Settling for Beauty and Lessons of Publishing

Timing may not be everything, but it counts for a lot, especially in promoting books.

I learned this the hard way with my first two collections of poetry. The first, The Hypothetical Landscape, was published as part of the Quarterly Review of Literature Poetry Series in 1999 and is presently out of print. (I may see what I can do to change that.) At the time the book came out, though, I was working two part-time jobs with no benefits and was in no position to attempt a book tour or any other major promotional efforts. Nor did it help that I wasn't hooked into the academic networks that lead to of readings and events.

I did not make the same mistakes when my second collection, Settling for Beauty, was published in 2005. I can't even say that I made new and different mistakes. But I did learn one valuable lesson: if you are publishing a book and planning a wedding from a distance, and doing all that while working full-time, something has to give.

For me, like the vast majority of people, not working was not an option. Even less of an option was changing wedding plans. So fully promoting Settling for Beauty gave way at the time, and I have no regrets about that, per Edith Piaf, especially now that I am about to celebrate my fifth anniversary with the wonderful Paula Van Lare.

There won't be quite as much on my plate when it's time to promote my forthcoming book of essays; there will be more to come on that. Things should also be similarly tranquil when my third and fourth collections of poetry come out. In a moment of guarded optimism I say "when" rather than "if" because one of the two manuscripts, a collection of formal verse, has been a finalist in two contests.

But for now I hope to give at least a little attention to Settling for Beauty. If you follow the link you can see a few sample poems. Another poem in the collection appeared on Verse Daily.

Virtually any writer is going to look back on older work and think of how it could be better. I am no exception. Still, new poems (and essays and fiction, among other things) need to be written, and time is short.

In any event, I am still very fond of that book, and I think the linked samples will give you an idea of why you might become fond of it as well. You are welcome to let me know what you think.

The title of that book, in case you don't feel like scrolling up, is Settling for Beauty.

Settling for Beauty

I still have a lot to learn about publishing, but I can pass along one piece of hard-earned wisdom: if you have a choice, don't plan your wedding and your book launch for the same season. The wedding (appropriately enough) gets priority and the book launch suffers. I found this out in 2005 when my second collection, Settling for Beauty, was published in September and I got married in October.

With this in mind, I am back to promoting the book, beginning on Thursday, February 12 at the annual conference of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs in Chicago. From 9 a.m. to 10 a.m. I will be signing at Table 750 of the Book Fair floor, which belongs to publisher WordTech Communications. On Friday, February 13, from 1 p.m. to 2:30 p.m. I will be signing Settling for Beauty and displaying The Best Mariachi in the World/El Mejor Mariachi del Mundo at Table 792, hosted by The Word Works, a DC-based press for which I have done some volunteering in the past.

While several poems in Settling for Beauty can be found online, I don't expect busy people to go looking for them right away. I would thus like to close this post with a poem from the book with the title "For Bad Wine":


For Bad Wine

Once in a field, in a wide rising stretch of paintbrush
& purple vetch, we stuck down

a tent, like punctuation, and drank through the evening
our bottle of bad wine.

Kate Northrop

Because the stores where finer wines are sold
are closed, or too far away to drive
on a rainy night, and because,
truth be told, we’re already a bit tipsy,
we’ll settle for what we can find in town.

Because the bottles of dusty neck and shoulders
that suggest long ageing, and a high price,
lie on their sides on a rack
too low to reach without stooping,
we’ll take one of the bright bottles
that stand close by.

Since so many of the labels are written
in strange languages that bring no comfort,
we narrow down to the plain-spoken domestics.

As, even in mid-life, we’re intimidated
by the corkscrew, the very cork,
the intricate and solemn techniques
and auguries of its removal,
we look among the simple screw tops,
such as we turned to open soda and juice
before our first high school drink.

Because we may as well toast our younger selves
who didn’t know Boone’s Farm from Bordeaux,
who knew we would get rich while doing good,
but in the meantime had to scrimp,
we will take the cheapest brand.

Because we now know better,
but have to save for retirement,
we will take the large and cost-effective jug.

Because we have our reasons
and don’t want to tell them again,
we’ll refill our glasses
and drain every drop.