Publishing in the apocalypse (please vote!)

My last poetry book, The State She’s In, launched on March 17th, 2020. I’m far from the only author whose disappointed feeling was swamped by the dimensions of pandemic disaster. Millions died; literary cancelations were vanishingly small potatoes by comparison. Other authors shared stories of their 9/11/21 launch dates or the collapse of the book-buying market in November 2016. Shit happens. People are so upset or their lives so changed that book-buying seems too frivolous or they can’t concentrate enough to read.

I didn’t lose perspective, but cancelling the parties felt bad. I did receive some lovely reviews. Generous people set up Zoom readings for stranded authors and I remain SO grateful, but virtual events that spring tended to be glitchy, awkward, as people (including me) adjusted to the tech. I’d hoped for fireworks and got flickery candles.

My previous poetry collection, Radioland in 2015, was the first collection for which I understood that HARD effort was called for if you want to reach readers–but my spirit for that work fizzled out when the date kept getting pushed and I ended up with only six weeks to prep. Later I took myself to task and swore the next volume would get the full-court press. Well, I tried.

And here I am again, plotting out possible events, making lists of what series and festivals to apply for to find audiences for Mycocosmic. I somehow feel both earnest and wry about that. I think it’s the best collection I’ve ever written; I wouldn’t bet the farm, though, on any poetry book’s success, even on the small scale of the poetry biz. It’s pretty good in itself, though, to feel so confident in its power. It’s my job, with some help from the press, to get the poems into ears and hands, and then the rest is luck and chance and whatever the stars bode.

I’m prepping for a book launch under heavy clouds. I have hope but not optimism about the election. No matter how it goes, I feel sure there will be violence. If the worst happens, I know the rapist’s administration would wreck lives, beginning with those mass deportations he’s been promising. The climate crisis would accelerate even more rapidly–more fires and floods killing people, endangering creatures and landscapes. Corporations would behave more rapaciously (again, as if things aren’t bad enough). His success would embolden racist, misogynist, homophobic, and transphobic violence. Choice is an existential issue for me, but far from the only reason I arrived at the polling place within the first half hour of the election.

I’m inhabiting dissonance, here in scary October. How can I plan roadtrips, hope for the little poetry world to pay my little book a little attention? I just booked tickets to New Orleans, where Chris has a conference this January and I’ll go along for the fun of it–then, before I hit “confirm,” really looked at the date. January 5th. I remember scrolling through Twitter nearly four years ago, before the news sites picked up the story, then texting my friends that a violent mob was storming the Capitol, and they answered with the “ha ha” reaction button. What will happen in January 2025?

Even when I’m not hopeful, though, it feels important to behave hopefully: to vote. To write spells for connection and peace and lucky turns of the wheel. To stay open to students and strangers, knowing that being your best self sometimes brings out the best in others. Yesterday, after grading, my spouse and I took a walk in the woods, tried a new brewery, and went out for Mexican food. This has been our ordinary Saturday thing since the kids moved out. It was lovely, even though I doomscrolled in the passenger seat all the way home.