Writing and Reading

There are few things in the literary world that give me comfort, readers. And some of those things you’d think shouldn’t either. But they do. Maybe I’m just weird. Maybe I need a sedative. Maybe I am a sedative! That’s the eccentricities of a writer for ya!

Anyway, my ranting this early morning is simple: our wonderful Denver Sparkling Diamond Kristin Nelson and San Diego Superman Nathan Bransford both caught on to some rather shaking news within the publishing industry that definitely says the book biz will freeze for awhile: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt layoffs, Simon & Schuster layoffs, Thomas Nelson layoffs. Nathan also mentioned Random House’s corporate restructuring, possibly resulting in the resignation of veterans Irwyn Applebaum and Steve Rubin. Dear God.

It’s like the world is going to hell.

A dear friend of mine, too, agented by the hardworking Elizabeth Jote, even updated me on the submissions of her manuscript; she used the word ‘hold’. I can’t say I blame the word. The publishing industry is virtually on ‘hold’. It’s discouraging. In the meantime, my fellow writer friend is working on new projects while the time passes before the industry picks back up again.

And there is the point to my post, people. It’s an odd sort of comfort, isn’t it?

Let me update you quickly on my endeavors of representation: THE CAIN LETTERS currently sits on two interested agents. Two agents I have yet to hear from. And rightly so, I think. Things are shaky now. Agents are reluctant to submit. Publishers are being careful with their investments. But again, I say, that’s an odd sort of comfort, isn’t it?

My thing is I’m not being rejected. At all. In fact, not one agent has responded to a query in about a month’s time, I think. To me, that’s kind of remarkable. It gives me the feeling that agents are taking one look at my query and holding onto it. Waiting. It’s encouraging. The two agents that have my material, having not contacted me yet, I get the feeling that they’re waiting too. They’re waiting for the business to pick back up. They’re holding onto it. That’s encouraging.

It reminds me that my writing might be worth something, that I might have a chance. That I have a story to tell. That I may have readers that are dying to listen. It really is an odd sort of comfort. It sort of gives me a freedom, knowing that at least my manuscript is with agents right now that are interested. I don’t have to wait for them to respond because the industry has slowed down to a crawl. Sad, really. But for me–it gives me the time to explore.

Like my dear fellow writer, working on new projects–that’s what I’m trying to do, other than writing my blog. VERMILION EYE is gradually moving. Gradually. It can only move so fast, what, with my hectic work schedule. But it’s moving.

It gives me comfort that I can have confidence in my writing–when an agent sits this long on a piece of work and seeing how slow the publishing industry is moving, I can’t help but feel comfort–an odd sort of comfort.

I’ve come again to whisper to you my words. Unfortunately, they’re words of woe. Aren’t they always when it comes to poetry, though? There’s struggle in these kinds of words. Almost an emptiness. Hardship. Even fear. I present to you this piece I wrote a couple of years back. I wrote it due to the hardships I had involving the job market, discrimination. Times were tough. And I felt like no one would give me an inch. This poem represents that. It’s personal to me. I hope it becomes the same to you. You make this personal to you–you then become personal to me. You then become a brother or sister who shares in my heart and soul. So thank you.

Doors

Shut—tight—unbreakable—
I bang on the stone—
Wanting to get through.

I can’t—I can’t—
The damned door won’t open—
Even when I scream at it
While driving my damaged fist
Into its hard hide.

There are others too—
Around me—some distant, some hidden—
Some are even illusions.

And I try to reach
Every single one—bleeding lungs
Dying for more air as I race
To them before they close me in—
Trapping me.

My hands have tasted the callous carnage
Of a silence that won’t break—
A door that won’t open—
Every single one—

Not one door stays open—
None. Nothing.
They all close on me.
And I have nowhere to go.

Vmoblogger Entry

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Part of the fire of this poem literally comes from the sound of it. So listen to me perform it, especially. Like I said, it’s a personal piece to me. Every time I think about it, I get a little emotional. There’s a deep humanity to it. I hope it resonated with you as it did with me when I wrote it–and continually forever after that.