Monthly Archives: January 2012

Questions of Idenity and Purpose: Running a Small Press

It’s exhilarating at times, running a small press. You make new connections with the community. You’re a part of something you feel passionate about. You connect with other writers, other artists and designers. Other people. It’s more than that, too. You’re literally involved in creation, another part of the process of developing literary art. It’s very gratifying to be a part of bringing an artifact into the world. The fact that there is a business side to all this? I say: part of the challenge and the exhilaration. The dream is that this is will be at least a part of what supports you once it really takes off. But when is then?

You may find yourself asking, Is my “labor of love” really a deep enough love to work at it for pennies on the dollar compared to what I could be making starting up any number of other small businesses, or expending the same amount of energy at a well-paying corporate job involving writing or design skills? Or even just a modest teaching load somewhere where you could be teaching your field at least? Would you could you should you leave one thing (place/career) behind and start another?

First, I want to name it. Editors go through identity struggles. It’s true. This human condition exists even in editors. The fact is, most editors struggle on some level with the tension between investing their writing skills (involving talent and time) on work other than their own. Of course they do! The question is what really creates this tension? What if one is the editor of a nonprofit start-up independent press? Then, at least, the answer finds focus.

We think of editors as being “behind the scenes” people. Is that really the problem though? Not really. At least not for me. Think how many writers are teachers. While good editors don’t generally have the lifelong support of their authors the way good teachers do from their students, both share the virtue and honor of promoting others and not only self. Often, teachers get the prestige and support of affiliating as an expert at an institution of higher learning, but so do editors. Some, of course, do both. And the few the proud, all three.

1. Presses need money. That’s a part of success. Why is it a dirty word? While dreams and passion can get you a long way, at some point you’ve got to do more than get by. It’s like breathing and sleeping, right? You’re going to be grouchy if you don’t get enough. In fact, you might not survive. It’s the number one reason not because it’s the central focus, or editors are greedy. Just the opposite. They need enough to experience the success of their project.

2. Editors who have ambitions as writers must have success as writers. Editors often get into their situations based upon dreams of one day “making it” as a writer. What if editing and nonprofit developing require one to sacrifice even “some” of their writing? Is that okay? Is it something that doesn’t become clear until it’s too late? Again, human nature: editors feel better (so to speak) about assisting in the world of promoting and developing others if they’ve had some success themselves. Simple, right?

And if the press really does grow and evolve into this beautiful and profitable “artifact,” then these questions matter far less, maybe not at all. And that’s what I mean: money = support = success. In fact, I’ve blogged about this subject a few months ago on the Glad Lab blog in a different context (one meant more for corporations) Workplace Well-Being and the Self-Actualization of Profits.

Finally, you make a name for yourself as a writer by writing, not by editing. So, if that’s your primary motivation, then, yes, it can be a mistake to edit and/or develop a nonprofit.

Do what you love. The rest will follow?

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Writing a Song: The 1-2-3 Immersion Method

When my brother, John, moved here to Chattanooga in 2008 one of the super-big excitements hinged on the idea that John and I had dreamed about for many years. We began to believe that if we were just able to live in proximity to each other we could form that ever-elusive thing, a band that would stick.

We were brothers. We knew each other’s style. By then, John was a multi-instrumentalist with electric and acoustic, hand-made eight-string guitars. He’d spent the last decade playing in a number of bands in Boise; had tried the home-studio recording thing in earnest for a number of years; had to leave behind one of the best drummers he’s ever played with in Sean Gallagher, also a close friend. In the meantime, I’d taken major hiatuses from music altogether; played bass in a heavy metal band in high school; I’d played guitar for basically a 60s-cover band in college. What do you do when you’re drummer can’t keep time? Sounds like the beginning of a joke. We played at a single fraternity party. I sang “Jumpin’ Jack Black,” a song I never really liked. We stunk. I’d struggled with writing songs in a kind of binge-and-purge approach for the rest of my life. I was playing a lot now. So what that I also now had three kids, taught in a tenure-track position some 40 minutes away, and had little equipment.

What could go wrong?

It’s not like we weren’t aware of these things. But we had a magic card up our sleeve (and I really don’t mean this facetiously). John and I could write a song. In fact, we could write lots of songs in a short amount of time. Things more sophisticated than half the stuff you hear on the radio. At least, we’d like to think so. Okay, so as you may have guessed, the band thing didn’t turn out quite like we’d hoped. The dream still lives on…In the meantime, as I dust off the old ax and start conjuring up mayhem again, I’ve been thinking about songs and how it’s always easier said than done. John brought his approach from Boise, and I will say it produced a lot of fruit. A lot of rotten fruit, too, but no one ever has to hear that. Rotten Fruit! Band name?

First, I don’t even count this one: declare a free day–or, more realistically–a free morning (morning’s are, of course, best) and commit to the following:

1. Quit jamming and give something structure.  Jamming is always fun but rarely leads directly to a developed song. Give yourself an hour per song. Say 5 hours total. Tell yourself (or a partner if you think you can work with one), that you’re going to write five songs in five hours win-lose-or-draw. You simply have to create something. You have nothing to lose. Five songs in five hours? Tough, and okay, so some of it will stink. Who cares, right? It was five hours, and chances are you’ll have something to show for it!

2. Scratch out some lyrics. Can’t forget the lyrics! This may be a bit of a gray area when it comes to how strictly you follow the one hour method. John and I would always work hard under the pressure of the time, pushing to get out more than just a concept but actual verses and chorus and whatnot. I will admit, however, that virtually every song that ever made it off the cutting room floor had lyrics that were wrestled into shape one way or another later on.

3. Record the song. A vital, if easily overlooked, part of the process. When you throw yourself into an immersion like this as a writer you’ve already “recorded” the material by the act of writing. Same with painting. Music floats out there. You simply must–within the allotted hour–record the song. Garageband here you come. Even a field recorder or microcasette recorder. Anything. It must be as easy as clicking it on and recording it.

That’s it. Oh, then do it again and again until you’ve written like 30 or 40 of these things, then choose the best 8. Something like that. Let me know how it works for you.

This one in particular, Reno Always Follows Me, came out pretty nice on our first CD, Migration. John wrote the lyrics, sings and plays bass. I play guitar. Alan Dixon on drums. Incredibly, the One Shoe Untied blog site is still up–whereupon one can find the entire Migration album for FREE!

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A Note of Gratitude to Steve Scafidi

Recently I received something pretty unusual: a kind of “fan email” for my limited-edition chapbook, White-Feathered Bodies. It was from a guy I’d never met, Steve Scafidi. I told my publishers at Q Ave about it, and learned just what a gifted poet Scafidi is. You should check out this collection at Blackbird, featuring poems like “On the Occasion of an Argument Beside the River Where I Live,” and “The Hayfield Chandelier” along with an audio interview and a reading.  Or check out this discussion of “How a Poem Happens,” analyzing “To Whoever Set My Truck on Fire.”

What an unusual and generous thing! I think it says something about Steve. A passion? That someone can feel like Emily Dickinson’s description of how she knows she’s read a poem (the top of her head feels like it comes off)? A humility? That someone (fellow writer or not) would take a moment and try to communicate that experience, as a word of encouragement to the writer? For me, Scafidi’s email was generous and unexpected. And it came, I don’t know, a year after that small book was released? Or was it that I’d been on a run of rejections? A few weeks later when I was setting up this blog and posting reviews and summaries of a few books, I decided to include Scafidi’s comment along with the original blurb on the book by Rick Jackson.

A few weeks later, he said he’d seen what he’d written to me, and wished I’d have at least let him know that I was using his email as a blurb. Fair enough. I wondered, Why did I use a quote he’d sent to me as a private email in such a public way as to include it on my blogsite as if it had been written publicly? I was in a hurry, I guess. At the very least I certainly should have given thought to promoting my own work with Scafidi’s email comment. It would have been more polite–more appropriate–to have simply asked him if it would be all right to use what he’d sent me on my blog. So, here, publicly, thank you Steve for taking the time to look me up and send me a good word!

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Mission Accomplished? A First Draft

It’s printing as I write. Simon Krimple’s Wager. The first time I’ve printed any of it as a matter of fact. A first draft. 100,000 words later and mission accomplished! 325 double-spaced pages. A first complete draft. Wow. Feels pretty good. A signpost in the sometimes seemingly endless terrain of novel writing.

A first draft is a special animal. For me, the goal this time around was to get it down. Beginning, middle, and end as I’d often tell my students when we’d do a writing exercise. Get something down all the way through. All the way through being the key phrase. In this way, you can justify keeping up with brick-and-mortar things like meeting a daily and weekly goal for word count. You get into the zone when you can, but sometimes you slog forward with prose you know probably won’t make the cut later on. Maybe it’s not the wisest approach. After all, words are words. You can fall in love with sheer quantity, patting yourself on the back for producing some certain amount of words that very well may suck. It certainly isn’t a “best words, best order” approach. But that’s for the craft drafts, right?

I won’t name my goal, and actually the word count itself is less important than the main goal, which was to produce a “complete” first draft in 12-16 weeks, depending of course on where the narrative took me. But I did chart my daily progress. It helped with accountability, too. If I’m counting correctly, this first draft took 20 weeks (but there were a good three in there over the no-school holidays where very little got done and there was a week in Disney), so technically I feel like I was only about a week off in meeting my goal.

Mission accomplished? Well, let’s say I hope it isn’t the equivalent of standing on an aircraft carrier three weeks into the Iraq War and saying the same thing. But I do know there’s a way to go yet. Layers of editing, arranging. In short, the craft. Poet Tom Lux says he loves all the in-between drafts. The first is scariest. Just getting it down. The later drafts of fine tuning can get wearying. The in-between drafts are where so much of the excitement and artistry get done. I believe novelist Richard Russo, who takes about four years for each novel, says something similar.

Perhaps I shouldn’t tell Shelley that part about four years? Yikes, it’s still printing!

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Finding Inspiration: Bob Dylan

A few weeks ago, Shelley got us tickets to go see the Avett Brothers at Track 29 here in Chattanooga. I discovered the Avett Brothers two or three years back, and had actually them introduced them to her. She’s a folkie through and through when it comes to music. For some reason, I’ve never taken to the Avett Brothers in the way that I expected to, but Shelley’s been off the rails for them–and the concert only served to inflame her passion. In fact, she became so excited about them that she actually told me that she’d like for me to start playing the guitar again (singing, not so much), but guitar, yes. Now, I’d been in a band (One Shoe Untied) with my brother and a few other amigos up until this past year when I finally got my chance to work full-time at being a writer and running C&R Press. Being in a band, too? That wasn’t going to cut it. I understood. Plus, the band, as bands are 99.9% of the time, was trouble.

I hadn’t played a lick in nearly a year when Shelley said, “I think you should start playing the guitar again.” My wife was actually telling me to play the guitar, not just tolerating it? She’s also started practicing the piano again herself and is working on John Lennon’s “Imagine.” I decided I better go ahead and see how I felt about this myself. I tuned up my guitars and started remembering all I’ve forgotten over the past year. Then, voila, as if in synchronicity the bi-monthly issue of my American Songwriter magazine came in the mail, and it was none other than a tribute to Bob Dylan, celebrating his 70th birthday. In fact, you can check out their site and see that even as we speak they’re celebrating 30 days of Dylan. Funny, but the opening of one of the Dylan articles begins with the latest Grammies in which Mumford and Sons and The Avett Brothers opened for Dylan as a kind of “passing of the torch” to the new generation of folk-inspired songwriting. According to the article, Dylan performed an enigmatic rendition of “Maggie’s Farm” which was as much to suggest the extended reaches of the possibilities of creative performance as anything else. It contrasted quite a bit with the earnest, conservative approaches of the former bands, and the writer suggests that Dylan was playing “keep away with the torch” more than he was passing it on.

I don’t know. I do know that Dylan represents a lot of things to a lot of people, some of it misguided, some of it head-scratching, but, in the end, he can’t be ignored in the annals of American songwriting (he prefers simply to call himself a performer). In fact, this is what Mason Jennings writes about him:

Bob Dylan is an invention. That’s important to remember. That persona is as much or more a work of art as his songs are. I saw him a few years ago. I remember standing with the soundman when a fan came running back at him and started screaming “Fix this! What’s he doing? I paid so much money! Fix it!” before storming out. The rest of the crowd was on their feet loving it. The person Bob Dylan is still dividing crowds 50 years later. No small feat. I have no idea what Robert Zimmerman is like but one thing is for sure, he is an inventor on the ranks for DaVinci and Tesla, and a visionary on the ranks of Steve Jobs and Walt Disney. Can’t imagine our world without him. It’d be a completely different place.

The complete Paul Zollo Interview, which took place in 1991, was published in this latest American Songwriter issue and it does offer some insight into Dylan’s ever-mysterious processes, as well as some interesting opinions about who the really great songwriters are. He says things like Hank Williams is probably the greatest songwriter ever (and then concedes that it may be a tie with Woodie Guthrie, both of whom he then asserts were performers and not just songwriters). He says there are more than enough songs to go around for the rest of time, that the world doesn’t need any more songs.

So, how is this inspiring? Well, besides what’s already been mentioned, for me it starts with sheer endurance. Here’s another example (see Woody Allen below) of a guy who, despite a large set of very real limitations is, well, legendary. He’s basically a poet who puts his music to simple melodies, and his voice…ah yes his voice. Well, let’s say this. Of course, it’s rough and grizzled and occasionally incomprehensible these days. But for whatever you want to say about his tone (or lack thereof), the dude hasn’t been doing this for 5 decades running because he can’t hold a note. He can, and he does. Take it from one who knows THAT part of the singing limitation blues.

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Finding Inspiration: Woody Allen

Last night, Shelley and I found a pleasant evening of escape watching Woody Allen’s much-anticipated Midnight in Paris. In fact, we’d already tried to go to the movie while it was in theaters both in Denver and in Chattanooga and through a series of near-misses still hadn’t seen it when it had long since come out on DVD. It was worth the wait. For one, it was a little uncanny how much the character, Gil Pender, played by Owen Wilson resembled me. Maybe there was some over identification, too, but the fact that he was a novelist falling completely in love with Paris (where he’d never been before), a bit on the introverted side, not wanting to stay out late to go dance with his fiance and her friends, and then falling into a fantasy of living in the 1920s (after the bell tolls midnight of course) were all aspects I could in one way or another relate to. Also, one of the main themes that the novel explores is overtly nostalgia (Gil Pender’s main protagonist owns a nostalgia shop), C&R did just publish Mickey Hess’s The Nostalgia Echo!

Anyway, I would venture to say that overall this film is a highlight in the great Allen’s ouevre. Although it doesn’t have the depth of other Allen classics, it certainly has enough humor and creative energy to satisfy this Allen fan. And the inspiration of this post is really more about Woody Allen as a writer, creator, performer than it is about Midnight in Paris anyway. I recently saw a documentary on how Allen rose to fame, the struggles he went through in the Village in the late 1960s in New York, his terrible fear of working in front of live audiences as a performer, his lucky break in getting into film (and the terms under which he insisted he work), and his casual and open-ended directorial style, which gives loads of creative freedom (even down to the very lines he’s written for them) to the actors themselves. Hard to believe this guy is in his late 70s and still producing about a film a year. I recall in the documentary he said that he really never looks back. Whether a film falls flat on its face or bears a degree of success, he is already moving forward on the next project and rarely takes time to look back. There’s a secret to artistic meaning in there somewhere, whether or not that particularly makes a promoter happy.

But what “struck” me last night as the bell tolled midnight and suddenly there was Gil Pender surrounded by Ernest Hemingway, the Fitzgeralds, T.S. Eliot, Gertrude Stein, Pablo Picasso, Salvador Dali and many other “1920 Paris notables,” was the creative freedom Allen must feel. The very idea that we’d skip from a standard romantic comedy to a kind of fabulist romantic, Cinderalla-esque parallel story takes a kind of creative freedom–whatever age you are. I admire his sense of play. It seems like Allen has a clear sense of balance as a serious artist–one that doesn’t feel the need to take himself too seriously.

I just finished an in-depth interview with Bob Dylan in the latest American Songwriter magazine, and found similar inspiration from another 1960s-birthed American, artistic icon for similar reasons. Stay tuned. In the meantime, keep on entering the wild world of the creative imagination and don’t be afraid to play around (words to myself as much as anyone).

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