Mulling Over The Times

Lately I've been mulling over the state of things: my own country (USA, election and all), the world (Israel, Hamas), the universe (poor Pluto, you had a good run) and everything else in between. It can be daunting to take a good, hard look--all that seems to be lacking, all that obviously needs to be done.

The mulling over makes me appreciate every story I've read, for it is in stories, poems, the written word that I see, time and time again, the same inexhaustible truth: good triumphs over evil. It just does.

I love that. I need that--as an artist and as a human being. I am grateful for that truth today. It keeps me going. It keeps me coming back around to my writing (which frightens me just as much as the state of the world does). It makes me realize what a blessing it is to be able to communicate in times like these--when information can be shared so quickly, when a wealth of knowledge is literally at the tips of our fingers.

These are hard, unsettling times, but when has the best art been created? It springs from the hard & unsettling, the mess. So here's to the mess, art's inspiration. Where would I be without you?

Battling The Elements

A desert summer must be treated like a mountain winter--you lock yourself up for the day, only leaving the house for food & water. You sprawl out on the couch and devour books to fuel the creative fire. You let your body inflame and recooperate, watching the monsoons pass over the horizon (instead of snow).

This summer-winter I've survived on Coco Chanel, Hedy Lamarr & Marilynne Robinson. Coco, because her work ethic outweighs her talent. Hedy, because her ideas outlive her beauty. And Marilynne, because her philosophy outdoes her voice.



It's possible to battle the elements when you know you're not alone.

National Poetry Month (Pt. 2): Charles Baudelaire

Mario Praz once wrote Charles Baudelaire was a poet "in whom the Romantic Muse distilled her most subtle poisons." Having a slight handle on the French language, I couldn't agree more. Take L'Ennemie, par exemple:

The Enemy

My youth was nothing but a storm of shadows

Star-crossed, here and there, by the occasional sun-shaft.

Thunder rolled, rain ravaged (mourning skies)--

My tree never had a chance for fruit to speak of.

I live in the great fall of the mind, now,

Reaping not what I sow, the earth dark and deep (hanging sweet, hanging low).
I dig at trenches--water seeps, mud heaps onto sluit graves.

The meaninglessness of toil, life--tell me, what is it worth?

Will that of which I dream ever bear ripe with ripening fruit?

No, it is pain, pain--she eats at the marrow of life.

The great obscure Enemy sucks the blood, gnaws the strength

right out of me.*

*translation & photographie by Cora Charis

National Poetry Month (Part 1): Pablo Neruda

It's that time o' the year, so it's time for Neruda.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez claimed Pablo Neruda was "the greatest poet of the twentieth century--in any language." Having a slight hold on the Spanish language, I have a difficult time disagreeing. Take Sonnet 66, por ejemplo:

I do not love you except (because) I love you:

I move from loving to not loving you;

waiting, not waiting for you--

back & forth, through my heart, from ice to fire. 

I only love (you) because I love you.

I love; I hate without end, and hating you 


pray to you, and the measure of my changing love

is not to see you but to love you blindly.

{Perhaps January's light will devour, 

its cruel-intentioned ray, my whole heart,

stealing the key to life's rest.}

In this history only I die, 

die of love because I love you,

because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.*

Kind of hard to compete with that. 

*translation & photographie by Cora Charis

It's The Ride

The creative process is a roller coaster ride: up, down; over, under. Most of writing is just putting up with the hours of nausea and terror that bookend the few, very brief moments of blind exhilaration.

As I’ve been tossing and turning through the past few months, speeding around sharp bends of self-doubt, I've been fortunate enough to come across literary voices of great comfort and wisdom.

Louisa May Alcott's journals have become a good friend. The gravity in her voice is refreshing: She worried much about money, working hard at menial tasks to earn her living. And she was never quite sure or trusting of her talent, shunning attention and fame even when it would not stop knocking at her door.

Madeline L’Engle's reflections on faith and writing have been another. She touches on being a mother and a wife, on the many facets of life and how each contributes in its own, organic way to creativity. She even willingly admits to getting a book title from a conversation with a family member--the name of a character from the off-hand suggestion of a friend.

Reading these two women, I’m reminded of the dichotomy of art and life, how much they are at odds with one another. I see it in my own day-to-day routine: I awake in the morning to a mountain of a day--students upon students stacked upon papers, more papers stacked upon piles of dishes, loads of laundry. How does one have time to even think about a poem, let alone a book? Yet the artistic animal is always there, scratching at the door of the mundane. And so is the nemesis, barking at the brain, making it too hard to hear what word, which way is wrong or right. 

As I keep reading and writing, as I keep on going, I see how the exhilaration springs from the fear of it all--the struggle between the high contemplative call of the mind and the low primal requirements of the body, the lack of control of artistic inspiration, the steepness of the climb. The occasional, momentary thrills are just the occasional, momentary revelations that the roller-coaster of life and creativity will never truly stop if one has the childlike faith to take everything one baby step at a time.

On Writing, Art & Loneliness

Art is loneliness. I write because there’s no on near to read. It keeps me calm; it keeps me going.

Sometimes the intellectual in me likes to think otherwise. I reason with myself: Writing is a complex form of artistic expression, and therefore an intricate medium, meant to relay a meaningful message or agenda, a genius thought or idea. But it’s not. Writing (the act of art) is simply the breath between swimming strokes, the necessary overflow of silence from the mind, soul.

Art comes easily to man because loneliness comes easily to him (Adam soon lost his rib; even cavemen drew on walls). Writing has always come easily to me because my nature has always strayed away from human contact: I bristled as a child when a parent coddled me. I recoiled as an adolescent when a peer brushed against me. Even now, as an adult, I keep my hands, eyes and ears to myself. But it doesn’t bother me (anymore): I know that one must let the loneliness be. It is the way of art, the climb. No man can completely bear the burden of his brother. Each artist must carry a weight all his own—because that is the nature of this tree called life. It is the unavoidable, undeniable truth (as Yeats so perfectly put it, the perpetual virginity of the soul). 

Loneliness was made for art (why did God create man?). The more tears an artist keeps to himself, the more someone else will not shed alone. The more blood I bleed here, now (in silence, at home), the more I will have to give—on the page, and in life.

I have always kept my loneliness a secret because I have always known it is the one thing I must keep safe. It is the root of the root and the bud of the bud of this thing called writing—because it (loneliness, art) is the one thing each of we humans shares.

Symbiosis: Vladmir Nabokov

To read previous posts in this series, click here.


I latched onto Nabokov my second year of college. I was skipping classes, then, shacking up in a wicker chair next to the poetry section of a local used bookstore, spending my hard-earned tuition money on as many raddy literary classics as I could my dirty hands on. One day my hands found Lolita. I groped the cover, opened to the first page and ran my eyes up and down the first paragraph. My face turned hot. My pulse rang heavy. O the words, they flowed like milk! O the syllables, they dripped, like honey! I licked my lips and took a big, deep breath before leaning in for more.

Writing is such a full-fledged artform, to do it right one has to be a multi-instrumentalist. There's language, character, structure. There's rhythm, scheme and rhyme. Nabokov is that someone-special who can play all of the instruments in the band--and play them well. He's the one who taught me that fearlessness (along with respect for craft) produces the most memorable work; that writing can and should be an experiment.

To view a recently re-surfaced video interview/ footage of Nobakov (dating back to 1965) click here. 

To read further text from the interview click here.

On Annie & Losing Loss

I found Annie the summer I turned fourteen. I was living up in the Rocky mountains, then, in a stucco house amidst a few acres of Ponderosa Pines. My family had moved from a small suburb of Chicago the year before. I was a loner, still--hadn't made any friends yet and kept to myself mostly, wandering the hillsides and reading girlish novels. Finding Annie was a surprising surprise.

It was a typical summer, Friday morning. My mother had gone off on one of her weekly garage sale-ing jaunts and returned with her usual bag of finds, one being a hardcover book she'd found lying in a box of dusty, one-dollar paperbacks. She bought it because it looked pretty: The cover was made of cloth; the text on the binding shimmered with gold, scripted lettering. I was rummaging through her bag of finds, as I always did, when the shimmering caught my eye. My eyes quickly panned over the binding--it was Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Picking up the book, I immediately began fondling the pages, peeking inside the front cover. To my surprising surprise, it was a first edition.

I asked my mother if I could borrow it. She said it wasn't for reading; it was only for looking at and put it on the shelf in her bedroom with the other "pretty" books--old, gilded copies of Dickens and Austen. The next morning I snuck into her bedroom as she was tidying up the kitchen and slipped it stealthily off the shelf. Hiding myself in her closet, I began to read--one, raw sentence at a time. Although I was only fourteen, I got it. Mysticism was mine. I knew the language Annie was speaking. I spoke it even more fluently than she.

Hours passed by quickly, intensely--the bloody cat crawling through the open window, the muskrat and mantis eggs, the eskimo. It was time for dinner. I said I wasn't hungry; I was on Fecundity and sprinted off with Annie tucked beneath my arm, making my way up Old Antler's Trail to Hidden Springs Glen, a small, communal lake that I liked to call my own. I lay on the grass as the sun set and soaked up the hypnotic buzzing in Annie's head. When dusk had finally settled down, I ran back home, crawled into bed and kept reading until the sun made its way back over the mountains.

In the fall of the year I turned twenty, that stucco house amidst a few acres of Ponderosa Pines burned down, burning my first edition of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek along with it. The moment I heard the news is still clear in my mind. My mother called me from the driveway of the house, speaking calmly. I sat on the steps of my small apartment, the phone cradled against my shoulder, looking at concrete parking lot below.

"How about the Annie? Is she gone, too?"

My mother didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

Of all the loss I have experienced in my life thus far, it is the first edition of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek that has plagued me the most. Losing that book was worse than losing my first lover. I felt an emptiness in every molecule of my being for what seemed like an eternity afterwards.

But time has passed, and just as the age-old addage says, with its passing, the wound has healed. I have lost that sense of loss. In its place I have found something new: the genuine knowledge of a voice all my own and a shimmering hope for the future. Things like these always seem to come as a surprising surprise.

Symbiosis: The Prince of Pathos

Artists have symbiotic relationships with one another. We feed, we nourish off of each other. Many times one artist could not, would not exist if it weren't for the other.

One such relationship I've formed is with the late and great Charlie Chaplin, whom I refer to as "The Prince of Pathos," for he undeniably turns my stoic heart into an absolute puddle of humanistic mud whenever his Little Tramp graces the screen. The way he wears not only his heart on his sleeve, but his own contradiction as well--the short, tight waistcoat and big, baggy pants--that innocent heart and beguiling mind; the way he wanders around, lonely as a cloud: Chaplin created the quintessential moving picture of what it means to have inherited the artistic spirit. He is the one who best reminds me of the reason why we artists must exist: to remind our fellow human beings that we are each made of dirt, of clay; that we are fallible; and that this life is indeed meant to feel like one, long beautifully-tragic flaw.

Adam Gnade: An American Voice

More and more American art is becoming obsessed with identity. We seem to be having a difficult time lately understanding exactly what it is that makes us us, what sets our stars and stripes apart. When I first came across Adam Gnade's work, I felt a major sense of relief (not only as an American, but as a human being as well) because his art brings this struggle with identity to the surface, laying it out unashamedly for all to see. Whether it’s via his writing or his music, he's blazing a trail in sole search of the self, taking a cerebral road trip through the American landscape with reckless, fulfilled abandonment. He chronicles it all—the drugs, the sex and loneliness, the rock and roll—all the while maintaining a genuine, gritty honesty. There is no sugar to make the medicine go down. He kicks his head back and swallows the good, the bad and the ugly, never bothering to stop for air—all the while making me 100% proud to be American (whatever that may mean).




*Adam Gnade's work is released by an independent publisher/record label called Punch Drunk Press, which you can follow here.

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt. 5): Staples

Five or six years ago, I left the United States to travel. When I left, I took next to nothing with me, packing my bags as if I were fleeing the premises of a burning building. These are the only books that made the melodramatic cut into my tiny carry-on, three poetry anthologies: A Book of Luminous Things, a collection of "short, clear, readable, and...realistic" poems selected by Nobel Laureate Czeslaw Milosz, primarily from Chinese and 20th-century American and European poets; Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, a rich series of mystic poetry translated and selected by Daniel Ladinsky; and The Holy Bible (King James Version)--mainly, of course, the books of Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiasties, and Song of Solomon. They remain the three books that I consider to be absolute staples, as necessary travel (and living) companions as my toothbrush and water bottle.

It is with these recommendations that I conclude this celebration of National Poetry Month, for they capture perfectly the immediate, raw spirit of the art form, showcasing its consistent ability to illuminate both the frailty and strength of the human spirit.

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt. 4): Contemporaries

At the root of poetry is oral tradition. David sang his Psalms. Homer recited his epics, just as countless others have bared and shared their souls by telling or singing stories in metre and rhyme. Participating in that tradition are the following modern musicians who, in essence, are poets in their own right. The first is (and forever will be) the artist of all artists to me. He could sing; he could dance; and he proved with Billie Jean that he could write. The second has always had a special place in my heart. My father (himself a published author) would sing along to such profound lyrics as "Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light/ You've known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight" while washing the dishes at night. The third I consider to be one of the greatest poets of the 20th century (far ahead of Pound & Eliot, in fact), having painted the sistine chapel of poems in Calling Out Your Name. And the last is one who I am convinced should not be known as a musician at all, but as a writer; for he exemplifies the role of poet in our modern-day society perfectly, carrying the weight of that role with an easy, natural grace.

So, listen to the music. Watch the performances. And remember that poetry is meant to be seen, heard and felt as well as read.


Purchase


Purchase


Purchase


Purchase

Nation Poetry Month Celebration (Pt.3): Pound & Eliot

I'll never forget the first time I read Ezra Pound's In a Station at The Metro. The words startled me, like the sound of a siren. I nearly jumped out of my seat. The image Pound had created was so clear in my mind that although I was sitting in the quiet corner of a bland classroom, I felt myself to be in a crowded station, at the metro.

It wasn't until that poem that I understood words to be wood and writing to be a craft, something you work at slowly but surely, taking your time, until you're finally skilled enough to be able to whittle syllables into nothing but pure imagery--and manipulate a reader's mind any which way you want.

Because the poem that came after In a Station at The Metro in the anthology I was reading at the time was The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound have always gone hand-in-hand in my mind. Although I have a particular affinity to Pound, Eliot has stolen the breath from my lungs nearly as much as his mentor. He attacks language with a primal energy, his libido pumping loudly in the background of each of his poems, while still adhering to a sense of structure and rhythm. I get the same goose bumps reading Eliot as I get listening to Miles Davis.

The following links are two gems I found hiding in The Paris Review, old interviews by Donald Hall of both Eliot and Pound. They delve into the relationship Pound and Eliot shared, the work of both, and provide a small window into the shared mind of two master craftsmen.


The Art of Poetry No. 1, T.S. Eliot

The Art of Poetry No. 5, Ezra Pound

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt.2): E. E. Cummings

If I could only pick one, I'd pick E. E. Cummings.

Ironically enough, I didn't even have to read his poetry to know. Ever since I simply glossed over that esoteric introduction to New Poems (1938), my heart has been entirely his.

I could try to put my love for Edward Estlin and his daring, naked genius into words, but I won't. Instead, I'll let Mr. Cummings do it for me:

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt. 1): Anne Sexton

It's the designated National Month of Poetry here in the United States. Since the Academy of American Poets first inaugurated it in 1996, publishers, booksellers, libraries, schools and poets around the country have banded together during the month of April to celebrate the poem and its place in American culture. To participate in the celebration, I have put together a list of poets who have influenced and inspired me in immeasurable ways--and will be exploring each throughout the rest of the month. To begin, here is the one and only Anne Sexton:



Anne Sexton is one of those rare modern poets who never requires anything from her reader. Every poem makes complete, abstract sense. She crafts phrases that roll off of the tip of the tongue so naturally, they make one believe they should have always been. Her work is stoically explicit and unashamedly feminine--a true beauty to behold.

The video above contains rare footage of Anne reading one of her poems, bantering with her husband, coddling her daughter--and, in essence, living the poet's life. She's stunning, exactly the way I would imagine her to be: Her voice and mannerisms are as seductive as the words she's reading; she lives with an obvious exaggerated passion, yelling at her dog with utter disdain, smoking with addictive pleasure; and she can describe off-handedly as well as perfectly how and why she loves Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor, Op. 23. She demonstrates here and in her work the power of the living, breathing artist--a power that she proved with her life and death can sometimes be so strong, so great, it suffocates the vessel it inhabits.

An Interview with Jamie McGarry

Valley Press is a rare find in the publishing world: The voices it's giving a platform to are as fresh and new as the publishing house itself. Founded just three years ago, in 2008, it came into being as a result of a budding poet's desire to self-publish his first book of poetry--as well as his first work of fiction--and is now already home to a small group of naturally-gifted writers and artists, with room to grow. In an effort to get to know Valley Press' history and heart better, I sent Jamie McGarry, the aforementioned founder and current executive, a few questions, and he has been so kind as to share a few of his honest insights into the world of literature, publishing, and Valley Press.



Cora Charis: First and foremost, Jamie—favorite book?

Jamie McGarry: That is an interesting question...there's book as in a particular work of art, and there's a book as in an object. In the future, when books are all just beamed into our heads from passing vans (thus removing the 'object' bit), I imagine my favourite book will be Ted Hughes' Collected Poems - I am always surprised by how divisive he is, that half of all poetry fans I encounter seem to really dislike him and his work. But it is of course impossible to be truly great and infinitely popular. I think he was an incredibly creative man, an outstanding writer, and I am forever turning to the Collected Poems and trying to figure out the process behind whatever poem it falls open on. I love the introduction as well, especially the bit about how he used to run a small press! I find it an inexhaustible literary mine - it would be my 'desert island book', the one I would want to be stranded with.

But as an object, my favourite 'book' is my copy of Tony Harrison's Collected Poems (signed!) - or at least, that's the one I am most attached to. When I first got into serious poetry, I would continually return to my local bookshop and read a few more pages of this volume - it was expensive, and not in any of the local libraries, so this was my only recourse. Something about this experience really altered the direction of my life...I got a feeling from it that I'd never had before. Now my feelings towards the text are a bit different; I wrote my dissertation on Tony Harrison, I bought the book and have been formally introduced to him in person - they say you should never meet your idols. Now, I can put him neatly in his place in the English literary timeline/leaderboard, I can take the poems apart to see how they tick, but I can't recapture that initial feeling I got in the bookshop...which was something like standing in front of an enormous obelisk, and wanting to understand how it came to be there.

Short question, long answer!


CC: Have you always been interested in writing and publishing? When did your love for the written word begin?

JM: I can't remember a time when I wasn't excited by a book, even those pointless little volumes you are given in the very earliest years of school. There's a certain promise that comes with books...like a new bit of life for you to devour, and I don't think that feeling will go away even with the van-to-brain scenario I described earlier.

I think I've mentioned before that at the age of 7, maybe even earlier, I would spend my spare time writing stories in excercise books and then adding a list of contents, copyright page, barcode ect. which is a strange past-time for a young lad - was I writing so I'd have something to publish, or was I publishing to make my writing look respectable? Still a valid question! I still have some of these books, actually...one has a version of the 'Gingerbread Man' story, except in mine a turtle made of jelly comes to life, runs amok, and eventually gets eaten by a fox. In an epilogue, the fox's teeth drop out and he has to attend the dentist. Fully illustrated of course.


CC: How did your metamorphosis from hopeful poet to proud publisher unfold, exactly?

JM: 'As Jamie McGarry awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic publisher...' No hang on, I'm getting mixed up.

I like the adjectives in your question, 'hopeful' to 'proud!' Pride has a lot to do with it, definitely. I was at a dinner party last year, telling some nice lady about VP, when the bloke sat between us said: 'well, it's just a vanity press really, isn't it.' My first instinct was to punch him (emotions run high in the world of publishing), but it was probably because he cut close to the nerve. I taught myself the process of publishing in 2007 because I personally had a lot of unpublished writing, and though it wasn't really suitable for traditional publication, it annoyed me that it wasn't out there for people to buy (if they so wished.) After doing two books of my own, I realised it could possibly be more rewarding (in every sense) to publish other people, and so I gently pushed my friend Nigel Gerrans into letting me release a book of his poems.

Nigel had been writing poetry for seventy years...which is a very long time...and it turned out he had built up a vast list of contacts and fans. I printed 150 copies of Tenebrae in all, and I only have a couple of copies left in the 'warehouse' (actually a large box under my desk) so it could be considered a success (studies show the average sales for a volume of poetry are 98 copies...sad isn't it.) And I guess at that point, I was a publisher, whatever they might say at the dinner parties of this world!


CC: What are a few of your writing/publishing inspirations?

JM: Besides the aforementioned Hughes and Harrison, I am inspired by the plethora of successful publishers that start with the dream of just one or two people - in the North of England alone, there's Jean Hartley and the Marvell Press, Ann and Peter Sansom at Smith/Doorstop, and Neil Astley with Bloodaxe. I have yet to meet any of them (besides Jean), but their stories and successes inspire me no end. Honourable mention to Kate Atkinson, who inspires the (usually buried) novel-writing Jamie, and John Hegley who is serious yet silly, successful yet underrated...very nice people and great writers.


CC: As a publisher, who do you consider your audience to be?

JM: At the moment, the majority of my impersonal sales come from people who are already interested in literature...book snobs, you might say! But every time we run an event, I get at least one person come up to me and say: 'I've never been interested in poetry/literature before, but now I really want to find out more'...so I'm growing my audience one person at a time. Some of the titles coming up later in the year, particularly a travel book by Steve Rudd (coincidentally, the last person to interview me, in 2008!) are attempts to put that situation to rights; to let the whole world know about Valley Press.


CC: What do you look for in manuscript submissions from writers?

JM: First, it's amazing how many submissions I'm already receiving...you put the words 'accepting submissions' with the words 'publishing house' on the internet, and people turn up in their hordes! The way I've got things set up at the moment is to not publicise any email address, but offer a simple contact form on the webpage. People are then effectively judged before I even see a manuscript - it's amazing how many people don't take the time to use punctuation, or even string a decent sentence together. 'I writer have written many poems and stories you publish me plz' is a strangely typical opening message.

However, if you write a nice couple of paragraphs, explaining who you are and what you're up to, I will usually send an email asking for samples of work and start a conversation. At this point, I'm looking for writers who have something to say, who show evidence of a god-given talent (not that I'm religious...that's another interview!) and who are able to present themselves well over a series of emails. If you've got all this, I am definitely going to give you something to do, even if you don't have enough material for a solo release, or if you're still working on your big project. There are quite a few of these people now (possibly including yourself, Cora!), and most of them are still off working on whatever VP-related task I assigned to them...hopefully these side-projects will bear fruit in the months to come. I just want to get a community going, really - that's essential.


CC: What would you say is the most difficult part of the publishing process?

JM: Without a doubt, it is managing the finances, the risk, cashflow ect....I ran things quite happily as a hobby for several years, but since the full-time self-employment in January, I feel financial pressure hanging over me like an enormous anvil, waiting to come down and crush me any second! I'm sure readers don't want to hear about this unglamorous side to the industry, but it is the most honest answer I can give.

The second most difficult part is marketing, but it just needs time and persistence. Sylvan Rose, who edited Patterns of Hope, has sold 900 copies (or thereabouts) of that book without spending a penny on marketing...she has just put herself out there, book in hand, and got cracking. In my defense, it does help that it's a charity book, and she only had to worry about that one - I am currently responsible for fifteen books in print or post-production! Yes, if I won the lottery, and bought a VP office, the first person I'd hire would be an experienced head of marketing. Every other part of publishing is too much fun to be difficult.


CC: Any advice you’d give to someone interested in getting into the publishing world?

JM: In all seriousness, the most direct route into publishing is to get an internship or work experience role at an established company...I'm sure there are people who'd disagree, but I've never known anyone do this and not get a job within six months. The trouble with this is, you have to be in a position to a) live somewhere where publishing happens and b) work for free, which I never have. I applied for many salaried publishing roles in 2010, but at the moment, the competition with experienced publishers who've been made redundant is too intense for a newbie to get a look-in...most of the posts I applied for received 200 or 300 other applications, which made my meagre publishing achievements look rather insignificant.

However, walking round the streets of Yorkshire with my publisher's hat on, I feel slightly more important! There's no reason for people wanting to get into this world not to try and start-up themselves - I did it, after all, and I'm not a genius, not wealthy, no more special than the next man. Just go out and do it. Or better still, be my head of marketing, and work on commission! Any takers?


CC: Where do you see Valley Press in ten years? What are your hopes and dreams for it?

JM: I hope I will still be doing it, for a start - that it will have grown enough to support me comfortably (truth be told, at the moment I have to count up my coppers before heading to the supermarket.) I'd like to have a little office for VP, a brass plaque on the wall outside, a friendly secretary to greet me when I stroll in on sunny mornings... I am someone who spends a lot of time imagining happy versions of the future. 'Good morning, head of marketing!' 'Good morning Jamie.' ect. I'd like to be putting out two books a month - but more than anything, I'd like to be the publishing house talented young writers dream about being published by, and at the same time, one where there's a genuine chance of that dream coming true.

Lonely Destiny: First Review

The first collaboration between poet Deirdre McGarry and artist Nigel Folds, Lonely Destiny filters through both time and space by seamlessly weaving vivid imagery alongside vivid illustration, taking its reader to unseen heights and unplumbed depths. McGarry's handwritten lines of bold spiritual poetry read like rivulets straight out of humanity's collective stream of consciousness, while Folds' illustrations speak straight to the heart in subtle, undetailed movement, capturing the light and tone of McGarry's words--and the human psyche--perfectly. Although the title of the book suggests a theme of isolation, Lonely Destiny is a deeply intimate metaphysical voyage, personal to the touch; and the tune it leaves ringing in its reader's ear is one of complete understanding. 


*Lonely Destiny is now available for purchase via Valley Press. For details of the launch event on Friday 18th March, consult the VP site or Jamie McGarry's 'First Look' entry.

First Sight

I was eleven years old when I first knew. My sixth grade teacher assigned me the task of writing an original screenplay of Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex in September. By the time it was due in October, I was head over heels.

It was love at first read, love at first write. I stalked Sophocles—got my hands on any and all translations, researched his biography, studied his contemporaries. I wrote and wrote and wrote—in the morning, at night, during lunch, after class. No one needed to tell me that I had found it. I knew because I knew.

Perhaps it was the language that did it, the perfect blend of poetry and plot. Perhaps it was the characters, the depth of Oedipus’ psychological destruction. Whatever it was, this thing—this thing that made me invincible, able to bend and manipulate meanings, metaphors and my own imagination—had me at hello. For the first time in my life I felt what it was like to salivate at the beauty that is a line of epic poetry. For the first time in my life I became deaf to the annoying humdrum of suburban civilization, of my constant anxiety; and I heard only music—sweet music.

It is one thing to fall in love with a man or woman, but it is another thing entirely to fall for a vocation—and one so elusive as the written word. If I knew what I know now, I would have taken one look at Sophocles and run in the opposite direction. I would have put my pen and that blank of piece of paper down and tried my hand at other things—softball, maybe, or flute. But there is no going back. Writing will forever be my first love. For better or for worse, Sophocles still makes me drool.

Cora Charis is a writer from the United States who is currently finishing her first book of expiremental poetry while teaching English as a Second Language to refugees in Tucson, AZ.

DM Stith Concert Review—Tucson, AZ

The desert is a strange place to call home. We who live here measure our lives by rattlesnakes, by the sloughing off of serpents’ skins, saguaros and monsoon seasons. This summer the rain has stayed stagnant in the clouds. The monsoons keep holding their tongues, and we’ve had to stay stuck in the humid heat, spending the day watching heaving clouds pass us by. We can’t help but feel forgotten.

I stumbled into Solar Culture, a small, unpretentious venue, right smack dab in the middle of Tucson, AZ, hoping to find respite from the humid summer heat, but having hoped in vain. The temperature of the interior matched the exterior: There was no air conditioning, and the boiling energy of an excited audience only increased the degrees of Fahrenheit. Art lined the walls—a collage of independent, modern pieces. The venue was perfect in its dark simplicity. I was sweaty, sure, but completely at ease.

The setting and scene fit the upcoming performer: DM Stith is desert-like in nature, serpentine and haunting. His art is the skin he sheds, perfect in its dark simplicity.

Before his performance started DM Stith was so kind as to engage me in a little small talk. He told me a little about himself, his past. He had taught sculpture before, he said. It didn’t surprise me. His music is a physical medium more than anything. We, the audience, feel like putty in his hands.

When DM Stith took the stage, quietness enveloped the room. The crowd of soul-searching college students and contemplative adults seemed to understand that a force of nature, quite like the monsoons hovering overhead, had begun to work its magic. David sat down on a small, unpretentious rolling-chair, acting as if he were completely oblivious to his sacred charms. Not for one second did I believe that he was unaware of his powers.

What ensued was an entrancing musical manipulation of the mind. At the end of the set I felt as if I had just been molded into something along the lines of Degas’ Little Dancer Aged Fourteen—transformed into something part human, part primate.

What I appreciate the most about DM Stith’s music—and art in general—is its honesty. It’s an unashamed wrestle with the self, with God. He is Jacob, caught in the grasp of an angel; and he has no shame, no fear or trepidation in relating the struggle that results from picking such an epic fight. We, the audience, limp away from his presence with a hurting hip—with our minds, hearts, and souls having been dexterously pummeled—but also with the ultimate blessing: DM Stith himself, and the realization that no matter how dry the desert may be, we haven’t been forgotten.

*DM Stith will be touring Europe and the UK in the Spring of 2011. For further details, click here.

Cora Charis is a writer from the United States who is currently finishing her first book of expiremental poetry while teaching English as a Second Language to refugees in Tucson, AZ.