George Washington's second-in-command. I wander a cemetery populated by headstones dating to the early 1800s.
I stop to look at the same "Glover Park" sign that marks the south end of the neighborhood. The credit is given to an artist named "Schwa." Really? I used to hear Schwa perform at the Tuesday open mics at Staccato, back in my Adams Morgan days.
5 miles. 2 hours. Love for my city.
March 11, 2011
Bobbing
Ah, DC. A couple of days ago I needed to record some poems for a Chicago-based broadcast recreating a Music/Words event I did with Inna Faliks and Oni Buchanan this past November. Only in my hometown would studio time get booked at NPR's national headquarters. Not the easiest day to be there; the CEO had resigned just that morning. Still, it is impossible not to be awed by the building and the talent it houses, which I do have faith will endure this current (largely development-side) scandal.
Two of the poems I read have been published in journals but not in a book. In the studio, freed from the distraction of gaging an audience, I found myself looking at the pages with fresh eyes. And I thought yep, there's a book here. Funny how just the conversation between two poems is enough to suggest a theme. It might be a collection that leaves poems by the wayside, poems I was sure I'd be using. But that's okay. I'm intrigued.
That's all I have to say about that for now.
I've been taking a few days to just...be. To enjoy the simple pleasures of making coffee in my own home, cooking quinoa on my own stove, getting my feet under me with my Writer's Center workshop, seeing friends for artisan cocktails (Laphroig + vermouth + "apple smoke" block of ice + pork belly garnish = good lordy), going on a scavenger hunt with my sister at the Textile Museum.
It has been good. But today, it all feels kind of insignificant. No personal balance can ground one enough to watch the waves of water that have swept across Japan in the 24 hours, or to watch the climbing count of lives lost, or to wait and see if Hawaii is hit, or to hear the second wave of reports that nuclear reactors--five of them--are "in peril" (the latest Washington Post headline). Some days you feel like a very small ship, bobbing in a very big & hungry sea.
Two of the poems I read have been published in journals but not in a book. In the studio, freed from the distraction of gaging an audience, I found myself looking at the pages with fresh eyes. And I thought yep, there's a book here. Funny how just the conversation between two poems is enough to suggest a theme. It might be a collection that leaves poems by the wayside, poems I was sure I'd be using. But that's okay. I'm intrigued.
That's all I have to say about that for now.
I've been taking a few days to just...be. To enjoy the simple pleasures of making coffee in my own home, cooking quinoa on my own stove, getting my feet under me with my Writer's Center workshop, seeing friends for artisan cocktails (Laphroig + vermouth + "apple smoke" block of ice + pork belly garnish = good lordy), going on a scavenger hunt with my sister at the Textile Museum.
It has been good. But today, it all feels kind of insignificant. No personal balance can ground one enough to watch the waves of water that have swept across Japan in the 24 hours, or to watch the climbing count of lives lost, or to wait and see if Hawaii is hit, or to hear the second wave of reports that nuclear reactors--five of them--are "in peril" (the latest Washington Post headline). Some days you feel like a very small ship, bobbing in a very big & hungry sea.
March 7, 2011
The New Yorker Waits On No One...Well, No One Except Miss Bishop
Thanks to everyone who came to Story/Stereo on Friday. We had a great crowd, and The Caribbean rocked (as always!). I love those guys.
On Sunday, March 20, I'll be back at The Writer's Center taking part in a staged readings from Elizabeth Bishop and The New Yorker , including sections of her correspondence with the fabulous, funny editor Howard Moss. David Gewanter is playing Mr. Moss; I am playing Miss Bishop; Dana Gioia is narrating, and Rose Solari will be gracing us in a variety of roles including Katharine White. The collection's editor, Joelle Bielle, is traveling the country organizing these readings.
Farrar, Straus & Girous has generously posted some snippets of Bishop and Moss's exchanges. These aren't the same ones we'll be reading--those are chosen to add a more dramatic texture. But I can't resist sharing* a round of rassling over a poem inspired by Robinson Crusoe...
[* NB to FSG: I am sharing this excerpt in the spirit of promoting the book and the reading, but will take it down immediately if anyone requests it.]
March 25, 1965
Dear Howard:
Richard Kelly flew up to New York last night, and by the time you get this you probably will have received a samba record and a letter from me. I think he said he'd met you...
Before he left, he handed over a lot of odds and ends, the way our visitors usually do—match-folders from the Yale Club, extra US cigarettes & Kleenex, paper-backs, etc.—and also the March 13th New Yorker. My own copy of course hasn't got here yet, and won't for several weeks. If he hadn't given me that March 13th one, and I hadn't looked at it last night, instead of this letter you'd be getting a long poem called CRUSOE AT HOME... It is a bit unnerving, isn't it... Or is it just "great minds," even so far apart? Well, they aren't really exactly alike, because mine is in the first person, more realistic and un-organized, etc. I'll send it someplace else, and I'll send you a copy when I have time to make copies.
Yours ["Robinson"] is very lovely—the cork image particularly fine, I think.
I re-read Crusoe not long ago and found it morally appalling, but as fascinating as ever. Have you ever read the travel memoirs of Woodes Rogers, the young captain who picked up Selkirk? The parts about him are brief, but very moving.
Telepathically yours,
Elizabeth
March 29, 1965
Dear Miss Bishop,
Howard Moss just called in on his way out of town to ask me to ask you to please, please, please send the Robinson poem to us.
Sincerely yours,
Elizabeth Hawes
May 8, 1965
Dear Howard:
I shall send you my Robinson Crusoe poem as soon as I give it a good dusting, —maybe this week.
Much love,
Elizabeth
September 28, 1965
Dear Howard:
I'm sorry I promised you my Robinson Crusoe poem and then changed my mind about it... Perhaps I'll like it better again after a while. In the meantime, here is another one ["Under the Window"] I hope you can use.
With love,
Elizabeth
January 28, 1966
Dear Elizabeth,
And what ever happened (business) to the Robinson Crusoe poem? I'll die if it suddenly comes out somewhere else.
Love,
Howard
April 24, 1967
Dear Howard:
This ["Going to the Bakery"], again, is not the poem I have in mind to send you, but something that sort of turned up. The real one I think you'll like—almost done. My Crusoe poem didn't please me when I finished it but maybe I'll re-write [it] sometime.
With love,
Elizabeth
May 18, 1970
Dear Howard:
I am awfully tired of sitting on this egg and thing maybe it has hatched, after all ["Crusoe in England"]... It is quite unlike your Crusoe, as I remember him. I won't mind if you can't use it, however.
Abraços,
Elizabeth
P.S. on page 3—should it be "Which is the bliss" or "That is the bliss"? I have Wordsworth here somewhere, but can't find him, and I am always uncertain about which and that—please don't tell any one. [in hand: "I hope I haven't stolen your title? If I have, I'll change it. E."]
May 19, 1970
Dear Howard:
I was awfully tired yesterday when I mailed you the Crusoe poem. This morning, I think I've improved it quite a bit, so if you happen to want it, will you please use this version?
With love and all,
Elizabeth
June 2, 1970
Dear Elizabeth,
We're delighted with CRUSOE IN ENGLAND and, of course, we're taking it. I hope to be able to send you a check and an author's proof before I take off for the summer, which will be on June 20.
I was particularly fascinated by the poem because of mine. No, my title (I think) was simply ROBINSON. I'm hesitant about that because I know I changed it several times. It definitely was not CRUSOE IN ENGLAND. (I don't have any of my books here.)
Love,
Howard
June 15, 1970
Dear Howard:
I'm glad you can use CRUSOE. I want to change one word, but shall do it on the proof. I seem to be working again at last, after three years, and hope to send you a whole batch of things. Meanwhile here is another I think I once spoke of ["In the Waiting Room"].
With much love,
Elizabeth
...OK, this is fabulous. Notice how after five years of back-and-forth over what is remembered as (forgive me) a relatively minor poem of Bishop's, "In the Waiting Room" just sneaks in there at the end?
Notice how Bishop, like all of us, indulged in morning-after revisions and resending?
Notice how Bishop, like all of us, procrastinates? Worries over titles? Grows tired of her own work?
There is hope for us yet!
*
Looking to blog-hop? I enjoyed this interview between poet Victoria Chang and Meghan O'Rourke, in part because of Victoria's refreshingly blunt questions. She asks MO about being labeled ambitious; she asks about the infamous Gawker post; she even asks about a now-ended marriage to a fellow writer. And it is good she asks, because the responses--honest, reasonable, modest, wry--are to the benefit of all.
Meghan's forthcoming memoir, The Long Goodbye, deals with the death of her mother at the age of only 52, and the curious unspoken place that grief holds in contemporary American society. She first wrote of this crushing loss in a series of essays for Slate . For my very first reading when Theories of Falling came out (or...was supposed to have come out), I shared a bill with Meghan up at Long Island University, in which she read from Halflife and some newer work. So much of her poetry captures narrative silence, i.e. the power of what goes unsaid in a story. I look forward to this book.
On Sunday, March 20, I'll be back at The Writer's Center taking part in a staged readings from Elizabeth Bishop and The New Yorker , including sections of her correspondence with the fabulous, funny editor Howard Moss. David Gewanter is playing Mr. Moss; I am playing Miss Bishop; Dana Gioia is narrating, and Rose Solari will be gracing us in a variety of roles including Katharine White. The collection's editor, Joelle Bielle, is traveling the country organizing these readings.
Farrar, Straus & Girous has generously posted some snippets of Bishop and Moss's exchanges. These aren't the same ones we'll be reading--those are chosen to add a more dramatic texture. But I can't resist sharing* a round of rassling over a poem inspired by Robinson Crusoe...
[* NB to FSG: I am sharing this excerpt in the spirit of promoting the book and the reading, but will take it down immediately if anyone requests it.]
March 25, 1965
Dear Howard:
Richard Kelly flew up to New York last night, and by the time you get this you probably will have received a samba record and a letter from me. I think he said he'd met you...
Before he left, he handed over a lot of odds and ends, the way our visitors usually do—match-folders from the Yale Club, extra US cigarettes & Kleenex, paper-backs, etc.—and also the March 13th New Yorker. My own copy of course hasn't got here yet, and won't for several weeks. If he hadn't given me that March 13th one, and I hadn't looked at it last night, instead of this letter you'd be getting a long poem called CRUSOE AT HOME... It is a bit unnerving, isn't it... Or is it just "great minds," even so far apart? Well, they aren't really exactly alike, because mine is in the first person, more realistic and un-organized, etc. I'll send it someplace else, and I'll send you a copy when I have time to make copies.
Yours ["Robinson"] is very lovely—the cork image particularly fine, I think.
I re-read Crusoe not long ago and found it morally appalling, but as fascinating as ever. Have you ever read the travel memoirs of Woodes Rogers, the young captain who picked up Selkirk? The parts about him are brief, but very moving.
Telepathically yours,
Elizabeth
March 29, 1965
Dear Miss Bishop,
Howard Moss just called in on his way out of town to ask me to ask you to please, please, please send the Robinson poem to us.
Sincerely yours,
Elizabeth Hawes
May 8, 1965
Dear Howard:
I shall send you my Robinson Crusoe poem as soon as I give it a good dusting, —maybe this week.
Much love,
Elizabeth
September 28, 1965
Dear Howard:
I'm sorry I promised you my Robinson Crusoe poem and then changed my mind about it... Perhaps I'll like it better again after a while. In the meantime, here is another one ["Under the Window"] I hope you can use.
With love,
Elizabeth
January 28, 1966
Dear Elizabeth,
And what ever happened (business) to the Robinson Crusoe poem? I'll die if it suddenly comes out somewhere else.
Love,
Howard
April 24, 1967
Dear Howard:
This ["Going to the Bakery"], again, is not the poem I have in mind to send you, but something that sort of turned up. The real one I think you'll like—almost done. My Crusoe poem didn't please me when I finished it but maybe I'll re-write [it] sometime.
With love,
Elizabeth
May 18, 1970
Dear Howard:
I am awfully tired of sitting on this egg and thing maybe it has hatched, after all ["Crusoe in England"]... It is quite unlike your Crusoe, as I remember him. I won't mind if you can't use it, however.
Abraços,
Elizabeth
P.S. on page 3—should it be "Which is the bliss" or "That is the bliss"? I have Wordsworth here somewhere, but can't find him, and I am always uncertain about which and that—please don't tell any one. [in hand: "I hope I haven't stolen your title? If I have, I'll change it. E."]
May 19, 1970
Dear Howard:
I was awfully tired yesterday when I mailed you the Crusoe poem. This morning, I think I've improved it quite a bit, so if you happen to want it, will you please use this version?
With love and all,
Elizabeth
June 2, 1970
Dear Elizabeth,
We're delighted with CRUSOE IN ENGLAND and, of course, we're taking it. I hope to be able to send you a check and an author's proof before I take off for the summer, which will be on June 20.
I was particularly fascinated by the poem because of mine. No, my title (I think) was simply ROBINSON. I'm hesitant about that because I know I changed it several times. It definitely was not CRUSOE IN ENGLAND. (I don't have any of my books here.)
Love,
Howard
June 15, 1970
Dear Howard:
I'm glad you can use CRUSOE. I want to change one word, but shall do it on the proof. I seem to be working again at last, after three years, and hope to send you a whole batch of things. Meanwhile here is another I think I once spoke of ["In the Waiting Room"].
With much love,
Elizabeth
...OK, this is fabulous. Notice how after five years of back-and-forth over what is remembered as (forgive me) a relatively minor poem of Bishop's, "In the Waiting Room" just sneaks in there at the end?
Notice how Bishop, like all of us, indulged in morning-after revisions and resending?
Notice how Bishop, like all of us, procrastinates? Worries over titles? Grows tired of her own work?
There is hope for us yet!
*
Looking to blog-hop? I enjoyed this interview between poet Victoria Chang and Meghan O'Rourke, in part because of Victoria's refreshingly blunt questions. She asks MO about being labeled ambitious; she asks about the infamous Gawker post; she even asks about a now-ended marriage to a fellow writer. And it is good she asks, because the responses--honest, reasonable, modest, wry--are to the benefit of all.
Meghan's forthcoming memoir, The Long Goodbye, deals with the death of her mother at the age of only 52, and the curious unspoken place that grief holds in contemporary American society. She first wrote of this crushing loss in a series of essays for Slate . For my very first reading when Theories of Falling came out (or...was supposed to have come out), I shared a bill with Meghan up at Long Island University, in which she read from Halflife and some newer work. So much of her poetry captures narrative silence, i.e. the power of what goes unsaid in a story. I look forward to this book.
February 28, 2011
Story/Stereo - Friday, March 4
So I am back in DC, after a spate of wandering that began--oof--all the way back before Christmas. Although I have missed the comforts of my little apartment, it's a little tough to come home to a mountain of unopened mail and a to-do list a mile along, including the drudgery of taxes. What makes it all bearable are the pleasures of returning to my literary community, including the Writer's Center. This Tuesday, my spring workshop meets for the first time. This Friday, I look forward to hosting Story/Stereo.The evening will feature readings from two of our winners of the Spring 2011 Emerging Writer Fellowships, Matthew Pitt (Attention Please Now) and James Allen Hannaham (God Says No). Our musicians are the Caribbean, celebrating the release of Discontinued Perfume--and you can check out Pitchfork's review of the album here, which includes this take:
They are bound to confound your expectations several times on any given album, and if you're into that, they're good enough at putting these weird songs together that they can pull you in with surprising ease. Discontinued Perfume is the band's fifth album, and on this record they've struck a nice balance between building moody, memorable songs and keeping listeners off balance.
Those with good memories might recall that the Caribbean played the very first Story/Stereo back in 2008, before the series was even called Story/Stereo. The reading was actually a celebration of 32 Poems , featuring my work and that of another fantastic local poet, Bernadette Geyer. The evening was so fun that a series was born. On Friday, come find out what all the fuss is about. Their music is vibrant, literary, and amazing.
Also, can I just note that James Allen Hannaham's book was blurbed by no less than Steve Martin? How cool is that?
This is a free event, requiring no advance RSVP; the program begins at 8:00 PM. The Writer's Center is located on the Red Line at 4508 Walsh Street, Bethesda, MD, with metered parking available in a lot across the street. I hope to see you there!
February 24, 2011
Contrarians
Artists are contrarians at heart. We don't let ourselves feel at home until it is just about time to leave.
Thanks to all those who in the last 48 hours...
...cooked an amazing squid-ink/bacon/scallop pasta;
...sailed me past the seaside mansions of the stars;
...trusted me to help word a statement of their artwork;
...orchestrated a fun reading inspired by the game of Clue;
...remembered to offer me almond milk (not soy) for my coffee;
...talked real poetry over real beer;
...split an entire box of peanut brittle;
...traced our favorite words in the grime of late-night windows;
...was so proud to show off his Smart Car's newly tinted windows;
...forgave and gave me a book of inspiring graffiti;
...hugged.
I will miss this place. I am proud to be a part of this community & to have met so many in such a short time. LegalArt, you are making things happen in Miami!
Thanks to all those who in the last 48 hours...
...cooked an amazing squid-ink/bacon/scallop pasta;
...sailed me past the seaside mansions of the stars;
...trusted me to help word a statement of their artwork;
...orchestrated a fun reading inspired by the game of Clue;
...remembered to offer me almond milk (not soy) for my coffee;
...talked real poetry over real beer;
...split an entire box of peanut brittle;
...traced our favorite words in the grime of late-night windows;
...was so proud to show off his Smart Car's newly tinted windows;
...forgave and gave me a book of inspiring graffiti;
...hugged.
I will miss this place. I am proud to be a part of this community & to have met so many in such a short time. LegalArt, you are making things happen in Miami!
February 22, 2011
Agony
In recent years, I have been able to frame my food allergies in an advantageous light. How else could I have gotten a nonfiction book deal that let me make the jump to full-time writing? (As my grandmother said..."Finally, a silver lining!")
Some of my allergies are quirky and mild enough to become fodder for humor. I can wax poetic on the prevalence of tofu, knowing that I can still sip miso broth safely--as long as I don't chew on it. I can bitch about the regional mysteries of BBQ sauce recipes (some states = mustard; some states = no mustard).
But then there are the other allergies. The one that will probably kill me one day: dairy. The ones that have intensified in the past few years, waking me in the night with a swollen throat: shrimp, cashew, mango. And though I love to be a touring poet, though I love to be the Strong Independent Woman, this is my Achilles heel. This is why I can never be a travel writer.
The agony was not in the slow boil of my stomach last Sunday night, after a single half-bite of the first accidentally cashew-buttered entree, trying to make my way through the replacement entree knowing that the damage was already done. The agony was not in downing those first two Benadryl before I'd even felt a hint of reaction, knowing the danger I was in. The agony was not in trying to drive back to the residency bleary-eyed, only to have to pull over at a random intersection of South Beach to vomit out the car door. (First words to the neighboring hotel manager: "I'm not drunk, I swear.") The agony was not in having to summon my fellow LegalArt residents--though poor folks, they barely know me--from all corners of Miami so that someone could get my car home, and someone could get me to the ER.
No. The agony was in forcing myself to check my phone messages, just now, 48 hours later, and hearing the words of a father and boyfriend whose voices are tired with fear. Asking if I could give them the contact info for someone who was with me--a first, even after all these years of reactions. Asking if I am OK. By the time these messages were left I was already at Mount Sinai, in a reception-free zone closed off to the outside world. On Prednisone. Sleeping for four hours, curled up on a cot. Fine, right? Fine.
Not fine. Not dying does not equal "fine." It's a tough way to live, and it's tough to love someone who has to live this way. I can rally, and rationalize, and write about it. But I'd trade all the book deals in the world to not have to fear each bite I take.
Some of my allergies are quirky and mild enough to become fodder for humor. I can wax poetic on the prevalence of tofu, knowing that I can still sip miso broth safely--as long as I don't chew on it. I can bitch about the regional mysteries of BBQ sauce recipes (some states = mustard; some states = no mustard).
But then there are the other allergies. The one that will probably kill me one day: dairy. The ones that have intensified in the past few years, waking me in the night with a swollen throat: shrimp, cashew, mango. And though I love to be a touring poet, though I love to be the Strong Independent Woman, this is my Achilles heel. This is why I can never be a travel writer.
The agony was not in the slow boil of my stomach last Sunday night, after a single half-bite of the first accidentally cashew-buttered entree, trying to make my way through the replacement entree knowing that the damage was already done. The agony was not in downing those first two Benadryl before I'd even felt a hint of reaction, knowing the danger I was in. The agony was not in trying to drive back to the residency bleary-eyed, only to have to pull over at a random intersection of South Beach to vomit out the car door. (First words to the neighboring hotel manager: "I'm not drunk, I swear.") The agony was not in having to summon my fellow LegalArt residents--though poor folks, they barely know me--from all corners of Miami so that someone could get my car home, and someone could get me to the ER.
No. The agony was in forcing myself to check my phone messages, just now, 48 hours later, and hearing the words of a father and boyfriend whose voices are tired with fear. Asking if I could give them the contact info for someone who was with me--a first, even after all these years of reactions. Asking if I am OK. By the time these messages were left I was already at Mount Sinai, in a reception-free zone closed off to the outside world. On Prednisone. Sleeping for four hours, curled up on a cot. Fine, right? Fine.
Not fine. Not dying does not equal "fine." It's a tough way to live, and it's tough to love someone who has to live this way. I can rally, and rationalize, and write about it. But I'd trade all the book deals in the world to not have to fear each bite I take.
February 17, 2011
On The Count
Cheers to Amy King and all at VIDA for putting in the hours necessary to publish The Count--and cheers to all the subsequent discussion it has sparked in the publishing industry. I could spend a looong time on this subject, but in the interest of timeliness (I need to be getting ready for tonight's LegalArt Open Studio down here in Miami), there is just one thing I want to respond to here and now. In a reply from Rob Spillman, the editor of Tin House, this section jumped out at me:
I believe this. Though it may seem incredible that writers would ever "waste" the opportunity of being solicited (as one blogger put it), I believe it. There have been some moves to trace the gender disparity in publishing back to a feminine hesitancy to submit--and thus to risk being rejected--but I can't get behind that. It doesn't match my experience, or the attitudes I get from the many fine, confident, accomplished, ballsy women writers I am proud to call friends.
What then, to make of this statistic? Well, solicitation is a funny thing. Usually it means you have reached a certain stage of prominence in your career. You have one or two books out, some high-profile publication credits, enough time spent at residencies and conferences to have created a professional network. This work is often accomplished during one's 20s, when both genders usually have some flexibility afforded in this era of MFA and PhD programs.
So, let's say you're lucky enough to be a young 30-something who has earned your first round of solicitations from magazines. In my opinion--and this is a national cultural issue, NOT a complaint toward our literary culture per se--if you're a man who reaches this point, that's when people start to take your self-identification as a writer seriously. People start to treat your writing as a real part of your career. They help you make the time you need in your schedule for it.
But when you reach that point as a woman...well, usually that's right when a lot of us start families. Real life post-grad takes over. Our productivity hits a lull. Even if you have a supportive partner, something has got to give. And so when we get the solicitations--as thrilling as they are--we don't have the work to send. At least, not the worthy work. And no one is going to send the second-tier stuff that didn't make the last book to Tin House or Granta.
I'm not afraid of rejection. But I want to know I gave it my best shot and in the absence of that, yeah, I'd rather not send in at all. So in my mind, the question is How do we create a support structure that encourages women to prioritize and privilege their writing during their 30s? Because I think that's where the gap is really opening up. Same as so many other professions--law, business--we're losing a very specific decade of incredible women to the demands of their loved ones.
The closing of Spillman's post was encouraging, and so I want to share it here:
If there is one thing I'd like to see emerge from the post-Count discussion, it is the understanding that at the end of the day, the responsibility is in our hands. I could share anecdotes of crushing dismissals by editors that seemed, in some ways, based on gender. I could share stories of realizing too late that I was being held up as a token woman in the mix. I could share inspiring realities of fair, equitable, and generous treatment by magazines who honored my work without gender ever being an issue.
And all of this just leads me back to: Get to work, Sandra. Get writing.
Of solicited writers, I see a distinct gender difference. When I solicit male authors, the only ones who do not submit are those contractually bound by other magazines. For female authors it is closer to 50% submit after being asked.
I believe this. Though it may seem incredible that writers would ever "waste" the opportunity of being solicited (as one blogger put it), I believe it. There have been some moves to trace the gender disparity in publishing back to a feminine hesitancy to submit--and thus to risk being rejected--but I can't get behind that. It doesn't match my experience, or the attitudes I get from the many fine, confident, accomplished, ballsy women writers I am proud to call friends.
What then, to make of this statistic? Well, solicitation is a funny thing. Usually it means you have reached a certain stage of prominence in your career. You have one or two books out, some high-profile publication credits, enough time spent at residencies and conferences to have created a professional network. This work is often accomplished during one's 20s, when both genders usually have some flexibility afforded in this era of MFA and PhD programs.
So, let's say you're lucky enough to be a young 30-something who has earned your first round of solicitations from magazines. In my opinion--and this is a national cultural issue, NOT a complaint toward our literary culture per se--if you're a man who reaches this point, that's when people start to take your self-identification as a writer seriously. People start to treat your writing as a real part of your career. They help you make the time you need in your schedule for it.
But when you reach that point as a woman...well, usually that's right when a lot of us start families. Real life post-grad takes over. Our productivity hits a lull. Even if you have a supportive partner, something has got to give. And so when we get the solicitations--as thrilling as they are--we don't have the work to send. At least, not the worthy work. And no one is going to send the second-tier stuff that didn't make the last book to Tin House or Granta.
I'm not afraid of rejection. But I want to know I gave it my best shot and in the absence of that, yeah, I'd rather not send in at all. So in my mind, the question is How do we create a support structure that encourages women to prioritize and privilege their writing during their 30s? Because I think that's where the gap is really opening up. Same as so many other professions--law, business--we're losing a very specific decade of incredible women to the demands of their loved ones.
The closing of Spillman's post was encouraging, and so I want to share it here:
The bottom line at Tin House is that we are aware of the gender disparity, we are concerned about these numbers, and we are committed to redoubling our efforts to solicit women writers. Personally, I am deeply tuned into the reality of gender inequality: I am married to a short story writer, and my fifteen year-old daughter is a drummer in a feminist punk rock band. Since the start of Tin House twelve years ago, I have been committed to publishing the best work I can find. Agents of female writers, publishers of female writers, and especially female writers, please send us your work. We really want your work.
If there is one thing I'd like to see emerge from the post-Count discussion, it is the understanding that at the end of the day, the responsibility is in our hands. I could share anecdotes of crushing dismissals by editors that seemed, in some ways, based on gender. I could share stories of realizing too late that I was being held up as a token woman in the mix. I could share inspiring realities of fair, equitable, and generous treatment by magazines who honored my work without gender ever being an issue.
And all of this just leads me back to: Get to work, Sandra. Get writing.
February 14, 2011
Call & Response
No sweeter celebration of Valentine's Day than to share this exchange, which fills my heart with hope. Sometimes, when we put our energy together, we can get it done.
*
February 14TH, 2011
Dear Mr. Shallal,
Various characterizations of Busboys and Poets, your own and others', suggest that it is a space created and named in honor of the late Langston Hughes, his work and his legacy within and beyond the District of Columbia. It is true that wonderful things happen in the Langston Room. We have all, at one point or another, been present to witness the wittiness, the bravery, the signifying and the song that characterizes Hughes' work as it emanates from the stage and the various poets who have graced it over the years.
As poets who have sat in those chairs and booths as well as stood upon that stage, we ask you to consider the ways in which placing a cardboard cutout of Hughes within Busboys and Poets—making of him a character, a mascot, more than a presence—unfortunately does not honor his legacy.
Our objections to this display are varied. Some of us feel it is improper that Hughes be physically reduced to a gimmicky object within a space commemorating part of his experience as a young writer in Washington, D.C. Others hope that if you must have a cutout image of Hughes in the space that it be an image that aspires to communicate Hughes' greater significance rather than the unsophisticated semantic connection to your business' name. Even with our mélange of concerns about this matter, we all agree that it is a gesture that does not suit Busboys and Poets' relationship to Hughes' legacy and its relationship with the poets, local and national, who continue his work and who patronize Busboys and Poets.
The poet Ethelbert Miller this week asked the following on his blog: "POLITICS AND POETRY? What would Langston do?" Fortunately for us, Hughes' words are still present. Your staff attempted to answer the question of how he would feel about this moment, and respond to the week's events, by posting the following quote on the Busboys and Poets twitter feed and attributing it to Hughes: "I am glad I went to work at the Wardman Park Hotel (as a busboy), because there I met Vachel Lindsay." Firstly, the parenthetical in the quote is not Hughes' language but an addition on the part of whoever manages the Busboys and Poets twitter feed (and should therefore be marked with brackets). Secondly, while this quote does suggest Hughes appreciated the opportunity to slip his poems to the critic Vachel Lindsay, the following excerpt from Hughes' autobiography The Big Sea makes it fairly clear that he did not appreciate being made a spectacle as a "bus boy poet":
The widespread publicity resulting from the Vachel Lindsay incident was certainly good for my poetic career, but it was not good for my job, because from then on, very often the head waiter would call me to come and stand before some table whose curious guests wished to see what a Negro bus boy poet looked like. I felt self-conscious and embarrassed, so when pay day came, I quit.
If Busboys and Poets is in the business of honoring Langston Hughes and, of the utmost importance to a poet, his words, we suggest that you seriously consider his own words about his own life as they pertain to this matter.
Some of us saw the physical cutout. Many of us only heard about it or saw pictures before we, as a group, could come to you and ask that it be removed. As a showing of good faith, we have enclosed with this letter a check for $150.00 (the stated price of the cutout in the 02/08/2011 Washington Post column detailing its disappearance) to compensate you for your lost property. We only ask, respectfully, that this image not be replaced. It is not necessary and, for us, serves as more of a deterrence than a welcome.
In the interest of strengthening the relationship between Busboys and Poets and the local, active poetry community, we extend the offer to help initiate and sustain a dialogue between you, your management, your advisors and the poets whose work and organizations fill Busboys and Poets. To date, it has been a fruitful yet unexamined relationship. We want it to continue, but in a manner that fosters open lines of communication and a mutual mindfulness.
Sincerely,
Kyle G. Dargan Michael Gushue Bettina Judd
Sandra Beasley Laura Hartmark Gregory Pardlo
Reginald Dwayne Betts Melanie Henderson Joseph Ross
Cornelius Eady Randall Horton Myra Sklarew
Thomas Sayers Ellis Reuben Jackson Sonya Renee Taylor
Brian Gilmore Fred Joiner Dan Vera
*
[Letter hand-delivered to the Busboys & Poets at 14th & V Streets.]
*
February 14th, 2011
dear poets and friends...
i want to thank you for your measured response surrounding the issue of the langston cut out. i sincerely appreciate your thoughtful words and your wisdom which i am humbled to receive.
i want to preface my remarks by saying that it was truly my intention to honor langston hughes as i saw him in all his manifestations. as someone who has worked in restaurants most of my life, i find no embarrassment to any work in the business however i do understand being respectful to a legacy that is far larger than i and which i feel a greater sense of mission to protect and honor.
i would like you to know i have no intention of replacing the cut out. i will respectfully return the check to you.
as a follow up i am convening a meeting with our poets in residence this coming week to discuss many of the issues that have been festering for too long. issues related to compensation and other concerns that the greater poetry community may have and has had even before busboys and poets came into existence.
my own personal story is also much deeper than busboys and poets. i will share it with you and others in due time.
respectfully yours,
andy shallal
*
The heart is a bird. The heart is a swooping eagle. The heart, when motivated, is a really powerful thing. Is there work to be done still? Sure. Lots. But damn, I love my city.
*
February 14TH, 2011
Dear Mr. Shallal,
Various characterizations of Busboys and Poets, your own and others', suggest that it is a space created and named in honor of the late Langston Hughes, his work and his legacy within and beyond the District of Columbia. It is true that wonderful things happen in the Langston Room. We have all, at one point or another, been present to witness the wittiness, the bravery, the signifying and the song that characterizes Hughes' work as it emanates from the stage and the various poets who have graced it over the years.
As poets who have sat in those chairs and booths as well as stood upon that stage, we ask you to consider the ways in which placing a cardboard cutout of Hughes within Busboys and Poets—making of him a character, a mascot, more than a presence—unfortunately does not honor his legacy.
Our objections to this display are varied. Some of us feel it is improper that Hughes be physically reduced to a gimmicky object within a space commemorating part of his experience as a young writer in Washington, D.C. Others hope that if you must have a cutout image of Hughes in the space that it be an image that aspires to communicate Hughes' greater significance rather than the unsophisticated semantic connection to your business' name. Even with our mélange of concerns about this matter, we all agree that it is a gesture that does not suit Busboys and Poets' relationship to Hughes' legacy and its relationship with the poets, local and national, who continue his work and who patronize Busboys and Poets.
The poet Ethelbert Miller this week asked the following on his blog: "POLITICS AND POETRY? What would Langston do?" Fortunately for us, Hughes' words are still present. Your staff attempted to answer the question of how he would feel about this moment, and respond to the week's events, by posting the following quote on the Busboys and Poets twitter feed and attributing it to Hughes: "I am glad I went to work at the Wardman Park Hotel (as a busboy), because there I met Vachel Lindsay." Firstly, the parenthetical in the quote is not Hughes' language but an addition on the part of whoever manages the Busboys and Poets twitter feed (and should therefore be marked with brackets). Secondly, while this quote does suggest Hughes appreciated the opportunity to slip his poems to the critic Vachel Lindsay, the following excerpt from Hughes' autobiography The Big Sea makes it fairly clear that he did not appreciate being made a spectacle as a "bus boy poet":
The widespread publicity resulting from the Vachel Lindsay incident was certainly good for my poetic career, but it was not good for my job, because from then on, very often the head waiter would call me to come and stand before some table whose curious guests wished to see what a Negro bus boy poet looked like. I felt self-conscious and embarrassed, so when pay day came, I quit.
If Busboys and Poets is in the business of honoring Langston Hughes and, of the utmost importance to a poet, his words, we suggest that you seriously consider his own words about his own life as they pertain to this matter.
Some of us saw the physical cutout. Many of us only heard about it or saw pictures before we, as a group, could come to you and ask that it be removed. As a showing of good faith, we have enclosed with this letter a check for $150.00 (the stated price of the cutout in the 02/08/2011 Washington Post column detailing its disappearance) to compensate you for your lost property. We only ask, respectfully, that this image not be replaced. It is not necessary and, for us, serves as more of a deterrence than a welcome.
In the interest of strengthening the relationship between Busboys and Poets and the local, active poetry community, we extend the offer to help initiate and sustain a dialogue between you, your management, your advisors and the poets whose work and organizations fill Busboys and Poets. To date, it has been a fruitful yet unexamined relationship. We want it to continue, but in a manner that fosters open lines of communication and a mutual mindfulness.
Sincerely,
Kyle G. Dargan Michael Gushue Bettina Judd
Sandra Beasley Laura Hartmark Gregory Pardlo
Reginald Dwayne Betts Melanie Henderson Joseph Ross
Cornelius Eady Randall Horton Myra Sklarew
Thomas Sayers Ellis Reuben Jackson Sonya Renee Taylor
Brian Gilmore Fred Joiner Dan Vera
*
[Letter hand-delivered to the Busboys & Poets at 14th & V Streets.]
*
February 14th, 2011
dear poets and friends...
i want to thank you for your measured response surrounding the issue of the langston cut out. i sincerely appreciate your thoughtful words and your wisdom which i am humbled to receive.
i want to preface my remarks by saying that it was truly my intention to honor langston hughes as i saw him in all his manifestations. as someone who has worked in restaurants most of my life, i find no embarrassment to any work in the business however i do understand being respectful to a legacy that is far larger than i and which i feel a greater sense of mission to protect and honor.
i would like you to know i have no intention of replacing the cut out. i will respectfully return the check to you.
as a follow up i am convening a meeting with our poets in residence this coming week to discuss many of the issues that have been festering for too long. issues related to compensation and other concerns that the greater poetry community may have and has had even before busboys and poets came into existence.
my own personal story is also much deeper than busboys and poets. i will share it with you and others in due time.
respectfully yours,
andy shallal
*
The heart is a bird. The heart is a swooping eagle. The heart, when motivated, is a really powerful thing. Is there work to be done still? Sure. Lots. But damn, I love my city.
February 13, 2011
Are you in Miami?
If so, please come on out for this! It is free & open to the public. (But bring a tie...)
Join us at the LegalArt Residency
for Open Studios and Reading
Thursday, February 17, 2011 / 6:00 – 9:00 PM
Corner of N Miami Ave and NE 11th Street
6:00 PM - Reading by Sandra Beasley, Visiting Writer in Residence
Local Artists in Residence: Jiae Hwang, Manny Prieres, Pachi Giustinian, TM Sisters (Natasha and Monica Lopez De Victoria), Viking Funeral (Carlos Ascurra and Juan Gonzalez)
Visiting Artists in Residence: Alfio Demestre, Laura Hita (Buenos Aires, Argentina)
***Request for Ties***
Laura Hita, Visiting Artist in Residence, is working on a large wall installation of recycled neckties. In order for this project to be fully realized, your participation is very important. Please bring a tie, for donation in support of Laura's project, to the Residency Open Studios and Reading. Upon completion of the project, everyone who donates a tie will receive a high resolution digital photo of the piece. Donate a tie and be part of the art!
*
While you're in the neighborhood...Enjoy CIFO's Extended Hours: 6-9 PM
Currently on view through March 6, 2011 at CIFO: Inside Out, Photography After Form: Selections from the Ella Fontanals-Cisneros Collection, curated by Simon Baker and Tanya Barson, curators from the Tate Modern in London.
Film screening at 7:30 PM: The Woodmans, the life and work of the late photographer Francesca Woodman. Directed by C. Scott Willis, a Lorber Films Release.
Parking: LegalArt is located on the corner of N Miami Ave and NE 11th Street. CIFO is generously providing parking in their lot located across the street from the building at 1018 N Miami Ave, (the entrance to the lot will be on your right). Metered parking is also available on N Miami Ave and on 11th and 10th Streets.
Join us at the LegalArt Residencyfor Open Studios and Reading
Thursday, February 17, 2011 / 6:00 – 9:00 PM
Corner of N Miami Ave and NE 11th Street
6:00 PM - Reading by Sandra Beasley, Visiting Writer in Residence
Local Artists in Residence: Jiae Hwang, Manny Prieres, Pachi Giustinian, TM Sisters (Natasha and Monica Lopez De Victoria), Viking Funeral (Carlos Ascurra and Juan Gonzalez)
Visiting Artists in Residence: Alfio Demestre, Laura Hita (Buenos Aires, Argentina)
***Request for Ties***
Laura Hita, Visiting Artist in Residence, is working on a large wall installation of recycled neckties. In order for this project to be fully realized, your participation is very important. Please bring a tie, for donation in support of Laura's project, to the Residency Open Studios and Reading. Upon completion of the project, everyone who donates a tie will receive a high resolution digital photo of the piece. Donate a tie and be part of the art!
*
While you're in the neighborhood...Enjoy CIFO's Extended Hours: 6-9 PM
Currently on view through March 6, 2011 at CIFO: Inside Out, Photography After Form: Selections from the Ella Fontanals-Cisneros Collection, curated by Simon Baker and Tanya Barson, curators from the Tate Modern in London.
Film screening at 7:30 PM: The Woodmans, the life and work of the late photographer Francesca Woodman. Directed by C. Scott Willis, a Lorber Films Release.
Parking: LegalArt is located on the corner of N Miami Ave and NE 11th Street. CIFO is generously providing parking in their lot located across the street from the building at 1018 N Miami Ave, (the entrance to the lot will be on your right). Metered parking is also available on N Miami Ave and on 11th and 10th Streets.
February 9, 2011
When Busboys Become Poets (& When Poets Walk Off with Busboys)
I appreciate Busboys & Poets on many levels. They provide a lively stage for poetry in this town. They provide sponsorship and shelter to such groups as Teaching for Change (which is responsible for the bookstore) and Split This Rock. They employ awesome people like Derrick Weston Brown and Holly Bass as poets in residence. They have a menu that is sensitive to vegan and allergy needs. You can order a carrot juice instead of a cocktail and the waiters don't look down on you.
But they're getting some things wrong as they grow bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger, and I think A Certain Poet was right to call them out on it by liberating their incredibly tone-deaf cut-out of Langston Hughes. I think the follow-up comments from Kyle Dargan, Dan Vera, Brian Gilmore, and Fred Joiner (in a separate forum) further underscore the importance of this moment as being an indicator of a larger tension.
People are labeling the theft as amateurish. I don't think so. Defacing it would have been amateurish. "Liberating" it was ballsy. The loss of the cut-out is of little material damage to the venue (frankly, this kerfluffle will get more people in the door). Let's use this opportunity to articulate ways in which Busboys & Poets could even better serve the artistic community that it wishes to champion. Here is what I would like to see:
-A doubling of the honorarium for featured readers, from $50 to $100. Some have suggested per capita, but I think that is too difficult to calculate--overflow from the main dining room gets seated in the reading rooms, people who are just there to eat. But as any poet will tell you, $100 feels like real money. Revenues attached to poetry events would easily absorb the additional cost to the venue.
-Meaningful wages for the Poets in Residence. When I was serving as the Literary Chair of the Arts Club of Washington, the number one misconception was that I was getting paid for my work--planning programs, publicizing, hosting. The truth was that I was not being properly compensated, and so I burned out. This is a very sad and common pattern in the arts world. I don't know what folks are being paid, but let me put it this way: unless it is $500 a month, it is not enough.
Note that the Poets in Residence have not complained about their honoraria. That doesn't mean the amounts aren't paltry; it just means they are gracious and grateful for the opportunity. Still, if we don't advocate for our fellow poets, who will?
-Adaptation of the BB&P venue spaces to allow ALL writers and performers to access the stage regardless of physical disability . This should be a no-brainer, right? An ADA issue? But ask yourself: has it been done?
The comment stream in today's Reliable Source chat tells me that people are looking on from a distance and dismissing this as a bunch of whiny poets. Apparently we should be grateful we even have "one" venue in town. What the hell? We've got The Writer's Center, among other places. The Center is *scraping* by to pay its Sunday series readers $50 each, even though we are a nonprofit with NO income tied to food or drink sales. But we're making it happen, because that's the very least we should do for artists.
Andy Shallal is not a bad guy. I am not interested in taking down an independent business owner. But I think this is a really valuable chance to gut-check and correct a few things that have been slowly, surely getting off track in the past few years and alienating the community. Please, don't let it all get swept away with yesterday's news.
Oh, and in case you're thinking "Flat Langston" is akin to a cut-out of Obama--or James Dean--here is why the particular image selection is offensive...
I'm all for playful photographic tributes to poets. Dan Vera and Michael Gushue organized an "Ednafication" a few years back that resulted in the following photomontage, based on an iconic shot of Edna St. Vincent Millay. The result is an apt tribute to a woman who loved dogwoods in life, and chose to use them as a recurring motif in her work.
Does Langston Hughes have some affectionate ode to his busboy days that I have missed? The man who in his autobiography, I Wonder and I Wander, spoke of the difficulty and loneliness of those years, the wretched segregation of this town? Who said "I did not want a job," who wanted to support himself with his writing, but was forced to take a gig bussing tables that paid only $55 a month? Hughes did not want to be known as "The Busboy Poet," any more than he wanted to be known for one of the jobs he worked before that one, in a local laundromat. There are many cases of writers, such a Philip Levine, proudly claiming the working-class roots that contribute to their poetry. This is not one of them.
Langston Hughes posed for the above photo (the one used for the cutout) because it was the only way he could capitalize on the momentum of a newspaper article that had announced "Russian Poet Discovers Negro Bus Boy Poet." It would have been nice if Hughes had been able to enjoy the actual moment of having his work shared with an audience at the Wardman Park Hotel, after slipping his poems under Vachel Lindsay's plate. But he couldn't--because the hotel that employed him kept their auditorium closed to African Americans. So he had to play into the cute story of being "discovered," the exoticizing of an accomplished poet whose first book, The Weary Blues, been already accepted by Knopf a few weeks earlier.
The name of the restaurant honors the balancing act all working artists are trying to strike: the hustle. But this? If BB&P really needed a life-size image for a birthday celebration, then they could have shown Hughes in one of the countless suits he wore to readings later in life, after his star had rightfully risen. He was a dapper man.
Would you have a cardboard cutout of Tillie Olsen standing there, ironing?
