|
 This
past weekend was the annual meeting of the Upper Midwest Booksellers
Association at St. Paul's River Centre complex. Reasoning that wherever
publishers gather is a good place for out-of-work writers to be, and it
being a fresh fall day, I decided to take it in.
I forgot that downtown Saint Paul is under
construction, and worse, that it was the day of the Twin Cities Marathon
and, in the same building as UMBA, a major sports memorabilia show. So there was no street parking nearby, and the parking lots
were all asking for $10, high for this part of the country.
So I wound up parking six blocks from the meeting,
patting the dog on the head, and walking the distance. On my mind was one
concept: meet people who work with writers, and announce my availability.
I had a good attitude and a handful of business cards. I was deliciously
in the zone.
When I arrived at the door, however, a woman told me
the meeting was for members only. The public was not welcome.
I asked what the fee for members was: $150 for a
year's membership and $25 for a floor pass. I winced, shrugged, turned,
and walked out of the center, out into the October sunshine, and six
blocks to the car. I felt profoundly out of the zone.
Before I could turn the key, I had a vision. The
vision told me I had handled the admission problem all wrong. What could I
have told UMBA instead of "I just want to see what's going on"?
It came to me. As writer of this letter, which is
often about trends and ideas, I am a member of the media. They wanted me
in that convention hall, I just didn't give them enough information to
know it.
So I strode back into the giant building, presented
myself as a reporter on the book business, which I am, sort of, and they
very nicely let me in.
Inside were perhaps 200 booths staffed by national
publishers, regional publishers, bookstores, distributors and support
businesses. I would describe the atmosphere as stagnant. Few people were
there as visitors, like myself.
It appeared to be a hall full of sellers and empty of
buyers. The reps I chatted with claimed to be happy with the show, and
with the interest they felt they were generating. All this was against the
backdrop of a struggling economy and poor consumer confidence. Were they
being good salespersons ("When asked how business is, always say,
Outstanding!") or were they genuinely pleased? I hoped the latter.
But intuitively, I could see there was little
business I could do here. The big publishers weren't interested in
regional writers, and the little local publishers had enough to worry
about just staying afloat. But I found myself gravitating to them anyway.
So what if I didn't
strike it rich at UMBA. I met some kindred spirits. And when I finally
returned, laden down with books, to my car and to my dog, I reminded
myself all over again how lucky people are who get to make books.
|
WHO I TALKED TO,
AND WHAT I SAW
 I
ran into Jim Perlman, publisher of Holy Cow! Press. We were young
poets together, in the 70s. I still write an occasional poem, but Jim made
literature his life. He
presented me with the latest by Louis Jenkins, a fine poet I used to know.
Years ago I attended a wild Walt Whitman's Birthday party with Louis and
other Duluth poets. I can't tell you why, but it has always seemed to me
that the best Minnesota poets come from Duluth.
 I
made a point to seek out Afton
Historical Society Press, which I have been hearing wonderful
things about for years. They are a "coffee table
book" press devoted to historical issues, and they routinely win
best-design awards. The title that won me over was Painting the Dakota:
Seth
Eastman at Fort Snelling, by Marybeth Lorbiecki.
The book is aimed at a younger audience, but I learned a lot from
it, and the pictures from that period are the best I have seen.
 One
of the most arresting titles at the show was a new novel from Michael
McIrvin titled Deja Vu & the Phone Sex Queen, published by J
Press of White Bear Lake. J Press is run by a former professor who
discovered, while creating textbooks for his class, that making books was
kind of fun. J Press has a nifty collection of fiction and nonfiction
titles. I would love to read EdwinNaksone's The Nisei Soldier:
Historical Esays on World War II and the Korean War.
 I
met someone at the fair who does almost what I do, collect stories. Joan
Graham is co-author of Minnesota
Memories, a deeply charming collection of stories about
growing up Minnesotan.
 Milkweed
Editions has long been one of the top literary presses in
Minnesota. Following the recent trend of strong western fiction,
they are bringing out Hell's Bottom, Colorado by Laura Pritchett, winner
of the press's national fiction prize. But being a Bill Holm fan for
decades, I immediately start flipping through Eccentric Islands:
Travels Real and Imaginary by the Icelander-Minnesotan poet and
essayist.
 And
now, for something completely different, a really interesting self-help
book from yogi/consultant Charles Bates, who leverages the fable of the
three pigs to examine the fearful corners of your soul. Pigs Eat
Wolves: Going Into Partnership with Your Dark Side will settle once
and for all whether you live in a house of straw, sticks, or bricks. (Yes
International Publishers, Saint Paul)
 I
love meeting self-published authors, especially the kind who face into the
fury of indifference and prevail. Such is the case with Stanley Gordon
West, whose Bozeman, Montana press's name betrays his Twin Cities roots: Lexington-Marshall
Publishing. His newest book, Blind
Your Ponies, continues the strong narrative tradition begun with Until
They Bring the Streetcars Back. Stan manned his own table at the fair,
and confides that he has sold tens of thousands of his books with little
more than shoe leather and a world of talent.
 Finally,
this is a golden age for Minnesota
Historical Society Press. In recent years they have embarked on an
ambitious publishing agenda, issuing a torrent of great reading. My pick
for the fall is While the Locust Slept, a memoir by by Owatonna and
Fond du Lac Band of Ojibwe native Peter Razor. It is a story that stacks
up alongside Angela's Ashes for sheer harrowingness. And it is a
beautifully made book, to boot.
|
