A Review: Publishing an Absolute Flop
At least it built some character.
A year and a half ago, I published my second book — a collection of “micro poems” called Many of These Could Have Just Been Tweets.
The book is basically an evolved, curated and heavily edited (though, it now seems not heavily enough) version of a series of these so-called poems (a nebulous term, to be sure) that I originally began posting to Instagram as a self-imposed creative project during the true thick of the pandemic. I was in a weird place and had some things to work through (ain’t that always the case?) and writing is one way that has always helped me on that front. I found it cathartic and, honestly, pretty fun.
However, hastily turning a collection of my favorites into a book that is not only out there in the world, but something I am actually asking people to spend money on, may have been a mistake.
I say this having just read it in its entirety, for some reason I hope was not merely narcissism, for the first time since I approved the final proofing version.
It wasn’t the most fun.
Because it’s not great. Not by my standards. At least my current ones.
To put it bluntly and honestly: Many of them probably should have just been Tweets.
Looking back on it now, with fresh eyes and a clear-ish mind, I am now ready to admit that that’s really all they were, just with a title and some random line breaks I threw in willy-nilly. And they probably should have just remained online, where anyone could read them, gratis, if they happened to somehow stumble upon my sparsely followed Instagram account.
It’s not surprising that it sold very few copies — like, an embarrassingly low amount. (The reviews have been high and kind, though, so I have that going for me. Even though they were submitted to Amazon and Goodreads by friends and family, and as far as I know none of my enemies have chosen to hate-read it. If they have, they haven’t been vocal about it. Which is just fine when it comes to protection of my extremely fragile psyche and self-esteem.) I don’t know exactly how many the publisher moved, and I’m certainly going to do my best to keep myself from checking out those actual stats, because it might be vaguely depressing. Not that I really expected it to fly off shelves or anything. The odds were stacked against me that it would become any kind of hit, even in a marginal sense. It is, after all, poetry, which isn’t the most marketable medium within the realm of publishing, an industry that seems to be getting bleaker by the day unless you figure out the kind of alchemy that goes into creating something that’s a strange phenomenon like Fifty Shades of Grey. Also, I am far from an established poet. Wouldn’t even refer to myself as one, as I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, and sure didn’t ask for advice from anyone who might be qualified to give it as I was laboriously assembling the book. Because even though I have been a writer by trade for more than half of my life, I am still wildly sensitive to criticism.
So then, why did I make the decision to move forward with it? Like any momentous choice I have made, the motivation and reasoning were nuanced. I did really think it was some great content at the time, and I was proud of it. Had those rose-colored glasses on and they guided the red pen. The reception to what I posted on Instagram had been very encouraging and positive, aside from the occasional passive-aggressive DM from jilted ex-lovers, ostensibly after they’d knocked back a couple glasses of Chardonnay (“I love your poetry, but…”).
Mainly, though, I was trying to keep some established momentum going. Less than a year before, I’d published my first book, I Thought This Was Worth Sharing: Stories and Some Other Stuff About Love and Some Other Stuff. I’d been working on it for years and it was, to my mind, the culmination of spending the better part of a decade moonlighting writing all kinds of personal anecdotes about my almost hilariously poor track record of dating and manically and somewhat desperately attempting to find what I think I want or am truly looking for. (Still haven’t, much to my chagrin. May have at one point, starting right around when I was putting the finishing touches on the tome, but I fantastically and, some would say impressively, made the uncorrectable mistake of completely blowing that one. A sad story for another time, maybe.) The accomplishment of publishing an actual book meant more to me than I’ll ever be able to properly articulate. It was something I’d wanted to do since I was, like, 7 years old. I Thought This Was Worth Sharing sold well, far exceeding my expectations. It was well-reviewed. I received many kind compliments from people I love and trust, and some from people I did not know at all. It was quite a high, reaping the rewards of years of hard work taken on not only out of some sort of ambition I don’t quite understand, but to help cope with loneliness, heartache and the near-constant negative thoughts my inner monologue likes to throw out there about my being mediocre at the absolute best.
And so I chased that dragon.
Which led to an impulsive decision.
I was on the phone with my publisher one night, a man I love dearly who has been a great friend since my early 20s and a constant supporter of my writing. He is tangentially responsible for my having achieved whatever modicum of success I so far have to my name. He asked what was next. I was honored and excited that he’d entertain tying his publishing house’s name to another one of my works, and that I didn’t have to pursue the more traditional methods of querying or finding other ways to get a book out there — though I really had nothing in the hopper. There had been some fits and starts and I was constantly writing, but nothing that was ringing my cherries all that much, and nothing with much of a through-line or cogent theme. I ain’t David Sedaris, so it didn’t seem apt to throw together a bunch of essays that were loosely connected at best and call it a book because it had a cover and binding.
“I’ve been writing all these short poems,” I said. “I’m thinking about maybe putting them together into a book.”
“Why not?” he said, ever a proponent of the ethos that you should put yourself out there and see what happens, come what may.
Buy the ticket, take the ride.
Smoke ’em if you got ‘em.
A few short buy busy months later, Many of These Could Have Just Been Tweets was out in the world.
If out in the world means feeling like you shouted a compendium of copy straight into the void.
It wasn’t even a flash in the pan, because when it came out it seemed like I hadn’t been cooking with any gas whatsoever. There was no traction. No hype. No buzz. No sales. Of the few people it did make it to who actually read it, many if not most it felt I had cajoled into snagging a copy, or presented with a free one in hopes of an online review, the majority seemed to dig it. But they were few and far between.
It was a classic Sophomore Slump Situation.
This was, of course, disappointing. But that came mostly from a lack of self-awareness. I had concocted in my head this naive hope that while I sure wouldn’t become the next Rupi Khaur (who is not my bag and not who I want to be like, though she is obviously speaking powerfully to a lot of people), it would at least have a little bit of reach.
And hope can be a very dangerous thing.
I was supremely bummed about the results for a while, but, surprisingly, quickly made my peace with it. I was able to acknowledge after taking a step back and zooming out a bit that I had rushed something to publication that was not only not as great as it potentially could have been, but not really great to begin with. And that’s what hurt the most. I’m nothing if not extremely and overly and detrimentally hard on myself in every facet of life. Found out in therapy I got this schema called Unrelenting Standards that I’ll carry with me till the day I die, most likely, and a symptom of that is that my failures almost always seem to outweigh my triumphs when it comes to emotional impact and everlasting memories.
But in this case (shoutout to therapy again; you’re my boy, Dr. Mark), I was able to reframe my negative thoughts into the notion that it had been something of a bullet dodged. The book would remain out there, but it seemed like it would be ignored instead of lambasted. This might read like a weak way to look at things, but I’d prefer for something to be ignored in lieu of being (maybe even justifiably) hated on. Being invisible isn’t the best, but to my mind it beats spending days at a time curled up in a corner in the fetal position while you wait for you wounds to heal and/or the sweet release of death.
It may have been an initially harsh realization, but was a needed reminder that not everything you write should see the light of day.
So, in a way, I’m strangely glad the book hasn’t been widely read. It’s not something I would have written today. I don’t like the person I was back then. (Not that I adore the person I have become since, but I’m working on it.) I leaned a bit too deeply into the darkness. Got too petulant and used writing as a nefarious tool to clandestinely call out those who I sometimes feel have wronged me. Wrote some of the stuff straight-up lazily. But that’s a strange thing I’ve found about writing books, especially if they’re clearly personal. People read them and tend to assume you’re the same person you were when you penned it. It is pages of ideas, anecdotes, whatever, that are somewhat frozen in time. And often, it’s the only impression you get to make on a reader.
When I was paging through it earlier tonight, I saw potential to make many of the poems better. Kernels of ideas I can build upon while finding some joy in the process. Like Jack Shephard from LOST, I feel compelled to go back someday — do some more poetry. Even if it’s returning myself to some version of purgatory. It’s important for some of your mistakes to stick around — especially if you can flip the script and improve upon them, even if you can’t ever fully remedy them.
I could have just retired my writer’s jersey (a shacket most days), been done with the whole thing. Folded it and put it in the drawer where I keep many previous manuscripts that I may one day literally light on fire. Nobody, aside from me, would really care all that much if I ever wrote another book for as long as I live. It’s not like I’m changing the world or saving lives over here.
But I’m choosing to hold onto that dangerous hope and to keep chasing that dragon.
Because I love doing it.
Don’t have much better to do.
And because why not?
May as well see how good I can get at this whole racket.
This morning, I printed out a manuscript for some fiction I have in development. It might be the next thing. Might not. Could it outdo my first book? Maybe. In a different way. Will it? Hell if I know, dude. There’s a lot of work to do. So I guess I’ll get back to it. Fuck around and find out. Have some fun with it.
Because if you’re not having some fun, what even is the point?
Publishing an absolute flop: 2.5 STARS
If you made it all the way through this essay and still want to check out the book, you can buy it here. Or you can hit me up. I’ll send you a copy. Or a PDF version. I ain’t above giving the milk away for free. You can also snag my first book, which I actually still like, here. And fuck it, while we’re here, my friend and I also recently designed some T-shirts that feature concepts from a lot of my writing and general dark thoughts.