I’d sent it out about a
dozen times, over about eight months. To be honest, I’d been bracing myself for
it to take years. I picked contests given by university presses and literary
presses based on the editorial staff and the publication track record. But I
took a sporting view of any judges whose names were announced during the
submission period -- I really fought any instinct to think, “There is no way
so-and-so would ever pick my manuscript!” I just took that issue out of the
equation, and focused on the presses themselves.
Tell me about the title.
Had it always been Mapmaking? Did it go through any other changes?
When Ben Furnish, the
Managing Editor at BkMk Press, called to tell me I’d won -- “You’ve taken the
prize,” was his memorable way of putting it -- as soon as we hung up, the first
thing I did was run to my laptop to see which title I’d used for that contest.
The other, earlier title was Farsickness, the title of a poem in my book. It’s
an idea that I love, that of course German has a word for, fernweh. But my
problem with Farsickness was that I was never thrilled with a book title
connoting illness (even of a subtle sort). Mapmaking better captures what I
think the book actually explores -- landscapes depicted through language,
memory, and imagination.
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?
My experience is very
particular to my goal, which was -- in fact -- to win a contest. It’s been many
years since I attended NYU’s graduate program in creative writing, and even
though I have a good track record publishing my poems in journals, I felt my
collection would really benefit from winning a contest by an established
literary press. It seemed to me that the term “award-winning” in front of “first
poetry book” may inspire reviewers to take a closer look, and librarians to
consider buying it for their collections. Those sorts of elements came to mind
when I was writing those contest entrance fee checks. But each book has its own
path, and I’ve admired many books that have taken very different routes.
What was the process like
assembling the book? How many different versions did it go through as you were
sending it out?
The process was
excruciating at the time -- which of course means it’s now my favorite part of
the whole book publication experience. My son was an infant during that period,
and while he napped, I would take the printed poems and shuffle them, sometimes
moving them around the floor like a big jigsaw puzzle. I tried all kinds of
methods. The only thing I knew for sure was how I wanted to manuscript to end
(with the poem, “Living Cloisters”). But the opening poem -- that gave me
head-aches. I also had an instinct to divide the book into four sections,
partially to evoke the cardinal points on a map, but really more because then
each section would have about a dozen poems, which feels to me like a natural
size for a grouping. As far as developing “themes” to each section, the more
logical that got, the worse I felt the manuscript flowed.
What finally worked was
almost ridiculously obvious: I packed many of the strongest poems into the
first section and saw where that left me. Those poems started “talking” to each
other -- and I was able to pull some out to anchor other sections. Then I wrote
a number of new poems.
Something almost chemical
happened along the way, and the order, the sections, started to make sense to
me -- at least, in that “poetry” meaning of sense. I think about poems as
visual, visceral pieces of language -- somehow the sounds of the words create
heights, textures, colors, almost akin to relief maps. I know a poem is
finished when I can picture its particular body of texture/color/object-ness.
The breakthrough for me was when this sense of “order” and physicality finally
attached itself to the book. Now how I picture the order is, in rough terms,
like this: The first section is city and kaleidoscope. The second contains
slippery or treacherous landscapes, graveyards, wastelands. The third has
water, and lots of sky, a sense of expansiveness. And the final section takes
place inside different sanctums -- a diary, a bed, a chapel.
This realization evolved
very gradually, and now seems like it should have been obvious to begin with.
Months of my son’s nap-times transpired. He grew, and the book grew. It finally
came together into this whole.
How involved were you
with the design of the book—interior design, font, cover, etc.?
Not very. BkMk Press
commissioned students from the Kansas City Art Institute to work on the cover
design, for example, and they did a marvelous job. As a font person (and what
poet isn’t?), I was thrilled that the book designers chose for the type-set one
of my favorite fonts for poetry, Garamond. Ben Furnish did ask if there was any
design element that would, essentially, make me cry if I saw it. My one
request: “No cursive, anywhere, please.” That was honored, I’m happy to say.
Did you suggest or have
any input regarding the image that was used on the cover?
I did send along some of
my favorite old map images. Not being a book cover designer, I couldn’t imagine
a book called Mapmaking with anything other than a map on it. The cover image
instead is original artwork by Michael Smith (then a KCAI student): it’s an
abstract, very finely rendered pen-and-ink drawing of an object like an
intricate nest, or perhaps a landscape blurred from a distance. Path-like
tracks cross the cover, and the title text was sketched and colored by hand.
The cover evokes a hand-drawn field map -- it has that intimate sense of place.
I think it looks especially striking in person.
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
this particular issue, because I’d been publishing the poems in journals on a
regular basis. I don’t write a lot of poems in any given year, but those I do I
really work over, hammering them out until they feel done. Then I send them out
to journals, and tend not to take any “no” to feel ultimate. (Meaning, I’ve had
my share of bridesmaid poems that have finally enjoyed their big day in print,
sometimes years later.) My publication pace has been pretty steady.
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?
There wasn’t a lot of
editing work done on the manuscript. At one point, I had a good talk with
Michelle Boisseau (the Associate Editor at BkMk Press) about the book as a
whole, and I remember her saying that the manuscript was polished, that there wasn’t
a lot to do to it. She tweaked the order of some poems in the second section,
for example, and I still feel fortunate for her insight about that. But to me,
it didn’t feel like much editing.
What do you remember
about the day when you saw your published book for the first time?
Two things: I pulled out
a copy after cutting open the box, started stroking the matte cover and the
thick-stock paper, and I just remember thinking, My book is real! As I was
admiring it, my then-toddler son started pulling copies out of the box and
throwing them all around the living room. It was literally poetry in motion.
How has your life been
different since your book came out?
In the fundamental way --
that I no longer have to worry about if/when/how my first book of poems is
coming out. That, I’ll just say, is a relief. A related, and no doubt more
profound difference, is that having the first book out releases you towards all
the other books you now get to write. The road ahead seems more real, somehow.
Not easier, but more tangible.
And of course, there’s
the paparazzi...
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?”
The book’s title really
helps to answer that question. When I’ve been asked this (more times than I
would have ever guessed), Mapmaking gives some helpful context to my very short
answer, which is that it depicts my responses to place through travel, memory,
and emotion. Often I’ll mention my fascination with maps -- the only thing I
collect. Along the way, I’ve met many people who share my interest in maps, and
I love to hear about their favorite maps. True story: I once sold a copy of my
book to a cab-driver after having this sort of conversation.
What have you been doing
to promote Mapmaking, and what have those experiences been like for you?
I’ve done readings and
other events at some wonderful venues in California and New York. I also did a
book-signing at AWP in Washington, D.C., and was asked to read a poem for the
PBS Newshour website. My first reading for Mapmaking was also my first poetry
reading in something like fifteen years -- and it was filmed for Youtube
posterity, as many poetry events are these days. That felt like going from 0 to
60, public performance-wise -- terrifying, but thrilling too. I’ve loved every
reading I’ve been fortunate enough to give. It’s always a great joy in the end.
What advice do you wish
someone had given you before your first book came out?
Since I have no dire
mishap to warn against, I’ll instead give my best advice to any poet looking to
publish their first book: Figure out what is important to you, and you alone,
about having your book published -- the explicit parameters of what you
actually value. Then be true to that vision.
I’ll also add this.
Though I said in the first question that I did not factor in the identity of the contest judges, now
that the book is out, I have learned: The judge is so important! Not the least
because your name and theirs are tied together forever on the cover of your
book. That Sidney Wade was the judge of the contest -- announced after I’d won
it -- has been the source of such lasting gratitude for me. I know other
contest winners who’ve said similar things about their ongoing amazement at
having a poet whom you deeply admire -- and who doesn’t even know you -- select
your manuscript. So, perhaps a word to the wise there.
What influence has the
book’s publication had on your subsequent writing? Are there any new projects
in the works?
I am working on a second
collection of poems, much as I worked on Mapmaking -- at random intervals of
sprint-like bursts broken up by long hiatuses. I tend to write in clusters of
four to six poems, then I take a break from poetry for however many months,
write another cluster, take another hiatus -- years go by this way. My
long-form fiction-writing, on the other hand, is an almost daily affair, and
requires waging this carefully planned campaign of productivity. So my two book
projects are useful in that they could not be more different. I use one to take
a real break from the other.
Do you believe that
poetry can create change in the world?
Yes. Like any art form,
poetry can make sense of the world, do our paraphrase-defying experience of it
some justice -- if only for the length of a page. That, for me, is change on
the order of a miracle.
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Megan Harlan lived in
seventeen homes across four continents by the time she graduated from high
school, and now lives in Berkeley, CA. She is the author of Mapmaking, winner
of the John Ciardi Prize for Poetry (selected by Sidney Wade) and published by
BkMk Press/University of Missouri-Kansas City in 2010. Her poems have been
featured on Poetry Daily, PBS Newshour’s Poetry Series, and Verse Daily, and in
journals that include American Poetry Review, Prairie Schooner, AGNI
Online, and Arts & Letters. Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in
such publications as Alaska Quarterly Review, The New York Times, and Cimarron
Review. For more, visit her website, www.meganharlan.com.
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