A Million Young Poets

Last week, I traveled to New York for “Double Exposure” and “Thunder Beach” signings and meetings as part of Book Expo America, the publishing industry’s largest trade show, where hundreds of publishing organizations meet to promote their upcoming summer and fall titles, and every branch of the industry converges to discuss and plan for the future.

Over 22,000 attendees crowded into the Javits Center, where, in spite of the current economy and the state of reading in America, there was genuine excitement and optimism. Books were signed. Deals were struck. Contacts were made.

It was a quick, but extremely successful trip for me. Had great meetings with my agent and editors and publishers. Had two signings for “Thunder Beach” and ran out of books at each.

This was only my second trip to New York, but I love the city—particularly walking down the streets in the middle of the night where there are so many other night owls like me bringing energy and excitement to the city that never sleeps.

Being one person in a city of over eight million is not unlike being one author at an industry event of over twenty thousand, but I felt completely at home in both places—comfortable, relaxed, open to the experiences offered.

People come to New York for many reasons. It’s a special place, and in some ways seems the center of the world. As Jay-Z says, it’s a “Concrete jungle where dreams are made of. There’s nothing you can’t do. These streets will make you feel brand new. The lights will inspire you. One hand in the air for the big city. Street lights, big dreams all looking pretty. No place in the World that can compare.” But as I reflect on my BEA experiences, it’s a song by John Mellencamp and not Jay-Z that seems most fitting.

People come to BEA for many reasons. Publishers to promote their lists and authors, authors to promote their books, agents to cut deals, readers to get books and the autograph of a favorite author, and scores of aspiring writers come looking for a publisher.

At my publisher’s booth, like all the others, part of the constant parade of people passing by included self-published authors, clutching their books, hoping to get a publisher to take a look. It’s not the way to go about getting a publisher. It’s an impatient person’s way of attempting a shortcut that nearly never works, but I understand the drive.

People want to be published for many reasons. Some have visions of grandeur, of fame and fortune—all of which are absurd. There are far better and easier ways to become rich and famous or infamous. The most recognized authors aren’t a fraction as famous as a B-list movie star or national politicians. And as far as money, it’s laughable. The only sure way to make money as a writer is to write ransom notes.

Some people want to be published because of ego, because of needs inside them that having their name on a dust jacket can’t even begin to meet. For others, it’s perceived as a way of cheating death, of leaving something behind when the curtain falls on this short life. Maybe a portion of all these things is in every writer, but for some of us, it all comes down to our way of being in the world. I (like so many writers I know) write because I have to. It’s how I process, how I express.

It’s how I give, what I have to offer.

What I want more than anything is to be a great writer. It’s why I write and write and write and write and write, why I read and read and read and read, why I study and seek and listen and discuss and long and yearn and crave. And secondly, I want to be read.

That’s it.

I want to write good and great books—getting better and better all the time—and I want to be read widely and deeply.

I don’t want to shortcut the process or cheat the system. I want to work hard, to sacrifice and invest and grow and become. I want to bleed on the page. And all I’m asking in return is for lots of readers. I, like so many writers, just want to be read, just want to be heard.

Which is why these words from John Mellencamp’s song, “Check it Out” have been echoing around in the chamber inside me.

A million young poets
Screamin’ out their words
To a world full of people
Just livin’ to be heard
Future generations
Ridin’ on the highways that we built
I hope they have a better understanding

I guess I’m not particularly, literally young (could I pass for youngish?), but I’ve never felt younger. I’m not a screamer, but “a young poet living to be heard, screaming out his words to a world full of people who can’t hear because of all the noise” feels right to me.

And there are millions of us. And whether it’s in New York or at BEA or in the wide, wide world, our little words, our weak voices get drowned out, are missed, are dismissed. Yet, we keep writing, keep publishing (or trying to). In spite of rejection or bad reviews, or the insult of indifference, we don’t stop because we can’t.

I can’t not write.

I’ll never write a perfect novel, but I’ll also never stop trying.
This is why I went to New York, to BEA—and why I was just one among millions. A million young poets.