How often had you sent out Undertow before it was chosen for the 2007 Lexi Rudnitsky Prize?
I had been sending the
book out for about three years, editing and revising as I went along. After
each round of contests, I would pull the poems I thought were weaker and
replace them with new ones I thought were stronger. I also re-organized the manuscript a number of times.
Tell me about the
title. Had it always been Undertow? Did it go through any other changes?
The title went through at
least four changes, and there were many other titles I contemplated. The book
began as Enumeration and won the
contest with the title Ignis Fatuus. My editor, Gabe Fried, suggested Undertow as an alternative and I agreed.
The new title still seemed to capture the essence of what I was getting at. It
also fit with all of the watery poems in the book. Poets aren’t always the best
at titling. It isn’t something we learn formally. I’ve been making a study of
titles and titling for a number of years now. I think I’m finally starting to
get the hang of it.
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 absolutely worried
about winning a book contest, although I also sent to open reading periods. The
concern is that the manuscript will get lost in the noise if it does not win.
In some ways this is justified. However, there seem to be more and more venues
for poetry publications all the time. I was just reading about the model of
nano-publishing, where one editor who is an established poet picks a book to
edit for a younger poet. They create a press that publishes that one book and
that’s it. I think there are more and more creative models for getting work out
there, not to mention selfmade chaps. It all depends on what you want for the
book you are working on, who you hope will see it and why.
To a poet who has just
begun sending out work, I would say that the most important issue is matching
your work to the aesthetic of the press you are sending to. It took me a long
time to familiarize myself with who was doing what. I would also recommend
looking into alternative models of publication, especially if your work is
doing something unusual that is difficult to place. However, I’d continue to
send to both contests and open reading periods where you think they might be
open to your work. You never know who is looking and with what set of eyes.
What was the process
like assembling the book? How many different versions did it go through as you
were sending it out?
Ordering the book was a
huge issue. I really feel that this is a separate skill from sitting down and
writing; it’s something like writing a huge new poem using the poems you
already have. The book went through at least four iterations and orders. I
really wanted to place the childhood poems first, but a friend suggested
putting the more experimental work first and I followed his advice. It turned
out to be a good call.
How involved were you
with the design of the book—interior design, font, cover, etc.? Did you suggest
or have any input regarding the image that was used on the cover?
Persea was great about
letting me have a say in all aspects of the book design. Soon after the book
was accepted for publication, they sent me several mock-ups of possible page
layouts and fonts. Gabe also asked me if I had any ideas for cover art, and I
looked up and saw one of my favorite paintings by my partner, Alane Spinney,
hanging on the wall of our bedroom. It pictures a maelstrom of purple waves.
The first time I ever saw that painting, I said, “There’s nowhere to stand!”
and that seemed perfect for Undertow.
I was immensely pleased to be able to use it. I was also able to change the
color of the surrounding cover from grey to blue, and to have input on the font
that was used. I feel very fortunate to have been able to have so much to say
about the final look of the work. As someone trying to make a complete work, I
feel it’s important. The cover art and design have received many compliments.
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 wasn’t concerned about
having the majority of the poems
published, but I was concerned about placing some of the best ones in good
journals. I also spent a lot of time looking at the publication credits of
other poets putting out first books. It seemed clear that some folks had
well-established publication records and others didn’t at all. I took the
impressive acknowledgements lists as a sign that those writers had either been
busy building their publication records, or had been writing a long time
without (for whatever reason) publishing a book, or both. In my opinion, for a
first book it’s more than about the quality of the work than about the volume
of published poems going in.
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?
Most of the fine-tuning
on the poems had already been done, so the edits were minimal. Gabe Fried
suggested a few changes to individual poems; we also took out a few. However,
he let me keep those I really felt strongly about and didn’t exercise too much
editorial privilege as far as changing individual poems went. All of the
changes he suggested turned out to be good ones.
What do you remember about the day when you saw
your finished book for the first time?
It was the first day of
AWP in New York. Everyone was milling around the book fair and I searched out
the Persea table. Gabe smiled a huge smile and said, “Have you seen it yet??”
And there was a stack of my books sitting on the table. Later they sold out of
the copies they’d brought. Friends I hadn’t seen in ages were coming by and
buying it. It was amazing.
How has your life been different since your book
came out?
It’s been very different.
I got a teaching job, for one thing, and I’m sure the book helped. I’ve also
been able to build a much better publication record. I think the biggest
changes has just been in terms of legitimacy. When you don’t have the book, it’s
easy to feel like the over-eager little sister or brother of folks who do. Once
you have a book, there’s a sense of being able to take part in a different kind
of conversation. It’s a little strange, because chances are that your style,
aesthetic, and the head you have on are the same ones as before.
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?”
I hate that question: “What
kind of poetry do you write?” Or worse: “You don’t write sad poems, do you?” I
never know how to answer, because poetry is about exploring experiences that
aren’t easily classifiable. I think there are themes running through my book:
the power and influence of language, the problem of dealing with loss in a
world that continues to amaze. But I wouldn’t say that to the person on the
plane. At this point, I think I’d say, “ It’s about water. And birds. And being
human. You should read it.”
What have you been doing to promote Undertow, and
what have those experiences been like for you?
I’ve started a website,
put myself on Goodreads and other social networks, sent review copies,
scheduled readings for myself. But it’s hard—at least, I’ve found it hard—to
break through the noise. Because of my teaching position, I wasn’t able to do a
book tour, so the book didn’t get as much exposure as it might have. The best
experiences have been readings, where I was able to connect with other poets
and students and meet really great people I wouldn’t have otherwise. On the
whole, these experiences have been a bit frustrating, but very much worthwhile
in terms of contacts I’ve made.
What advice do you wish someone had given you
before your first book came out?
I wish I’d been more
savvy about self-promotion, and particularly about lining up a reading tour for
myself. I realized the press wouldn’t be able to do much, but I could have done
a better job with networking. I think you have to be really aggressive in
promoting a book of poetry, and even then, there’s no guarantee it will take
off.
What influence has the book’s publication had on
your subsequent writing? Are there any new projects in the works?
I think the biggest
benefit has been the experience of putting a book together. With the second
book (Shatter & Thrust, which is
forthcoming on Persea), I had to think a whole lot less about structure and
order. I just kind of plugged my ears against the thought that I was writing a
book and wrote poems, scads of them. Only when the folder on my computer really
started to fill up did I think about order, and then it was fairly
straightforward. But I was cognizant as I was writing that the work was a bit
different from the kind of poem I was writing in Undertow—I did a lot of stripping the poems of their earlier
lyricism. I don’t think I deliberately wrote against my own style, because I
find that very difficult to do, but I was aware that the work was moving in a
different direction and I tried to let it do so. I don’t know exactly where the
third book will go. I’m currently studying visual art—I’m sure this will have
an effect on my writing. I already sense myself using language more materially.
The next big project might be very fragmentary, or not be a book in the
traditional sense but rather a series of interactive installations. We’ll see.
Do you believe that poetry can create change in
the world?
I’ve struggled with that
question a lot. What is the value of poetry? I think that poetry, at its most
crucial, helps us cope with our lives and experiences. It doesn’t so much gloss
them for us as provide an act of recognition of the complexity of our lives. I
think that’s important—the choice toward the complex. I think of it as a kind
of handrail along the mountain—it lets the reader know that the human
experience is not a wasteland—someone has been there before. I wish I believed
that poetry could change the world politically, but in our current cultural
climate where poetry is so devalued, I don’t see it. That’s ok—poetry survives
because, like insects, poetry is both small and powerful. It can hide in the
cracks. In a sense, it survives precisely because it is small and underfunded.
That gives it a kind of integrity that one doesn’t see in the larger commercial
world.
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Anne Shaw is the author of Undertow, winner of the Lexi Rudnitsky Poetry Prize, and Shatter and Thrust, forthcoming from Persea Books. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Harvard Review, Denver Quarterly, Black Warrior Review, Copper Nickel, Drunken Boat, and New American Writing. Her extended experimental poetry project can be found on Twitter and at her website, http://www.anneshaw.org. She is currently a student of the visual arts at the school of the Art Institute in Chicago.
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