Washington-bound (the other one)

I’m packing now for 12 days in the Pacific northwest (not nearby Washington D.C., which essentially seems like Mordor now). Here’s the poetry part of my itinerary:

• October 16, 7 pm: Bainbridge Island Public Library with Matthew Nienow
• October 17-19: Olympic Peninsula Fungi Festival, Port Angeles WA
• October 20, 6:30 pm: Port Angeles Library
• October 22, evening: BookTree in Kirkland, WA: 5:45 pm workshop “Poetry From the Underworld,” 7 pm reading followed by open mic
• October 23, 6:30 pm: J. Bookwalter’s Winery with Jeannine Hall Gailey, Woodinville, WA

I’m excited, not just about the barding around part but exploring unfamiliar scenery (the Olympic peninsula! temperate rain forest! mountain and Pacific views!)–and seeing friends. I’ll technically have a weeklong writer’s residence, too, at Tupelo Press’s Gentle House in Port Angeles, but I’m not putting pressure on myself to Get Writing Done. My body has been pretty clear that rest between events is mandatory.

I saw an accomplished and well-networked writer post on social media a couple of weeks ago that she wasn’t sure how to get invited to participate in reading series, so this might be a good moment to say: I personally just do some research into the literary culture of a place, find contact info for the series organizers, and ask nicely, putting my best foot forward but not assuming anything. For bookstores, whose event managers are often leery of poetry’s weak sales, it’s good to contact regional writers with local networks and develop a two-for-one pitch. It’s time-consuming work, of course, like submitting to magazines, and I fail at this stuff a LOT. Even when you make yourself ask (hard for lots of us, me included), some organizers will ghost you and others welcome you, so you just have to be philosophical about the odds. Some of my “research,” by the way, is watching others post about their own events and taking notes; I also ask friends in the destination town about vibes and venues. Finally, the kicker: you can arrange something, advertise it, and people don’t show up. I wouldn’t blame anybody for not trying to book readings–but, as in publishing, persistence can make a difference. And events can have a funny way of leading to other events; you never know if that three-person audience in Smallville will create crucial mycelial connections, versus what seemed like a fancier gig in Metropolis.

For this Washington state trip, Jeannine Hall Gailey, Susan Rich, and Cindy Veach generously offered me lots of good ideas, and Gentle House director Kirsten Miles masterminded the Fungi Festival anchor to my visit in the first place (it pays some of the costs). I really should keep a spreadsheet of poet-friends’ locations to make this sort of planning easier, but I’m too lazy. We all have weird proportions of drive and inertia. Anyhow, please wish me friendly audiences, a few with book-buying $ in their pockets! I’m limiting myself to carry-on luggage, at least if I can figure out how to nestle some clothes in among the books, and I’d sure like to lighten it for the trip home.

In addition to packing and planning, I’ve been writing and revising as much as I can in recent weeks (some of it recommendation-writing because ’tis the season). A few nice poetry things have happened. About Place published a new issue containing a couple of my recent poems, “Innocent Murmur” and “At Tables.” Both poems sprang from EMDR insights–that’s the therapy I’ve been doing for almost a year, involving this strange eye-movement strategy to process old hurts that linger somatically, even when you’ve talked and written your way around, into, and through them for decades. (I’m good at the cognitive stuff, I’m just a giant head basically, but it turns out the body stores hurt in ways that reason can’t root out.) “At Tables” comes from a cascade of images that poured out in a poetic, associative way. Some of my father’s most frightening behavior occurred over the cherry dining table of my childhood; my boss frightened me into silence by poking my arm under the rim of a different cherry table; my department now meets at the latter table; I teach seminars around similar tables. No wonder I couldn’t feel safe at work. Therapy and poetry are NOT the same thing, but poetry often emerges from underworlds that rational thinking can’t plumb.

Thanks, too, to Tupelo Quarterly for printing a triad of lovely reviews of Mycocosmic (bottom right, Literary Criticism section). My book was also longlisted for the Last Syllable Book Award, although it didn’t advance further. With help from my press, I’m getting Mycocosmic into as many post-publication contests as I can, knowing the odds are bad, feeling that sting sometimes when the prize committees don’t value what I’m doing, but persisting anyway. There’s a tiny, tiny chance one of those hyphae will connect and light up a whole circuit.

Speaking of putting yourself out there: Shenandoah opens for poetry subs 10/15. If you’ve ever lived in VA for 2+ years (you don’t have to live here now), the Graybeal-Gowan prize is a good one to try. It’s open for two weeks, free to enter, smaller pool (last year around 130 entries), $1000 prize. I winnow the pool down to 12 finalists and anonymize them; this year January Gill O’Neil will pick a winner and likely a runner-up from among them, both of which get published. There’s a separate call opening on the same day from guest editorial fellow Samyak Shertok for “poetry in forms: received, modified, hybrid, found (‘hermit crab’), invented, reinvented. Poems that honor the tradition, dismantle the conventions, create space for new ‘grotesque’ shapes” (I’m so looking forward to seeing the issue he puts together!). Be warned, though, that our general calls often hit the 500 submission cap in about 3 days, which I know is bananas, but that’s the poetry world these days, especially when subs are free. There will be another open poetry call (me again) in February.