Why do I write? Or care about having a book?

Why do I care so much about having a book with real covers with my name on it? Is is a report card? Validation? Ego? I have a chapbook that is supposed to be released in February of 2025; the caveat is, there is a pre-sale requirement. If I/we don't sell at least 60 books ahead of printing, it likely will not exist. I'll be announcing that in the fall, so stay tuned.

But that hurts a little. I have to hustle a book, sight unseen, or it won't ever see the light of day. I understand the publisher's point of view; it costs money to print, and let's be honest, poetry is not going to jump off the shelves, but if I can't get folks excited about buying ahead of it being in physical form, then it will die unseen. Sigh.

It's a worry for another day. As I understand it, the kick-off for the push to sell books will be in October, so maybe I can figure out how to launch it. They are pretty good with promotional materials, and they will be blasting it out on social media, but hey, no one knows who I am (except you, dear readers), so it's not going to be a hot commodity. I'm realistic. I don't care at all, really, about royalties. I just want to see my little book with real covers. 

So yesterday, I sent out a new manuscript to two places, one of which is a contest. Contests are hard on the ego; not only are you in contention with hundreds of other folks' fine work, but you don't get to do anything  more than put your stuff out there and hope a lot. And pay the reading fee, which those are not inexpensive. Again, I understand publishers have overhead to cover, and they usually pay a decent honorarium to the contest judge, too, so hey, the money has to come from somewhere. The one publisher that I sent it to that is not running a contest (it's an open reading period) says that they select several titles to publish. I might stand a chance. Again, it'd be awesome to see a real-live cover with my name on it.

So why do I care so much about it? Why do I care about publication? It's not accolades, at least I don't think it is. Not that many people read poetry journals, but yet there are hundreds of them out there. It's an echo chamber of sorts: poets read poets who read poets. It's probably about validation. I recall the first time a poem of mine appeared in print, and my name was there, on the page, in ink on paper. It was a totally satisfying moment. I can do this! 

Now, so much is digital. It's not as exciting, at least not in the same way, but I still thrill a little each time my work is accepted. I think that may be part of it: I don't suck at this. 

Confirmation? Admittance to an exclusive club? Part of it might be rooted in the feeling that I was never quite good enough at artsy stuff, at least according to my mother's assessment of my ability. I couldn't dance, sing, play piano, paint, draw...well enough, anyhow. But I can sing, I do have a sense of rhythm, and I can plink out a tune here or there. I will admit it, I cannot draw well. I mean, I can manage Pictionary, but that's about it. 

Writing is my thing. Essays and poems. Short stories still elude me; I get bored with my characters. I can do a decent narrative poem, though, so there's that. Writing is my thing; it was not hers, and my father didn't really invest a lot of his time working on his writing (though he did have a raw talent that could have gone further). Dad could draw, though, and paint. And play just about any instrument after noodling about with it for a few minutes. Mom could paint and play the piano. It was not an easy thing to be a non-visual artist with limited musical ability in that household. 

So I write. 

Have a good one,

C