#37 - Sandy Longhorn

How often had you sent out Blood Almanac before it was chosen for the 2005 Anhinga Prize for Poetry?

I sent the manuscript out to around 50 presses/contests before hearing from Anhinga.

Tell me about the title. Had it always been Blood Almanac? Did it go through any other changes?

Blood Almanac comes from a line in “Labor Day on the Bremer Blacktop”: “three decades now out of our hands, / out of the almanac in our blood.” It was originally suggested as a section title by my then thesis advisor, Davis McCombs, at the University of Arkansas. I loved it so much, I made it the title of the book.

It seems like there’s a possible misconception among some poets who are trying to get their first book published: that they must win a contest. Were you concerned about winning a contest at any point? What advice would you give to poets sending their book out now regarding contests versus open reading periods?

Winning a contest was very much talked about in my MFA program, and while I did send the book out to some non-contest presses during open reading periods, I sent to many more contests. It seemed harder to find news of open reading periods than it did to find news of contests. I was definitely more concerned with getting the book published than winning a contest; the contest road was just more heavily publicized.

As for advice, I’d say only submit to contests or open reading periods from presses you admire and with whom you feel a kinship. I sent to far too many contests that I never stood a chance of winning because my work didn’t fit the style of the press. That was wasted time and money. With contests, you want to be sure you’re willing to donate the entry fee to the press. I don’t mind sending in entry fees for contests because I know that they go to support the press and poetry; however, it’s money that I have to spend, and I’m not going into debt doing this.

What was the process like assembling the book? How many different versions did it go through as you were sending it out?

The first version of Blood Almanac was assembled as my master’s thesis at the University of Arkansas. That program is four years, which was a huge selling point for me during my application process. I’m a slow learner in all things, and I didn’t find my voice until my third year. In that year, I realized that one of my obsessions was the landscape of the Midwest, where I’d been raised and had come of age. Those poems fit neatly together in the first section. The middle section is a series of twelve self-portraits that I wrote over one year, one per month, in an attempt to explore the self-portrait as a poetry form, taking my cue from visual artists. The third section was a bit of a mess when I left Fayetteville, and I spent the next six months or so ripping it up and reconstructing it.

Of course, it took another year and a half to find a home for the book, and the week before I heard from Anhinga, I had actually torn the manuscript to shreds and removed half of the poems. The doubt does sink in from time to time; luckily, both Rick Campbell and Lynne Knight of Anhinga reassured me that the book was wonderful and worthwhile as it was.

How involved were you with the design of the book—interior design, font, cover, etc.?

I had always been told not to expect much involvement with design, so I was caught off guard by Anhinga and specifically, Lynne Knight, who designed the book. I had a hand in every detail from choosing the font, page design, and the cover. However, I have to credit Lynne’s wonderful eye for the overall design, which I think is beautiful.

Did you suggest or have any input regarding the image that was used on the cover?

Yes, the photograph on the cover is by the same photographer who took my author photo for the back of the book, George Byron Griffiths. Geordie is an old friend from my undergrad days, and it was a delight to be able to work with him on the book. He’s from Minnesota, but the photo on the cover is from his family’s farm in Iowa (my home state), so it fit perfectly.

What about the publication of the actual poems in journals and magazines prior to the book being published? Was there ever a concern for you to have the majority of the poems published before you were sending out your manuscript?

In the MFA program at Arkansas, we were told that we needed to publish individual poems in national journals and that this would lead to publishing the book. I don’t think this is as cut-and-dried as it might have once been. However, I’ve always written for an audience, always wanted the publications for affirmation but also because I knew I was writing for more than myself and my family/friends. So, the “business” of publishing fit right in with my detail-oriented, spreadsheet-keeping self and my sense of competition.

I do remember someone remarking that I had over ten poems published from my thesis collection, so surely it would get published. If only it were as easy as that!

How much work did you do as far as editing the poems from the day you knew the book would be published to its final proofing stage?

Again, the folks at Anhinga were wonderful about this. I think they asked me to remove two poems and add four newer pieces to the book. Then, I received a copy of the manuscript with both Lynne Knight and Rick Campbell’s editorial comments. I’d say there were marks on about ¾ of the manuscript, usually a question of word choice, line break, or grammar.

What do you remember about the day when you saw your finished book for the first time?

The book came out in June of 2006, the month I married my husband, so the two events are linked in my memory. I received my box of books at the end of May or early June, and I remember being bummed because Chuck, my then husband-to-be, was still at work when I came home and saw the box on the porch. Still, I couldn’t wait, so I rushed to slash it open, and then I just stood there looking at the copies for the longest time. There was an initial rush of joy and then a “what’s next?” I admit that I was surprised by how quickly the rush from seeing the books wore off.

How has your life been different since your book came out? Did it become a factor in getting a future job for you?

I already had my current job when the book came out, so it hasn’t been a factor in that sense. It has changed my writing life, made me feel a bit more legit, although I still suffer from an inferiority complex when I’m around people with more books. I’m not sure I’ll ever shed that feeling of climbing a ladder in terms of number of publications and number of books. Perhaps that is my own failing.

With the book, I’ve been able to travel and do readings (mostly on my own dime & time). One of my favorite things to do is to visit with undergraduate students about poetry, and the book has allowed me to do that.

If you struck up a conversation next to someone seated on an airplane, and after a few minutes you eventually told them that you were an author who had a book of poetry published, how would you answer their next question: “What’s the book about?”

Blood Almanac is about landscapes both exterior and interior. On the one hand, there are poems about the Midwestern landscape and the quiet people who inhabit it; on the other hand, there are poems about the interior landscapes of a speaker in search of herself and her place in the world. It’s very much a coming-of-age book, although it wasn’t published until I reached my early thirties.

What have you been doing to promote Blood Almanac, and what have those experiences been like for you?

At first, all of my promotion activities were centered around giving readings and visiting schools. In the fall of 2006, Anhinga hosted me on a mini-reading tour in Florida, which was a delightful way to launch the book. I also contacted my former undergrad mentor and was able to visit and read there, where the book was adopted for a class in contemporary American lit. I’ve worked to meet folks in Arkansas and really anywhere within a six or seven hour drive and have read or guest lectured at quite a few schools, colleges, and universities. I offer to come and visit a class/school for free if the book is adopted, if I can drive there and find a couch to crash on. If there is an honorarium to be had, well that’s just icing on the cake.

It was only two years after the book came out that I established a “web presence” with my blog, Myself the only Kangaroo among the Beauty, and a profile on Facebook. It’s something I knew I needed to do, but I dragged my feet. I have to say, once I figured out what I wanted from the blog, it’s become as important as the physical contacts I’ve made. I have discovered a supportive and caring community of writers, many of whom are not associated with a major writing program, as I’m not. The web allows us to form our own networking structures in the absence of being surrounded by established faculty peers and visiting writers.

What advice do you wish someone had given you before your first book came out?

Honestly, I received great advice and read every article I could find about launching a book, even before there was an inkling of hope that the book would find a publisher. I just wish I’d listened more.

Getting “the book” will not change your life, but it will be a milestone. Once the book is accepted, the work of getting it into the hands of readers begins, and that work will fall, mostly, on the poet. Some poets are good at this naturally; others are not. Know yourself and set realistic expectations. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

I heard all of this and have only come to understand it over time.

What influence has the book’s publication had on your subsequent writing? Are there any new projects in the works?

Since Blood Almanac came out in 2006, I’ve finished a second manuscript, tentatively titled, In a World Made of Such Weather as This. It’s been making the rounds for a year and a half and has gotten some good responses so far, although no contract as yet. The experience of publishing Blood Almanac is helpful in this, as I remind myself that it takes time and a bit of luck to find the right fit, the right pair of eyes.

Lately though, I’ve been foundering a bit as I’ve been seeking whatever comes next. I don’t write around a book-sized project or topic, so it usually takes some time to get my bearings. I have been working on a series of fairy tales about a girl from the Midwest who has trouble with boundaries and there may be something gathering force there.

Do you believe that poetry can create change in the world?

Yes. I’ve seen it happen. I teach at a community college, and while some of my students have had a decent exposure to poetry and prose in the past, many are blank slates. Despite their background, many of them begin by doubting the worth of literature for whatever reason. Each semester, though, I see a poem or a short story change at least one student, usually more. I’ve seen Emily Dickinson’s “After great pain a formal feeling comes” allow a student to give voice to her grief for the infant she lost. I’ve seen poems by Ai allow students to discuss domestic violence and open the eyes of their classmates. I’ve seen veterans from the Vietnam era debate veterans from our current wars when we’ve read Komunyakaa, sometimes speaking about experiences they haven’t even told their families about. These are not earth-shattering changes, but those students, and myself, are changed just the same, in some small way. All those small changes, those cracks that let the light in, to paraphrase Leonard Cohen, eventually add up.

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Sandy Longhorn is the author of Blood Almanac (Anhinga Press, 2006), which won the 2005 Anhinga Prize for Poetry. New poems are forthcoming or have appeared recently in Anti-, The Dirty Napkin, Lake Effect, New Madrid, Redivider, Spillway, and elsewhere. Longhorn holds an MFA from the University of Arkansas, lives in Little Rock, AR, is an Arkansas Arts Council fellow, and blogs at Myself the only Kangaroo among the Beauty.

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#36 - Leslie Harrison

How often had you sent out Displacement before it was chosen for the 2008 Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference Bakeless Prize?

I sent it, mostly out of curiosity, to a couple of contests, even though it didn’t feel finished, yet. I’d heard how awfully hard it is to get a first book taken, and I was worried about that, so I wanted to test the waters. Then, a few months later, I’d had a breakthrough concerning structure, and it felt finished, so I sent it out to five places—all on the same day. One of those places was the Bakeless. So, maybe seven in all, but I ended up withdrawing it from three of those places after it won.

Tell me about the title. Had it always been Displacement? Did it go through any other changes?

I have a vivid memory of sitting in Michael Ryan’s office at Irvine as I was finishing up my MFA. I had given him two piles of poems. I was trying to prepare my thesis, and I think I was hoping he would wave a magic wand and tell me how the two piles fit together into a single project. Instead, he confirmed my suspicion, that they were two projects. He told me he thought I should lay the other one aside for awhile, since it felt less urgent to him. Then, with the poems that would eventually become part of Displacement sitting on his desk, he handed me a couple of sheets of paper. It was the OED entry for the word displacement. He made me read the entire entry aloud. By the end, I was practically in tears because it did seem clear that this one word was at the center of everything I was writing.

So in a way the title formed the book. It gave me a center, a sun to orbit around, an illumination. I wrote for a couple of years after that, but knowing in some fundamental way, that this idea, this word was what I was writing “about.”

Now, as I work at putting the second book together, I wish I had Michael or someone else to read it and step back from it to help me find the center.

It seems like there’s a possible misconception among some poets who are trying to get their first book published: that they must win a contest. Were you concerned about winning a contest at any point? What advice would you give to poets sending their book out now regarding contests versus open reading periods?

I wouldn’t dream of giving advice to poets seeking a first book publisher about whether or not to participate in the contest system and/or the open reading system. Obviously the contest system worked for me, but I understand other people’s reluctance and frustration. So I would say that everybody should follow their hearts and instincts. Which presses are putting out the most exciting work? Who is publishing books you love?

You want a press that wants your work, that believes in your book and that will support it and you. Some presses have more resources than others, but really, my advice is to do the research, figure out who is publishing stuff you love and how that stuff is getting to them, and go from there.

I don’t think you have to submit only to contests, or only to open reading periods. I don’t think you have to go for commercial, academic, independent, or POD presses. I think everybody’s path to publication is different, and how you approach it should have to do with what you want and what is realistically possible. For example, FSG lets anyone query with a couple of poems. But I don’t know when, if ever, a slush-pile query resulted in a contract for a completely unknown poet. But FSG does publish first books occasionally, so you don’t lose anything by trying if, and only if, you can honestly see your book fitting with their list.

For me, open reading periods felt like they might have worse odds than the first book contests. Open reading periods don’t read blind, are rarely limited to first books, and are not obligated to publish anything. So I focused on the contests as my first choice. I never submitted to an open reading period, but it all happened fairly quickly for me. I probably would have, if my book hadn’t been taken almost right away.

Among my close friends who have books, one won a small-press contest, one submitted to a commercial press, one submitted to an academic press, two won larger contests. So I guess my advice is this: Honor your hard work and talent by being honest about where it fits in the larger poetic conversation and then have faith that it will find a good home.

What was the process like assembling the book? How many different versions did it go through as you were sending it out?

I think I said earlier that there were two versions—one that I knew was not done, and one that did feel done. The difference between those two was huge, but did not encompass a huge number of revisions or new poems coming into the manuscript. It was more about me doing the hard, critical work of understanding what the book was insisting on being. We sometimes try to impose an order or an idea about what the book “should” be, because we don’t want to be writing about that, whatever that is. I didn’t want to be writing “about” the disintegration of my marriage, and I had to stop getting in the way of what the book was. Once I did get myself out of the way, I read the book again and again and again and it taught me its shape and arc and order. I also had a very, very smart reader in my friend Sasha West, who had read all the poems, and earlier drafts of the book, and who remains the most thoughtful, insightful reader I’ve ever had. She made some critical late-stage observations about the final section and again made me step back and consider it from a new angle.

How involved were you with the design of the book—interior design, font, cover, etc.?

I am a book designer by trade. So of course I was very concerned with how the book would look. I actually sent 5 cover comps—sample covers—as ideas for the designers before they really started. In the end, they didn’t use any of the suggestions, but all their sample covers had the same overall design concept—full bleed photo, very simple, clean text. They gave me back five comps too, and the one I loved the most is the one they went with. They did a great job. I love the cover and interior of my book. This is the great blessing of working with a large commercial house—they have extraordinary designers on staff, access to every font imaginable, and people who know what is available for images.

They sent one interior sample, and I loved the font and the small decorative elements they’d chosen. I think they made my book a really striking, beautiful physical object, and I’m incredibly grateful.

Did you suggest or have any input regarding the image that was used on the cover?

No. They sent the five comps, and their favorite comp was a very summer-feeling image—very green and with pond lilies. I felt like it didn’t suit as well as the image I preferred, and they agreed and went with the one I liked the best.

What about the publication of the actual poems in journals and magazines prior to the book being published? Was there ever a concern for you to have the majority of the poems published before you were sending out your manuscript?

I have always been a terrible submitter. I hate the process. And I have always had three or four jobs and have had to write in the interstices of a busy, complicated life, so the submission process was pretty far down on my priority list. I did send poems out, and I had had several taken for publication, but when the book won, there really were only a handful published in journals.

Houghton Mifflin never seemed to care how many were published. In fact, if anything, I’d say they had a slight bias against publishing a lot of the poems in journals. My concern, prior to the book coming out but after it was taken, was that I had published exactly zero poems online, and I wanted people to be able to Google me and find poems. So I made a real effort to find online journals I liked, like Memorious and diode, and submit to them.

How much work did you do as far as editing the poems from the day you knew the book would be published to its final proofing stage?

Relatively little, I think. I remember working on one poem that I had never been satisfied with, but which seemed necessary to the narrative arc of the book. After that, I had a brilliant manuscript editor who made sure the styles of various things were consistent, and she queried some titling and other structures that existed to clarify things in my mind, but didn’t clarify anything for a reader, but that was about it.

What do you remember about the day when you saw your finished book for the first time?

I freaked completely out. I don’t know what I expected to feel, but when the box came, I opened it, confirmed what it was, and then I dropped it and had to rush out of the house. It was cold. Really, really cold. And the box of books was inside. And I couldn’t share the house with the books. I was standing in my yard in the cold freaking out. So I went in, grabbed the box and hid it in the car. After a couple of days, I brought the box in, but hid it under the coffee table, where I could not see it.

I still don’t understand my reaction. But it seems to me that I am really focused on the writing of poems, the ways they fit together, the next poem, the one after that. It is an extraordinary pleasure to write. And it happens here, in my little house, on my couch, with the dogs and the laptop. And my experience had been that very few people commented on or critiqued poems in journals. So getting a poem published in a journal was like dropping a pebble into a lake, or tucking a poem into the rafters. I could pretend my poems did not have a public life, or if they did, it was remarkably discreet.

I think I wanted a book because that is what we are supposed to want. It seemed, before it actually happened, like some official stamp of approval saying, yes, you are a poet. And it seemed like the next step to take—first we write, then we get an education in writing, however that happens. Then we start to publish in journals. Then a book.

And as the book was coming together, I was taking the same pleasure in the work that I do in writing poems. The book seemed like a long, intricate poem. But the idea of having a book was, for me, somehow completely distinct from the actual physical object that arrived on my doorstep.

Then, suddenly, it existed in a way it never had before—totally separate from me. And everybody could read it, and everybody could have an opinion. It also seemed like the most gross hubris to have dared to believe I could create a book, hubris that my work would appear —literally on the same shelf—as the work of my heroes.

I think I’ve made my peace with the public aspect of being a poet, at least to some extent. After all, we all write to be read, to find an audience, to communicate. I want, always, the next poem. I publish because that is the way to earn the chance to write the next one. And the one after that. I put books together because I love books and because I love the challenge of assembling a book of poems. And I hope someone notices, someone cares.

And maybe, when the next book comes along, I’ll handle it with a little more grace.

How has your life been different since your book came out? Did it become a factor in getting a future job for you?

I do want to teach, so I suspect it might become a factor—having a book seems to be one of the credentials that opens the academic door. But that has not happened yet. In other ways, though, it did change my life. The book helped me get a scholarship to one writing conference, and of course it came with an invitation for a fellowship to Bread Loaf. Both of those things brought some of my best friends into my life. I am grateful, every single day, for the amazing friends and colleagues who came through the door the book helped open. Before the book, because I did not work in academia and did not go to AWP or write a ton of reviews or in other ways seem to be a part of the po-biz, I didn’t know a lot of poets beyond my friends from grad school.

After the book, I have a lovely, amazing group of friends who are toilers on the same path. That, I think, is the best thing the book did—it brought wonderful people into my life and, to a lesser extent, brought me a little bit more into the public aspect of poetry in this country. And, as I give readings, and continue to meet other poets, it continues to bring talented, kind, remarkable people into my life.

If you struck up a conversation next to someone seated on an airplane, and after a few minutes you eventually told them that you were an author who had a book of poetry published, how would you answer their next question: “What’s the book about?”

Oh, this is funny. First of all, for whatever reason, I am not someone who gets chatted up on airplanes. Ever. Mostly, when I admit I write poems, people cough politely and pretend an urgent need to be elsewhere. So I’ve never gotten this question, especially not in this venue.

I think I’d say the book is about the ways we think of ourselves as belonging in certain specific places —not just geographic, but also places like the inside of relationships, in certain states of mind, in myth and literature. For me, it really is about being displaced—moved out of a place you thought you belonged.

And if I made it this far, the person on the airplane would have nodded off or found a different seat long since. See? I really am not the sort who gets chatted up on planes.

What have you been doing to promote Displacement, and what have those experiences been like for you?

I’m even less good at promotion than I am at submitting. When asked, I do readings. I let the press know when I’m doing a festival, working with school children, giving a reading or panel, or doing something else interesting. I have no idea what they do with that information.

I’m not comfortable at all with the more public aspects of being a writer. I lead a very quiet, very private life. I give readings and do panels and other things because I feel like I owe it to the work and to the press to spread the word as much as I can, but I am really uncomfortable putting myself forward like that. This year (2011) I’m going to AWP for the first time, and I’ll probably spend the entire time with my name-tag on backwards or hiding in my room watching TV.

What advice do you wish someone had given you before your first book came out?

I don’t know. I think one thing that might have been helpful, would have been a crash course in promoting your book. Does such a thing exist? I don’t know, given my personality and economic circumstances, how much I would have done differently, but I would have liked to know something about getting the word out.

What influence has the book’s publication had on your subsequent writing? Are there any new projects in the works?

I don’t think Displacement had any influence on my subsequent writing beyond the enormous freedom and gratitude I felt that it was done and in good hands and I was free to move into another project. It cleared the decks.

So yes, I’m working on a second book. Which is to say I have a large stack of poems and I still am not sure how they go together. But I’m really excited about them, and about the poems still to come.

Do you believe that poetry can create change in the world?

Absolutely. How could I believe anything else?

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Leslie Harrison’s debut book of poems, Displacement, won the 2008 Bakeless prize in poetry and was published by Mariner Books, a division of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. New poems will appear in upcoming issues of Antioch Review, Kenyon Review Online, and FIELD. She was the 2010 Philip Roth Resident in Poetry at Bucknell University and, when not at Bucknell, resides in a small town in rural western Massachusetts. On the web, you can find her at http://www.leslie-harrison.com

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