“You have to decide what kind of writer you want to be,” my friend Kate Gale told me at a recent conference. “You have to decide what career path you want to follow.” If anyone would know about these kinds of things, it would be Kate, who has created for herself a pretty amazing writing and publishing career.
But it’s challenging for me to think in those terms, in making clear-cut decisions towards a particular type of career. I know of writers who do, of poets who decided they wanted to become respected, so set about publishing only their very best poetry, then moved on to an important translation, then published some important works of theory or criticism. They become, shall we say, academic poets, poets who want to be remembered in academia for their intelligence, for their long and storied careers. Sometimes they speak in stentorian voices. They command attention. Non-poets may or may not know their work, but that’s really beside the point. The point is that other poets adore them.
On the other extreme, there are writers who go the pop culture route, who value big book contracts over carefully constructed plot development, who make their livings churning out murder mysteries or romance novels year after year. They are the writers with fancy houses and cars, the writers whose books have words like “diamonds” in their titles. They’re not usually poets, of course, but they seem to make nice lives for themselves even if respected writers turn down their noses at their work.
Of course, there are many grades in between. There are writers with B-list careers, for example, the Matthew Perry’s of the publishing world who write books that many people like, but who don’t win big awards or command huge audiences. Modest careers, one might say. But still, they spend their lives doing the work they love. There are writers with pop culture success who are also incredibly respected in academia. There are writers other writers love to read, but almost no one outside of the writing world would recognize their name. There are writers who self-publish, writers who never publish. Even, once in a great while, a recluse writer locked away in her attic changing posterity.
I like to think of myself as a poet of the people, as someone engaged with the stuff of everyday life—with atrocity, with war, with the harm one human will do to another. With nature, with fairy tales, with the human body. I love giving poetry readings, engaging with other poets and with an audience. I love meeting with other writers to share their words.
But when I’m being honest with myself, I realize that most readers wouldn’t consider my work “of the people.” I write mostly lyrical poetry, I reference the Oxford English Dictionary, I say thing like, “Readers should have to work hard to understand a poem” and “If you don’t know a word, look it up.” It’s true that I’d prefer respected writers enjoy my work, but it’s also true that I’d like my poetry to be something non-poets would like to read. I’d love, one day, to be riding a bus in Boston and see some random woman opening my poetry collection, some non-poet on her way to a 9-5 job diving into my words.
I don’t expect to be a pop culture poet (I don’t even own a TV) and I don’t expect to begin speaking in a stentorian voice. But I’d like some in between without, necessarily, having Matthew Perry’s career. I guess I’m saying I want more categories, more ways to be and write and work in the world. I want to keep writing and publishing in as far-ranging journals as will have me. I want to keep performing my work aloud. To meet with small groups of people and share their stories. Share my own. I’d like a career that lasts my lifetime, that continues to challenge me, continues to grow an audience. I’d like to continue working hard, every day.
Andrea Scarpino is a poet and essayist and a frequent contributor to POTB. You can visit her at:www.andreascarpino.com
Planet of the Blind 