What is the Lifespan of a Poetry Book, Saying Goodbye to Ursula Le Guin, and the Value of Little Girls’ Voices

What is the Lifespan of a Poetry Book?

It’s January, traditionally a time you might hear from your publisher(s), possibly with royalty checks and reports of some sales numbers from your book(s) over the last year. When you first publish a book of poetry, you probably aren’t thinking about its longevity – how long it will stay in print, how many years the book will be taught in classes, or how it will perform in a decade. You’re all about the excitement of firsts– waiting for those first reviews anxiously, setting up readings and college visits. But poetry, unlike fiction, often has a long shelf life. And some of what gives a poetry book a longer shelf life may be out of our control. In a way that’s a relief – it takes some of the pressure off of us – and in a way it’s sad, because we don’t control which books catch an audience’s attention and keep it.

Many of my friends who published books ten years ago – and have gone on to publish several subsequent books – are still having their first books taught! Sometimes because their first books got the big push of publicity in the beginning, sometimes because of word of mouth, and sometimes because poetry books can take a little while to get to their readers.  I would say that for two of my books at least, the second year of sales was better than the first! (I talk a little bit about this subject in my upcoming book, PR for Poets, from Two Sylvias Press – in the section about our expectations for our books. I think we tend to burn ourselves out trying to do too much in the beginning of a book’s lifespan, not realizing it is definitely a marathon, not a sprint.)

If you’ve been following this blog, you know the last year has been remarkably tough – and the last week, I spent more time on the phone with pharmaceutical companies trying to get insurance approval for a very expensive MS drug and financial assistance, plus long doctor and dentist appointments that have left me in bad shape – physically drained (and recent blood work indicates yep, I’m sick and anemic and need to rest and heal more than I have been.) I have been feeling guilty about not being able to go do college visits or readings in the past six months dealing with the severe MS attack that put me in the hospital and left me re-learning how to walk and talk and text. I put in several hours yesterday with a rehab specialty neurologist, who will help me learn how to walk better, deal with the MS changes to my brain wiring, and memory  problems.  But weirdly, the little books I put out into the world kept going even when I couldn’t – they don’t need a cane to travel or take time off to heal – and I’m grateful for that. People still teach my book from 2006, twelve years ago, Becoming the Villainess! When I was writing the book, I definitely did not anticipate it being taught across the country years after its publication. Hopefully they will teach my newest book, Field Guide to the End of the World, twelve years from now – just imagine! One might anticipate that the future will be slightly less apocalyptic than the current time, what with the Doomsday Clock being two minutes to midnight and anxieties about nuclear war and environmental destruction and all that. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Speaking of which, if you’re interested in teaching any of my books, please let me know what I can do to support that choice! I can Skype in or e-mail with students or even provide a little background for students if you think they might be interested. I am so grateful for instructors and professors who decide to put my work in front of their students, for people who decided to buy my book out the blue, for those who recommend my book to others or choose to review it. There is a life for each of our books that is somewhat magical, and in a way more powerful and immortal than our human bodies, and I am thankful for that.

Goodbye Ursula Le Guin. We will miss you.

Speaking of people whose books will have a long life, I am very sad to note the death this week of Ursula Le Guin, whose books I read in high school and who was an inspiration for speculative writers everywhere. She demanded – I saw her speak a couple of times, most memorably on the Oregon Coast during a giant storm where the windows were rattling with wind and thunder – that speculative writing not be put in a separate and lesser category, that women’s writing get equal considerations as men’s, and that poetry be given equal attention as fiction. She didn’t act like any of those demands were unusual or impossible. I still hope to one day gain her bravery and refusal to put with nonsense as well as her ability to imagine a better world.

Here’s Margaret Atwood’s tribute to Ursula: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/jan/24/ursula-k-le-guin-margaret-atwood-tribute

Testify

Speaking of speaking out and being brave – one difficult thing going on this week has been the testimonies of so many brave gymnasts against the doctor that had molested over 100 little girls, among them US Olympic champions, many of whom had told someone – several someones – and been ignored. One of the things that has made our society so poisonous is how we discount and ignore little girls’ voices. If a little girl ever trusts you enough to tell you someone has done something bad to her, believe her and make some noise. Make a ruckus. Make sure that bad person – usually a man, let’s be real – never has the ability to do something bad to a little girl again. I was a six-year-old rape victim who was ignored. Teach little girls that their voices matter, that they can make a difference. I am so proud of those young women giving their testimonies, in public, which is difficult, and happy that they convicted the doctor, that he won’t be able to hurt little girls ever again. But consider how many people turned a blind eye over the years that these girls raised their voices. That is the illness in our society that the women’s march, the #metoo movement, and the #timesup are all trying to draw attention to, and change.