More on publication, bio statements & thusly

image from elfwood.com

Most journals want short bio statements. The work represents the author more than her time in the academy or grants, or should.

I'm happiest when authors self-deflate and are funny in listing accomplishments; feel most comfortable writing that kind of biography. Maybe that's because I can't ante up impressive academic credentials, or any that mean anything to me, or maybe I am a product of the aw-shucks-ma'am strain of Gary Cooper-ish self-estimation.

Of course I am egotistical in my own way, and a bit contemptuous of a proper-noun bio statement without flair. Everyone has standards. And maybe I'm too (toooooo) analytical. I keep breaking down accomplishments with self-talk.

Self-talk:  Well, being listed as a best by the New Yorker or N.Y.Times, simply means one person at those publications liked the writer. It doesn't mean clouds opened up and a booming voice (female, foxy) said, "This is the best."  But it's not without meaning and I'd be proud to be liked, loved or even tolerated by most any publication.

I wanted to be in The Threepenny Review from its beginning. My mom sent me an L.A. Times clipping about the journal and I was jazzed by Wendy Lesser's vision. Something about Gargoyle caught my eye, too; its editor Richard Peabody seemed so cool from far-off Seattle, and of course his last name so old money, so Gatsby.

Wendy Lesser is great (I had a poem in Threepenny a few years ago) as is Richard Peabody, with whom I share musical memories of our era (poem forthcoming in Gargoyle). Don't be careful what you wish for.  Just submit over and over.

This was going to be more about bio statements but, hey, the year is young. Stay tuned.

Anonymity Shrugged . . . at the Brooklyn Book Fair

At yesterday's Brooklyn Book Fair I was recognized (by three friends), slouched toward greater anonymity (next paragraph) and made a nice contact (the anti-anonymity) (finale).

Since my filters are few I know better than to think I can walk up to a publisher's or literary review's table and convince them to publish me, let alone ever again admit in the company of decent men and women they've met me. In fact I might antagonize them without ever understanding why.

So I stroll about such book fairs, the inner pep talk being: These are important events and I am happy they exist for newcomers enough unjaded to believe their symmetrical features and bouncy yet important demeanor will hook in an editor.

I did score a free New York Review of Books—I'm the man. And stopped for reasons I'm not sure of at a university press table. Well, the books were good and the press was functional so I talked to the woman in charge. She was the publicity arm of the publisher, strong, smart, directed. Verifying the publisher wasn't tanking, I asked about submissions and the publicicist said, Sure! in a voice that meant, Most likely not!

Thing is, when I told her I had a collection published with BlazeVOX [books] (I didn't speak the "[books]") her eyes glazed, as they say, as if an intellectual glassworker were on-call in her tear ducts. Telling her I wrote poetry and fiction, she responded, icky sweet, A little bit of everything.

A close relative of Fallen Satan is on-call for Sarah Sarai and Fallen Satan stoked fires in my eyes as I said, surly as I could, A LOT, I write A LOT of everything.

I was over it almost instantly, but not up for readings (late-ish Saturday night, which included watching a craps game on Stanton). On my way to the subway I stopped by one more table, a humble (more than the fancy publisher) affair, split between two ventures (a table is $300 for the day so splitting makes sense), both legitimate (which for me means literary-ish, including manga and graphics).

Without going into it, this is not a naming blog, the two at the table and I talked without attitude, exchanged info with the possibility of my reading them and them reading me.
Sarah Sarai is always willing to show up at a book fair, chat with (three) friends, be mildly insulted, and make a few new colleagues. So it is written.