On a recent weekend morning, I drove west under a cloudless, bright blue sky before turning south toward Old Town with a small box of supplies strapped into the back seat of the car: books, pens, postcards, and a few decorative items for the table.
As a new member of a large, regional writers’ group, I decided to sign up (and paid to reserve a table) for an opportunity to network with other writers, sell a few books, and promote poetry in my community (ever mindful of the give as much or more than you take world of literary citizenship).
En route to the artisan market venue, I listened to BBC news coverage of the devastating war in the Middle East (and wondered what’s happening in Ukraine—cf The Counteroffinsive with Tim Mak). Thinking about citizens of those countries, it occurred to me that “literary citizenship” means little to the general public and less than nothing to those whose immediate concern is survival and whose books, even sacred texts, are buried under mounds of rubble. I turned off the radio. As I drove safely down the freeway under a peaceful Sunday sky dotted with colorful hot air balloons, I spoke my thoughts aloud:
Nothing I do or say today will free hostages, bring back the dead, or create conditions for a cease fire. But I have to believe that when hatred and terror, denial and fear are on full display in the world, there must be room for poetry. There must be a way for humanity, motivated by love, to have a voice even when—especially when—life has no rhyme or reason.
I have heard people say, as consolation for tragedy, “Everything happens for a reason.” That may be true on some level (I cannot prove otherwise), but where is the greater good behind acts of violence, terror, and authoritarian rule? The earth turns, regardless, and as meaning-making beings, we want to understand how and why, and we need to do so without turning away.
Earth Meditation
by Andi Penner (originally published* in Rabbit Sun, Lotus Moon by Mercury HeartLink, 2017)
The earth is turning The earth is turning on her elliptical path The earth is turning on her elliptical path around the sun tipping her hat to the moon and bowing to the stars The earth is spinning The earth is spinning silently through black space The earth is spinning silently through black space and luminous time speeding imperceptibly Now the earth is groaning The earth is groaning with sorrow The earth is groaning with the sorrows of all her children riding on her back riding on her back through black holes and warped time speeding imperceptibly toward they know not what The earth is turning The earth is turning into a ball The earth is turning into a ball of ice and fire The earth is turning into a ball of bitter heat and burning cold collapsing toward the center The earth is spinning The earth is spinning her web The earth is spinning her web of seconds and seasons, eras and epochs spinning through luminous time and dark space spinning the filament of sorrows weaving the gauze of grace
*I might write it differently, now.
When I arrived at the market to set up my books, I met Connie McNeil, PhD, author of Co-Creating and my tablemate for the next six hours on the final day of the six-day market. We sat beneath a sign that said “NM Authors”—the same table had been occupied by a different pair of writers each of the previous days. We heard that the children’s books had sold well.
Our table was situated between artisans with large inventories of fine soaps, handcrafted skincare products, beautiful jewelry, and hand painted woodwork. The event was organized by a for-profit entity, a trendy retail space and eatery, which provided outdoor tables, chairs, and awnings—for a fee.
The crowd, if you could call it that, flowed but mostly ebbed, so Connie and I—with our limited inventory, had time to chat with vendors in our row who make a living by selling their creative output. They had each arrived with many heavy containers of both display material (signs, banners, shelving, decorations) and a wide array of beautiful products. We discovered, however, that all were second-guessing questioning the wisdom of paying a fee, schlepping hundreds of pounds of gear, and spending six-to-eight hours a day (for some it was their sixth day of set-up, sales, and take-down) for so little gain—even if they loved their work.
Connie and I engaged passersby in conversation about everything from the Houston Astros to favorite flavors of ice cream. Some stopped to chat, buy most nodded politely and kept walking. One man asked me about my work and I offered to read a poem to him aloud, on the spot. He thumbed through the table of contents, chose a title he liked, and I performed it. He was a college film professor in a neighboring county and purchased the book.
Later, I said to a group of tourists (easily identifiable by their matching tour group badges), “Take home a piece of New Mexico,” as I held up a book to get their attention. Another woman walking by at that moment must have thought I was offering books for free—she turned back to our table, said “Thanks!” and walked off with a book before I could say a word!
Connie had slightly better luck with her book and the companion deck of affirmation cards. One woman with family in the Middle East purchased the cards, saying how much she needed them in her life right now. Other people wanted to talk about writing, so we shared resources and links and encouraging words.
In lieu of swift sales, Connie and I affirmed one another! We discussed the tendency of women to undersell their expertise and underestimate their own value, especially in light of the costs vs. benefits of marketing strategies. We were surrounded by so much beauty and creative potential in that row of women vendors, all with stories to tell and wares to sell. Were all of us too eager to give our precious time away in the name of creative community? Some rethinking is in order.
And so, dear creatives, how do you stay motivated to make art and market yourself in a time of global chaos? How do you decide between acting like a charitable entity and acting in your own best interest? Writers, are you getting noticed?
Your piece is exactly what I needed to read. Thank you. It’s 1:17am, and I’m a debut author with a book coming out in 4 days. I’m deeply conflicted about marketing. I feel so guilty and torn about doing it— yet I have similar feelings for not promoting the book. Same with my Substack newsletter; I’ve amassed so many abandoned and unpublished drafts. Anything I write feels inconsequential and shamefully irrelevant.
I’ve asked myself: “Relative to world events, who needs more authors promoting more books?”
I’d like to believe that my book offers something of consequence to the world. I spent more than 7 years researching and writing it. During that time, I went through my own series of personal conflicts, including a divorce, a loved one’s sudden death, a life threatening illness of my own, and a global pandemic.
Many times, this book was the only reason I got out of bed. It inspired my hope and my drive.
Despite many personal horrors, writing my book kept me looking up and looking ahead. I’d like to hope my book will give readers a temporary yet worthwhile distraction from modern day conflicts, as well.
Ah, but how to convey this sentiment in my marketing messages?
Tomorrow I will work on my promotional efforts with all these words swirling in my heart.
Thanks for prompting these thoughts.
I love your poem, Andi.