If the Ship is Sinking, It’s a Good Idea to Know How to Swim
Published September 18th, 2007 | 
The failure of small press publications is nothing new. Happens every day. Internet literary magazines seem to have an even shorter lifespan. I, myself, am finding it difficult to keep Asterius Press going after more than a decade. In recent months, countless publications have called it quits for one reason or another, although the main reason always boils down to money. These publications don’t make money but they do cost money to produce. Sooner or later the well just runs dry.
It’s hard to know where exactly to put the blame. Oftentimes it is the fault of the publishers. Rarely though, do publishers accept responsibility for their failure though. For instance, when an ezine calling itself The Deepening closed down, the publisher laid the blame on her subscribers and the fact that people don’t care about reading short fiction anymore. It has not been my experience that people don’t care about reading quality short fiction anymore. There is definitely a readership for good short stories. The problem is that people won’t necessarily pay to read an online publication. Paid subscriptions for an Internet publication — especially when that subscription base is made-up primarily of the writers themselves — ain’t gonna happen folks. When an on-demand print journal called The Literary Bone recently collapsed after the publication of it’s first issue, the editor blamed an unnamed writer for the demise, referring to this person only as “the monster.” I have no clue what this one person could have done to cause this publication to shut down, but I doubt the blame lies solely with this unnamed person. When a publication folds shortly after the first issue, it’s usually a sign that the publisher was in way over his head to begin with.
In my case (although, Asterius Press is not dead yet) the problem is that I am a one-man operation. From day one I have done everything myself — including paying for everything out of pocket. As long as I was physically able and had the money to do it, Asterius Press could exist. Now, after a solid couple of years of bad fortune, including unemployment, financial ruin and life-threatening illness, I am at the point where keeping the press going may be out of my hands.
And it’s sad, because at the risk of seeming immodest, Asterius Press has been a positive influence on both the small press and burgeoning Internet literary scene. I’d hate to give it up. Although I can’t take the blame for my personal misfortune — that’s just something that happened and couldn’t be helped — I do accept responsibility for the things I did wrong as far as the Press goes. There were certain jobs I could have done better I’m sure. One thing I cannot fault is the writers who I’ve published. Their work made my publications worth reading and one can never regret a good reading experience.
So okay . . . the ship is sinking. The ship might run aground and survive a little longer. Patch’er up make her sea-worthy again. And maybe it’s time to swim for shore. If so, it’s not so terrible. Not the end of the world. I’m a pretty good swimmer.
So What You Are a Poet? No One Cares, Pt. 4
Published September 13th, 2007 | You are at the mic, finishing your set. Already, it’s begun — those eager beavers hovering at the edge of the stage with their notebooks full of verse. You end your set, say something pithy to the crowd and head to the counter to order a cup of green tea to sooth your weary throat. You are stopped by one of the eager beavers — an androgynous fellow/female? carrying about 20 notebooks.
“Yes?” you say, “May I help you?”
“Your poems were . . . ah . . . interesting?” (S)he says, not even trying to hide the sarcasm.
“You didn’t care for them?”
“Well . . . did you have to curse so much?”
“I didn’t realize I had. A few times maybe. What’s your point?”
“Your stuff is kind of . . .”
“Raw? I suppose some of it is. Again, what’s your point?”
“You’re like the Andrew Dice Clay of poetry.”
“If you say so.”
“I don’t like Andrew Dice Clay. He’s crude.”
At this point, you are getting nervous, wonder if this person has just escaped from a mental ward somewhere and is possibly armed.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know much about that. I’m more into George Carlin, myself.”
“Have you been published?”
“Here and there.”
“Really?” Again, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm.
“Have you been published?”
(S)he gets this big grin on his/her face and hugs the 20 notebooks tightly to his/her chest.
“Oh yes. I was published in several anthologies from the prestigious International Poets Society.”
“You don’t say? How nice for you.”
“Sometimes the Muse blesses me with inspiration.”
“Is that like having a gas attack?”
“Oh, you’re witty.”
“Yeah, so people tell me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get something to drink. Good luck with your muse.”
You trail off and have a seat by the door with your tea. Your “fan” hovers around the edges of you the rest of the evening, trying to get you to notice. Trying to get up the nerve to ask you to read the poems in those 20 sacred notebooks.
But you don’t have to read them to know that those “poems” are trite, lifeless — uninspired nothings. You don’t have to read what’s in those notebooks to know that your “fan” has the word “Poet” in bold print on his/her personal stationary and the he/she believes his/her poetry will bring about world peace, cure diseases, etc.
And what can you say to such a person? Tell them what you really think and they will become hostile, accuse you of jealousy, of wanting to steal their poems, etc. Tell them what they want to hear, and they are suddenly your new best friend and you can’t get rid of them.
You do the smart thing — you drink your tea quickly and get the fuck outta Dodge while the gettin’ is good.
In the Land of the Blind, the One-Eyed Man is King
Published September 6th, 2007 | I have this nasty habit of lurking in discussion forums. I rarely participate in discussions anymore, but I do enjoy lurking. I consider it a form of anthropology — observing idiots in the natural habitat so to speak. Because, let’s face it: discussion forums are a magnet for idiots. The other day, I was lurking on this publishing site. I encountered an old nemesis of mine (someone who has long claimed to be a writer and editor but who has never demonstrated a talent for either vocation) engaged in a discussion with this young wannabe writer. It was clear that neither of these individuals knew diddly dick about the business of writing or publishing, yet were spouting misinformation like a couple of experts. Their collective ignorance about copyright law and distribution astounded me considering that they had both self-published at least one on-demand title. And their mutual belief that their collective shit didn’t stink just made my skin crawl. It got me thinking about the state of publishing.
The big media conglomerates are not interested in art but in mass-produced profit-generating product with cross-over potential. Talent has nothing to do with any of it. It’s a business model that works — for their shareholders if not for the public at large. Then, of course, we have the small press which, in theory, is mostly interested in art and cultivating talent. New technologies such as the advent of the Internet and On-Demand publishing have allowed the small press greater access to an audience than ever before. In general, I applaud this. Unfortunately, it’s also allowed a lot of no-talent dumbasses to drink from the same watering hole –hence the two wankers on the aforementioned discussion forum chatting about the publishing biz as if they had one damn clue. The Internet is ablaze with so-called experts –individuals who think because they managed to throw-up a hastily put together ezine on freewebs or know how to use Microsoft Word, they are publishers when in truth the real thing is so much more involved than that.
I don’t suppose this is a trend that will stop anytime soon, so the only thing I can say is, “Caveat Emptor.” Let the buyer beware. If you are a young writer just starting out be careful because there are no short cuts to fame and glory. Just because someone tells you he’s a publisher or agent or big time writer doesn’t mean he is or that he knows any more than you do. Check out his bone fides. Ask around. He may be what he says he is and he may be a fraud — just some clown running a medicine show on your punk ass.
