Alan Morrison
Every writer can speak volumes about the desire to get into print and the ins-and-outs of the journey to getting published. But, once published, there's often not much said about getting the work noticed and consumed. There is even, it seems to me, a certain disdain in discussing such things -- they smack too much of the commercial for a poet, or something similar.
What has been your experience with getting your work noticed, reviewed and purchased?
My earliest publications were pamphlets from fairly small presses, and as seems to be the trend these days in the ever-contracting poetry ‘market' – though, ironically, one ever-expanding in terms of submissions – the poet often automatically shoulders some, if not most, of the ‘marketing' process of their publication. I had this for the first few pamphlets: I was sent a certain amount of copies and then posted a number out to journals for reviews and notices myself. Not because the publisher was being negligent, but simply because they were so limited financially and in every way really that they needed and often encouraged the poets they published to actively seek to promote their own work. The small press publisher will go as far as they can do practically: they will publish your work, catalogue it on their website or in brochures, but a lot of the time, due to limited resources, they may not be able to do much in the way of distribution. So often the small press poet/publisher relationship is something of a mutual ‘co-operative'. Of course, for every review copy posted out, there's not only the expense of postage, but also the sacrifice of potential incoming monies for the publisher per copy. That's the gamble – so then it can be particularly frustrating when, as sometimes is the case, no reviews are forthcoming. But then poetry today is nothing but a gamble really; it's a labour of love probably more so than it has ever been. If you want to make money from writing, then you write commercial prose, or film scripts, via an agent – if you want to to produce what you hope is actual literature – of a potential posterity and lasting value – then you write poetry, and poets aren't of any ‘market value' to agents; so more than likely you will live a rather anomic double life scraping an existence in demoralising jobs or on the dole while pursuing your ‘calling' in what little spare time you have. This depends on circumstances of course.
But some poets do make money. Some are even household names.
Of course there are some contemporary poets who do manage to make some sort of living out of their poetry. Apparently Andrew Motion manages to scrape by with some annual Royal stipend for marking state occasions with his verse. Then there's Seamus Heaney, who is seemingly a whole industry in himself. There are also an increasing number of practitioners who survive quite comfortably by teaching Creative Writing. I have to say I'm not entirely sure how a creative discipline can be taught. I assume the idea of these courses is to nurture and hone a raw ability. But whatever happened to self-instruction and learning through reading and practise? That's how many poets got to grips with their art form. Or is the point in these courses to impose a certain set of stylistic conventions and parameters on the amateur? I don't know, because I've never been on one, and never would go on one in principle. I think it's very dodgy to mix up creativity with academia: for me, they are almost complete opposites.
Ouch [that's me, Smith, wincing and nursing a proverbial stomped toe]: I'm a product of an MFA writing program myself, so I must, for the sake of self-preservation if nothing else, disagree that writing cannot be taught. What is it about academia and creative writing that make them seem such polar opposites in your opinion?
I believe that creativity cannot be taught. I think that perhaps you would agree on this yourself: I know that one cannot get onto a writing course without showing some evidence of an intrinsic creative ability, and I am sure you showed this to those who took you on your course. Skills and techniques can possibly be taught, yes. What I have against some of these courses is that their purpose seems to be to give a head start to their students re publishing and especially prize entries and other tips.
Poetry is not about academic clearing, it's about – or should be about – exposing original voices. I believe poetry, as with all creativity, should be about challenging the establishment and offering an intellectual, emotional and spiritual alternative to it. It's certainly a greatly puzzling thing that some University prospectuses now apparently offer a route into creative self-expression. I'm not convinced, and, judging by the seeming correctness and uniformity of much poetry churned out through these courses, I'll trust my instincts.
Now you say you are averse to full academic courses, but you've spoken above of your experience of a writing workshop of some kind? what was that like?
As a naïve amateur a few years ago, I was struck dumb by a ‘received poetic opinion' when first attending a workshop. Most disturbing of all is the blatant stylistic policing that goes on. I was battered with a whole set of new rules as to style, subject matter and tone, and suddenly found that the realm of poetry was – far from being a source of expressive liberation I had previously thought it – barbed by rules and conditions. This was immensely disillusioning. But then I came to learn that this was only one version of the ‘poetry world', one take on it all, and that a developing poet truly determined to find his/her particular voice, must try and bypass this whole corralling going on and follow their own path, no matter how difficult.
And how did you find your path?
I started to find my path around the fringes of it all. Through Simon Jenner and his Waterloo Press (and journal Eratica), which very catholically championed modernism and more ‘naif' poetry – both of which seemed to be increasingly ignored by the mainstream poetry establishment – I first became aware of the ‘alternative view' of the ‘scene'. Simon was a brilliant mentor to me for many years, helping infuse my poetry with more metaphorical concentration in order to leaven its intrinsic lyricism, and I learnt much from him (and am still learning). It was also Simon who first introduced me to a whole lineage of half-forgotten poets, such as John Davidson, Harold Monro, Bernard Spencer, Alun Lewis, Clifford Dyment, Sidney Keyes, Keith Douglas and so on. Through Simon I also got to know one Barry Tebb, who quite swiftly published some of my least commercial works under his radical Sixties Press imprint. Barry is a stalwart of the Old Guard, the Sixties Generation, a true radical and polemicist, whose vitriol against the New-Gen et al. has now become legendary. Thank God there are still some true radicals left in poetry. It's all hares and tortoises in this game – but the hares should beware of the tortoises.