The How and Why of Poetry Publishing

(Based on a talk given at the Scottish Poetry Library in 2005)

When Helena Nelson started the HappenStance imprint in 2005, a whole set of realities about poetry publishing suddenly dropped into place….

The How and Why of Poetry Publishing? What a title! You would think I was some kind of expert, wouldn’t you? In fact, the reverse is true. I’m new to this publishing business. Brand new. How many publications have I to my name? Six? And only pamphlets, at that. Oh and two issues of a magazine with perilously few subscribers. Sheer madness.

But I do know this: within about a month of thinking through the whole business of publishing (not even a little book—just one pamphlet) a whole set of things suddenly impressed themselves on my brain. Things that had somehow never occurred to me before. Why not?

Because, with two collections to my name, I was too busy being The Poet. I was used to being the Poet moaning about Publishers, complaining about the all-too-familiar Crisis in Poetry Publishing. I was seeing it all from that side. And to some extent I still do. I identify with the people who are now sending me their brown envelopes. I identify with them horribly closely. But now I see what they don’t see.

And that’s the point: some things have now ‘clicked’ with me, things that I somehow never realised before starting to publish other people’s work, things that are actually completely obvious—but had somehow always escaped me.

For example, there’s this business of a ‘track record’. It’s a familiar idea that publishers like you to have published poems in reputable magazines because that proves you may have a readership. i.e. that suggests somebody (presumably a magazine reader) might buy your book. I was always deeply suspicious about this personally. I know how I read magazines:

• I read too many too fast.
• I flick through looking for names I already know.
• I miss (probably) most of what’s in there, simply through lack of time, or because poems in magazines have a habit of disappearing into the mush of otherpoemsonthepage.
• I frequently wonder what on earth made the editor select certain poems.
• I’m unlikely to remember any of the names of the poets, or titles of the poems within 24 hours of reading the magazine.

So why do publishers ask for a ‘track record’—because now I’m asking this myself for HappenStance submissions. And it suddenly occurs to me that there are several reasons why this might be important.

Here are the REAL reasons:

1. It is a way of excluding some submissions. Bad poems will not have been accepted in any except the most desperate publications—probably vanity press or local newspaper keen for copy. So rather than saying to someone, ‘Your poems are too awful for me to consider’, I can say ‘Try to get your poems published in reputable magazines…. Build up a readership.’

2. The publisher wants to be reassured that somebody (and who better than another decent editor) has believed a few of these poems were worthy of putting on a page. The publisher is more interested in the magazine editor’s opinion than anything else.

3. Publishers worry about selling the publications. Of course they do. But there is something else they may worry about even more—if they possess any degree of self-doubt—and it is their own judgement:

• What if, in a misguided fit of enthusiasm, they publish a truly dreadful writer?
• What if their discerning friends read the book and are appalled?
• What if readers (and other publishers) think ‘What kind of nitwit would publish this poet?’

The publisher wants to believe that she is not the only person in the world who thinks these poems are good. This is the real reason for asking about track records. However, there is perhaps one other justification for ‘track record’, which should especially be borne in mind given the fact that most poetry editors either write, or have written poetry themselves.

When I was in my early twenties I worked for a confectioner. This was in England, but the owner was French-Swiss by birth and training, and he applied the sort of stringent standards that you might expect. I spent many hours scraping the floors, cleaning the cake tins, weighing things for other more skilled staff, and watching. While twirling croissants into existence with careless ease, the boss remarked that he had spent a whole day during his apprenticeship shelling hazel-nuts. I maintained grim silence, realising that he was expecting me to do the equivalent. All this floor-scraping etc was simply hazel-nuts in disguise. But just because he had spent a day shelling hazel-nuts surely didn’t mean that I had to do the same? But yes, it did, and it did me no harm. Through frustration, I learned patience.

In poetry, there are hazel-nut stages too. One of them entails learning to present poems for magazine editors. It is time-consuming, daunting (because of the many rejections), costly (stamps and paper)—and necessary. However, once acceptances begin to happen, it means at least that the poet is presenting her or his work efficiently, without which other forms of publication are unlikely to occur.

And presentation is an issue. It should not make a difference whether your poems are written in handwriting on gossamer tissue, or in bold italics font size 16, or whether the paper is crumpled, or whether you forgot to include your name and address on every sheet—but it does. It does matter. A poet should care about words very much indeed. Caring about words means presenting them beautifully.

But there’s another issue too, quite closely connected with the need for vindication by other ‘experts’. This is the publisher’s reputation. Poets need to think about their reputation too—where they are published and by whom can make a huge difference in the long-term. In the publishers’ case, the poets they choose can enhance or fundamentally damage their standing. Or possibly make no difference at all.

There are poets who will submit to any publisher. They think they are all much the same. They are wrong. It’s like Oxford and Cambridge versus The University of Fife. The names of Faber, Picador and Cape are more prestigious than HappenStance. Fact.

Why is reputation crucial for a publisher? Because

• the best poets submit their work to publishers they see as good
• discerning readers are more likely to buy publications from a publisher with a decent reputation
• good standing means that the publisher can easily organise readings, do visits (and therefore sell more publications)
• poets published by a publisher with a good reputation will be proud to be part of that ‘stable’—they themselves will then become future ambassadors (as well as friends)
• if a publisher publishes three good poets, and two bad ones, the reputations of the three good ones are not enhanced by joining that particular family. So even if it is only marginal, each publishing choice affects the other people who have been published or will be published by that publisher.
• a well-regarded publisher is more likely to get publications reviewed in magazines with large or influential readerships
• reputation is significant in relation to Arts Council funding, if that is sought

The truth is that very large numbers of poets are desperate to be published by anybody. This is a bad state of affairs. Poets need to avoid the whole idea that it is good to be published by anybody. There are publishers by whom it is best never to be published. Self-publication is, I believe, a perfectly worthy option. It has its drawbacks, of course, but it has advantages too. I happen to think that publication by a good publisher/ editor is far preferable—but that is by the by.

So who does get published? How is the choice made? Well obviously, it helps if the publisher reads the first poem in the envelope and thinks ‘amazing’. And then thinks the same about the next. And the next. That, however, is unlikely ever to happen. Consider any poet you regard highly. In your imagination, pick up her complete works. Flick through the pages. Do you think ‘amazing at each poem your eye falls upon? If you do, you’ve got a bad case of heroine worship.

Good poets write bad poems and seriously flawed poems. They do it all the time. The main difference between good poets and bad poets is that good poets sometimes write good poems. Or that good poets can sometimes tell the difference between their good poems and their weak poems. But even that is not necessarily true.

So, let’s assume that the revelation doesn’t happen, that the publisher doesn’t open an envelope and fall on the floor stunned by the brilliance therein. How does the publisher choose which poet to commit to? How is the decision made?

Imagine you are the publisher. It is the quiet time between Christmas and Hogmanay, and you plan to sort through the submissions box carefully. Already, you have good idea what will be published in the forthcoming year: cash is tight. Perhaps one more might be squeezed in. Which one?

Here are some factors which influence the decision, not singly but collectively. Many of them are not at all mysterious:

1. You suggested in your covering letter that you were the best thing since sliced Carol-Ann-Duffy. So the publisher, as she reads, is thinking ‘Oh yeah?’
2. The publisher thinks you’re good in parts. She thinks she could work with you—and something very interesting might come out of the project—but she hasn’t got time to do that. Oh, and you live three hundred miles away. On an island.
3. The publisher knows 4 of your enemies and all of them are her friends.
4. The publisher hates the font you’re using.
5. You included 3 villanelles. The publisher loathes villanelles.
6. You write long thin poems. The publisher isn’t keen on long thin poems because so few of them fit on one page.
7. You under-stamped your submission, so the publisher had to pay £1.20 to pick it up from the sorting office.
8. The publisher has asked you to send her some poems because she has already seen work of yours that she likes.
9. The publisher doesn’t understand your poems but suspects they may mean something.
10. The publisher feels a sympathy with your content, but not your style.
11. The publisher feels a sympathy with your style, but not your content.
12. You’re a woman. The publisher is really hoping for a man this time.
13. You’re a man. The publisher is really hoping for a woman this time.
14. You have just won a significant poetry competition.
15. You write pretty good mainstream poems. Nothing wildly unusual but...
16. The publisher knows you mix in poetry circles.
17. The publisher knows you read aloud well.
18. You have had poems in the publisher’s favourite magazine. She remembers your name.
19. You’re a successful performance poet. But the poems don’t work well on the page.
20. You have already published successfully and have a sound reputation. However, the publisher thinks the work you have sent her is awful.
21. You’re a regular purchaser of the publisher’s publications—and the editor knows this.
22. You’re a poetry magazine editor, with a substantial subscription list.
23. You’re a reviewer. You sharply criticised a recent publication by this publisher OR see below
24. …you have reviewed two recent publications by this publisher with enormous appreciation.
25. Instead of sending a modest number of poems for consideration, you sent 413. And the following week, you sent 30 more.
26. You have recently divorced a very famous (living) poet.
27. At the foot of each poem, you wrote © Millie Mainwaring, 2006

The person who complies with the right set of criteria stands an excellent chance—provided the publisher has got enough money and time to go ahead. Which leads, of course, to the biggest and most unpredictable factor of all. The Luck Factor.

However, that person could still be beaten at the winning post by an off-the-wall, eminently dislikeable maverick who has, without complying with any of the desirability factors, somehow impressed the publisher with what looks like rare brilliance on the page.

Harold Monro, who published many worthy volumes from The Poetry Bookshop in London, turned down T.S. Eliot. Nobody wants to be Harold Monro. Everybody (every publisher, that is) wants to be the first person to cheer the new T.S. Eliot on her way.

In the very short time I have been a publisher, I have realised that some people approaching me now think I wield mysterious power—power I didn’t have before. I can make their poetry publication happen. It’s rather a heady sensation, knowing that someone feels this about you. The trouble is—the whole thing is illusory.

I have very little power, and what I have I must use carefully or lose altogether. I can only make new publications happen, if readers buy the last lot—and approve them. Readers have the power. Readers can make a publication a success. They can make a publisher’s reputation. They are the pivotal centre of the whole operation.

Poets sending in submissions are also readers. Their power to buy is very significant. If they don’t buy from that publisher—and from other poetry publishers—how on earth do they think somebody else will buy their publication? Those of us who care about poetry, all need to buy some. Not a lot. A little bit, but regularly. Then more poetry will be published. Some of it might be yours.

There is no crisis in poetry publishing. That crisis is a myth. The crisis is in poetry reading. And the solution is simple. For every poem you write, read 50 and buy one book, or chapbook, new or second-hand.

Poets need lots of readers and one publisher. Publishers need a handful of poets and thousands of readers. Readers….

Stop reading this now. What are you waiting for? Go and buy some poems. Read them instead!

Helena Nelson