When individuals use money, they know very well that there is nothing magical about it–that money, in its materiality, is simply an expression of social relations. . . . The problem is that in their social activity itself, in what they are doing, they are acting as if money, in its material reality, is the immediate embodiment of wealth as such.
     –Slavoj Žižek, The Sublime Object of Ideology

One of the things I enjoy about running is the time spent outdoors, away from websites and televisions and cell phones and nearly every distraction, save the occasional armadillo or coyote or neighborhood dog. It affords time for reflection and, when I’m not running alone and when we’re not running especially hard, for conversation.

A few days ago, I was out for an easy run with the cross country team that I coach, and one of my runners asked me about my writing. “Why do you do it?” Scott wanted to know. “Is there any money in it?”

Of course, if you’re reading this on Vouched, then you probably have good answers to both of these questions already. But it did provoke a long conversation about the ways in which writing can become a commodity.

At the beginning, I told him, I wrote a lot of things that weren’t very good. Some of these, I sent to editors who sent back pre-made postcards in the mail or who stuffed photocopied rejection slips into my self-addressed, stamped envelopes. But eventually, I wrote things that were, I hope, better, and a few editors said yes. And then a few more. And then an especially kind editor offered to publish a chapbook.

And then, I told Scott, if you do this long enough and diligently enough, maybe one day you start to get the occasional editor who seeks you out, who asks you to send your work to her journal.

“What about then?” he wanted to know. “Then, do you get paid?”

Not hardly.

But then I told him how enough of these sorts of publications could lead to a book deal, which probably wouldn’t amount to much money, either. But that a book deal (or two, or three) could help a writer secure a teaching or editing position that was paid–so that, if you were lucky, eventually, you’d have a job that paid you to do something else but that supported your writing.

Which brought me back to the question: Why do writers write? I know Stephen King’s answer, of course, but in the world of small presses and independent journals, is it ever about the money?

And of course, my answer is no. The writing is not about the money. And, for that matter, I told him, neither is the running. Now, I’ve met a few elite runners who have sponsorship deals, who are paid to run, but for most people, running isn’t about the money any more than writing is–running a great time in your local 5k race isn’t about the money any more than having a poem published by PANK.

A couple of months ago, Jeff Edmonds–a philosopher and a much better runner than I am–had this to say:

I’ve said this before, and I will say it again: one of the best reasons to run is its utter uselessness as an activity. . . . The fact that a run has no exchange value on the open market is a mark that it, as an experience, cannot be exchanged. Its value, like that of life itself, is inherent and singular.
     –Jeff Edmonds, The Logic of Long Distance

Like a good run, a good poem really has no exchange value on the market. Now, we might pay for it–we might pay the runner who wins a race, or we might pay the poet who excels at the craft–but even in the act of paying, we disassociate the payment from the act. It is not payment for the act, as it might be when we take a car in for repair. When I ordered Matt Bell’s How They Were Found, for instance, or Molly Gaudry’s We Take Me Apart, I didn’t really consider–in a monetary sense–the value of the book, or of the time, or of Matt’s or Molly’s craft; but when I had a new battery installed in my truck last weekend, I certainly considered the value of the battery, of the time, and–to some degree, at least–of the mechanic’s craft.

I know for a fact that I have never written a poem and then said, “This poem is worth ten dollars.” Or a hundred. Or a thousand. Or one.

So why do we buy and sell these things? Why do we, here, right here on this website, ask you to buy books? How do I tell you that a particular book is “worth it”?

When I (finally) made the decision a few months ago to offer a print edition of Willows Wept Review, I agonized. How could I ask people to pay for something to which I could not assign a value?

If Žižek is right in his reading of Marx, if money “is simply an expression of social relations,” then we might begin by asking what the social relations are in independent literature, by asking not only what values we assign those relations but also how we assign them.

What are, we might ask, the economics of expression?

The entire issue rocks, but what has me writing today is the longish poem by Erica Lewis and Dan Thomas-Glass titled “cell and refract: responses to camera obscura by erica lewis.” Check out this excerpt:
 
      the limits of sentimental expression
      shifting from one position to another
 
      sometimes we wake up
 
                  invited but distant
                                   just a person centered by circles
 
      the real space smells like ashes
                                   ceremony        or        circumstance
 
      and
      all the colors
                                           are too bright to be real
 
Limited print run of 100, and right now, you can get the entire issue for only five bucks.

Seriously:

someone holds a toothbrush like a rifle

You won’t regret it.

The worship grows more feverish when
it’s not your money, when the 20s come
from Mom. Burn holy in your pocket.
Then, other bars, other bones. Painted nails
along the rails. Flip-flops’ crusted straps,
the shell and coral fixed as if in amber.
Oh high-sung Margaritaville, bring out
your dead!

This one hits close to home because, well, it hits close to home. St. Augustine isn’t so far from here.

So whatever you’re doing, take a break. Read a poem. Trust me: that stack of papers will wait.

I haven’t been in Kirsty’s shoes exactly, never had anyone ask me to take down something I’ve posted online, but I’ve met plenty of writers and musicians and what not, and her post got me thinking about the the ways that different people interact with the people who love their work.

Online and in person, many of them are gracious, extravagantly kind, generous with their work and their time. But some of them are not, and reading Kirsty’s account, I fear the effect they have on people, especially younger readers-that-would-be-writers. As Kirsty says, “Perhaps I could have been a different sort of writer if that poet had loved me back.”

Kirsty says that this older writer was right, at least in a legal sense. I say, copyright be damned: she couldn’t have been more wrong.

I almost didn’t write about it here: it feels a little like nepotism, now that she’s contributing here. But I kept coming back to it, or it kept coming back to me. And so I decided, nepotism or not, I was going to send you over there to read it.

Here’s the opening from her poem “Flying or Falling,” which appeared in JMWW a few years ago:

One day, unconvinced of the best intentions
of physics, you leave the earth.
The first thing you notice is what is rendered
moot, like feet . . .

Hers is a voice that will be missed.

Nic Sebastian posted a reading of this poem from Alex Grant’s Fear of Moving Water today.

I know you probably don’t want to spend the next few minutes with cockroaches. I know you probably would like to avoid cockroaches in all forms (including the sonnet) whenever possible. I know. I feel the same way. But trust me on this: read the poem at Verse Daily, and then listen to Nic’s reading of it at Whale Sound.

You are self-deprecating and a little funny and sometimes sad, and a little annoying sometimes, and I mostly like you even when you are so self-deprecating that you are a little annoying or sad.

Sam Pink’s You Hear Ambulance Sounds and Think They Are for You is available from Cow Heavy Press.