I recently read an interesting essay by poet Janice Lee about publishing and ambition. It is entitled “Books Are Not Products, They Are Bridges” (the first clause of which, strictly speaking, is a patently inaccurate statement; but more on that below). She describes how the experience of placing her experimental novel manuscript forced her “to examine my own beliefs and wounds around linear ideas of success . . . .” On the one hand, she is editor of a small press; she believes in “radical alternatives to the conglomerate machine of mainstream publishing”; she sees the need for DIY publishing in the avant-garde. On the other hand, she writes, “as the daughter of Korean immigrants, I have had ingrained in me a particular work ethic” — one that leads to universally-recognized standards of success. She tries to find an agent; she tries to find a publisher; but nothing doing. They send her complimentary rejections, all of which boil down to: this won’t sell.
As she notes, it is hard to shake the need for external validation, particularly if you’re a member of groups who have been devalued. She felt a deep “hole” – an internal need for validation – in herself. But, she says, “[t]he ‘success’ I had encountered so far in my literary career [5 published books!] had been possible because, like a good girl, I had followed the rules.” But writing experimental fiction is about breaking rules. And writing about trauma involves “talking back.” Ultimately, her book was accepted by The Operating System, which (IMO) is a premier publisher of genre-queer work. Indeed, some would give their eye-teeth to be published there. But for Lee, it was a letdown. She was hoping for, you know, a Coffee House Press maybe?* Nonetheless, through a lot of “self-work,” she managed to overcome her need for external validation – indeed, to recognize it as a traumatic response. And to recognize that she was “already whole.” But the spiritual/psychological work also entailed a social-economic critique. She quotes Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing as saying “capitalism entangles us with ideas of progress and with the spread of techniques of alienation that turn both humans and other beings into resources.” Books are products, in the sense that they are the product of human hands. And they (usually) are for sale. The real question is whether they have to be commodities, in the Marxist sense of the word — an object you make that comes back around as something you have to buy, something that seems like it appeared out of nowhere. Lee saw that she “didn’t have to replicate the system . . . I had the power of disrupting the publishing model, of really placing my radical beliefs and politics in tandem with my actual publishing practice.” Instead, Lee proposes a utopian future for books: How would things be different if we thought of books, not as products or commodities, but as bridges? If instead of agonizing about the limits of the self begins and ends, we moved toward an internal language for shared humanity and interconnectedness? If instead of possession and ownership and separation, we moved towards intimacy, forgiveness, and emancipation? That’s a tall order – but one we would do well to keep in mind, as we go through our publishing (or non-publishing) lives. Lee is an Assistant Professor at Portland State. One would hope that, with 5 books published & one forthcoming on high-quality independent presses, they’ll grant her tenure (if they still do that sort of thing). But the fact that someone has 6 books before going up for tenure speaks volumes about the creative-writing industry in conditions of “late” capitalism. And there’s the rub: no matter how free one becomes internally, when it comes to externals (paychecks, benefits, academic freedom), one has to be a good girl (or boy or other) if one wants the goodies -- publish or perish, and all that. One has to sell -- to somebody. So, Lee is to be commended for her guts in taking aesthetic risks — w/o tenure (yet). Now, one can push back against the commodification of the academy. However, it never ceases to amaze me how tenured professors are some of the least likely people to do so. We’re talking about people with more job security than anyone else in the world, granted to them precisely so they can exercise academic freedom, so they can experiment with new ideas, even if they don’t sell. They don't, I think, because in order to get tenure, one has to learn to accommodate oneself to the machine. Ah, the machine: this is where it comes back around to the climate crisis . . . [To be continued . . .] ________________ * All of which goes to show that, no matter how much of an outsider you are in the literary world, there are always people who are further-outsiders.
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June 2021
Kristin Prevallet Author/Editor
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this. |