Curtis was responsible for my first live poetry show in September of 2012, and had been a touchstone ever since. He’d since provided me with a veritable plethora of publication and publicity opportunities, as well as shows and invaluable connections. I imagined him as some secretive poet hitman, trailing publishers down dark alleys and threatening their kneecaps if they didn’t consider his protegees’ work. His proclivity for trench coat and bowler hat only encouraged this mental image.
When I received the message from Curtis, I’d been experiencing minimal success in the poetry world. I’d had a few public readings, recently self-released a chapbook (“Dances with Bears ...And Other Ways to Lose a Limb”), and been accepted into several online literary magazines. I felt fresh, and bold, and capable. Weirdly optimistic in an unflappable way. So I submitted five pieces attached to a stiffly courteous cover letter, and hoped for the best.
I’d like to paint you a better picture, but the truth is I don’t remember the exact afternoon I submitted to Gobshite Quarterly. I do know I was working full-time and dating somebody I loved less than my ghosts. Poetry factored into my life as compulsory exorcism, something done routinely to purge the system; something to keep the heavies from mucking up the mechanism. I had no idea this submission would kickstart a momentous series of events.
Friday afternoon I board a plane to Los Angeles for the L.A. Times Festival of Books, where I’ll debut my new collection “The Art of Waking Up", a Reprobate/GobQ publication.Approximately one year after that afternoon submission Rv Branham, the publisher of Gobshite Quarterly, approached me after a show saying “Send me everything you’ve got.”
Saying “We’re gonna make a book.”
So I did. And he did.
The book itself is velvety smooth, like a newborn kitten. The collection encompasses three full years of my life. There are 63 poems; four lovers, three ghosts, one mental breakdown. These poems are my mother, my father, my sister, my brother. They’re my grandmother’s death. They’re the death of all the
“Me”s that came before this person who will board a plane to Los Angeles Friday afternoon.
Three nights ago I dreamed that I was very suddenly extremely pregnant. And terrified. I didn’t know anything about the baby I was carrying, I didn’t know anything about giving birth. I was certain my lifestyle choices had harmed the baby, caused some horrible defect. I was daunted by the concept of something relying on me. But I could feel the life inside me, and knew I had to bear it regardless of the circumstances.
This book is that baby, and this Me is that baby, and sometimes this life is something we’re forced to give birth to whether we’re ready or not. That doesn’t make it any less scary. That doesn’t make me feel any more prepared. I guess what I wanted to say is, this really does feel like an awakening; an art I'm still learning. Please bear with me, I think we'll have something beautiful to show for our efforts in the end.
I love you all.
-b
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