Ambushed. The fear of failure comes at me, roaring, at two in the morning, making me aware of the dread-filled weight of responsibility. Fernwood Press accepted the risk of publishing Quince, Rose, Grace of God. Can I shoulder the responsibility of being an advocate for the press and for my own poems? Can I sell books?
The process of turning my manuscript into a book has taken three years. During most of that time I felt disconnected from the process. I became aware of the other people involved only briefly. Meeting Eric Muhr at a sales table in the vendor’s hall at the AWP conference in Seattle embodied the voice on the phone that had accepted the manuscript.
Fernwood Press represents both its roots as a Quaker press and their aim to provide a home to all poets whose collections uphold and perpetuate the Quaker pursuit of corporate mysticism. * When I read their call for submission, I had no idea what a fortuitous moment that was. Only when I recently revised the history of my publications did I realize how much of my work is related to a spiritual search. In this manuscript that search is represented by a middle-aged woman’s purchase of her first home and the community she discovers in Richmond, California.
After I signed the contract, I began the first round of revisions. It included adding first one, then several, poems to whole. The first, written after I put manuscript together, was in honor of my stepmother, whose warmth and naivete led her to ask my Jewish husband something along the lines of How do you get along without Jesus? Other poems were added to represent the complexity of the communities I became a part of in Richmond.
Eventually proofs arrived with suggestions for edits. In one particular case, an editor’s sensitivity to and knowledge of cultural histories led me to make important changes in one poem. Then a set of six cover designs arrived. A choice had to be made. Then final proofs landed in my email which included copy for the back cover of the book. Reading these again, the generosity of the blurbs overwhemed me. Leah Maines, Emmett Wheatfall, and Barbara Drake. All of this put serious dents in my image as a lone wolf writer.
I wander through the house to open windows to the summer’s night air. I see no stars, no moon out there.
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