Pat King: Let’s do an interview?
Adam Robinson: ok cool
PK: Cool. I’d like my first question to be about Baltimore. How did you get here? What do you think about the lit scene? OK, that was two questions.
AR: I came here because of a girl. The lit scene is pretty amazing here. I love how there are so many people and groups doing so many different things. I love going to the poetry readings that Michael Ball curates with IE, and the fiction series that Michael and Jen do, and the new mixed-genre reading that you and Nick are doing. And I can’t leave out the Upward Spiral that Chris Toll and Barbara Decesare put on between here and York, PA. I like to attend these events. And I like what Gregg Wilhelm put together on a more establishment level with the City Lit Project. And then there are the innovative presses like Narrow House and JMWW that keep me motivated. And then there are the things that I don’t get to, like Joe Crespo’s workshop — just having that out there makes me feel good. And then things that are literary/artistic, like the School event that Ric Royer puts together, and Los Solos that Bonnie Jones and Jackie Milad curate. Then the bookstores! I see a lot of opportunity with Cyclops, which just opened two blocks from me, and I love going to Normals, where I just killed an hour on Sunday. There’s so much going on that I love, it makes me feel alive.
PK: How long have you been writing poetry? Could you tell us a little bit about your upcoming book, Adam Robison and other Poems?
AR: I wrote poetry a lot in high school, but then moved to pretty much strictly fiction through college. I started again in 2006, on New Years, when I made a very deliberate decision to start to figure it out. I had been getting turned on by some very abstract stuff, like the work of Stacy Szymaszek, Anne Carson and Mairéad Byrne. Those are three very different poets but all very inspiring and thought-provoking. At the same time (and still) I was mulling over this idea by Helene Cixous (among others) that literature should be unreadable, so I saw poetry as the best way to explore this notion.
I think my favorite of those three is Byrne’s work, because at the same time as it bears out this multifaceted emotionality and often bewildering language game, it’s always really fetching. I mean, I find her play with language to be interesting on a level that asks, “Why is this important, why is this the best way to approach an idea,” because her poems are often rooted in mundane phenomena and they capture meaning on that level, rather than trying to reflect it through something more transcendent or ephemeral. So the parts of her work that I find fetching is what I brought to my book, ADAM ROBISON. I set out to write poems that can capture sadness and seriousness in a way that doesn’t forget about, for one thing, how little “I” matter and for another thing, that the way we process things is really funny.
So there are a lot of colloquialisms in the book.
PK: Yeah, from what I’ve heard you read so far from that book, I dig the colloquialisms and the wordplay. I also like how you can make a poem very funny and very sad at the same time. One of my favorite lines, and please tell me if I’m quoting this wrong, since I’ve only heard you read it and haven’t seen it in print yet, is “I wish there was something between God and not-God.” Did I get that right? Or at least get the sentiment right? It’s really something that’s stuck with me because I understand that yearning. Like maybe we can feel “something beyond” ordinary reality but can’t quite figure out exactly what it is or the all too human Western God just doesn’t feel right. At the same time, atheism leaves us cold. Is there something inherently “spiritual” about literature? Does this somehow tie in to the idea that literature should be unreadable? What does it mean when we consider that what we write doesn’t really exist in any sort of physical reality (words are not the things the represent)?
AR: You got that line pretty close — it’s “I’m looking for a balance/Between not-God and God/Like fruit/Or feet/Or all the little birds on Jaybird Street.” I haven’t figured out the logic to it yet, but that poem strikes me as very honest, you know? Like, I don’t have to understand something I wrote for it to be honest. And it is a real yearning. So I don’t know if there is something inherently “spiritual,” but if you say that a basis for literature is desire, I would agree with that. I mean, that’s what they say in fiction workshops, right — what does the character want?
I think, probably, everything ties into the notion that literature should be unreadable. When literature is literature it’s unreadable because of the primacy of its multiplicitous signification. It means a lot that the signifier is distinct from the signified — I mean, it means “there is literature,” it makes literature distinct from sculpture — and I think also it means that we don’t have to try for direct representation. It’s not always interesting to try to capture “tree” when there is a more essential experience or observation that can be made, even if that thing, made in language, is nonsensical. But in another way, what we write manifests itself as a presence imagined, imagined therefore real as an immanence, and that being-with can exist in a more real place, and in a series of infinite, irrational, related, linked connections or meanings or narratives, than the chair you’re sitting in when you read — and that’s what is exciting. That’s what excites me about poetry.
PK: When Colin Wilson described an Outsider, he said, “What can be said to characterize the Outsider is a sense of strangeness, of unreality.” So the Outsider Writer is someone who sees the unreality in reality. Which is not to say that she believes that ordinary, everyday reality is a total illusion, but there is “something more” out there or in there somewhere. Do you see this yearning in your poetry, this unreadable quality you just described as coming from a basic distrust of reality itself?
AR: I would hesitate to say that something “outside” is unreal, because I think it’s important that the otherness we’re discussing is quite real. I’m not sure if it’s a semantic distinction I’m making — it probably is — but to me poetry focuses on the real characteristics of what is commonly perceived to be unreal. I’m not drawing to myself what I don’t understand as a homogenizing act, but I’m going out to that impossible state to allow my thoughts (and thus my poetry) to be changed. It’s primarily a symbolic gesture because my personal life isn’t actually set up to be this ethical, but still it’s important to me and to my writing. I definitely see the “something more” that you’re referring to, or I catch glimpses of it, and I think that is the objective correlative for my work, as well as the starting point and constant motivation. And for me, reality is trustworthy because it’s predictable. You always know reality is going to blow it, is going to be painful. But what I distrust is the notion that our perception of reality is all that is the case. As an artist, that’s kind of a deal stopper for me. As a member of society, however, I can recognize and accept the value in going forward from this “reality is all we have to work with” presupposition — and it is in the tension between these two thoughts that I hang my poetry.
It’s really interesting to think this way. I haven’t done it in a long time, so I’m afraid I’m not being very sensible. I’m glad we’re talking about it though, because I think this is the framework for understanding ADAM ROBISON. Let me ask you a question: what do you think a literature that distrusts reality would be like?
PK: Thanks for that question, Adam. I’ll answer it because it’ll lead straight into the next question I wanted to ask you. And because it’s a good question. I think that, for the most part, a literature that distrusts reality might use what we commonly perceive as reality but manipulate it or it might leave this reality entirely. In the past, I think the best example would be surrealism. To tell the truth, I think the stuff you’re publishing fits this description. It’s a very free, liberated, literature. Like Matthew Simmons’s A Jello Horse. On one level, everything in the book could possibly happen…hypothetically. But the second person point of view takes us directly into another person’s body, something that obviously can’t happen in this reality, and we suddenly feel ourselves becoming this other person. I’d like to believe that there’s a sort of destiny to life, like what happens at the end of the book, and that people can be that open to honest communication with people they don’t know, but I suspect that we were glimpsing reality as it could be. I don’t know, from what I’ve seen, everything you’ve published so far has this “something more.”
OK, speaking of which, I was talking to someone about your press and he said that you had a “good ear” for literature. So that’s another one of those vague, unreadable phrases that you can’t quite put the definition logically. But we both instantly knew what was meant by that phrase. Because I do think you have a “good ear” for literature. You published a Blake Butler e-book and Shane Jones’s book and now both people are being picked up by major publishers. I know that you probably had a lot more to do with Jones’ success than Butler’s, at least directly, but, as it stands, you knew that both of these authors had a lot of talent. So I’m wondering, what’s your process as an editor like? Do you use your intuition? Do you think about a piece for a while, or do you usually know pretty quickly that you’ll be publishing something? Are you willing to work with “potential?” In other words, are you willing to spend time with an author, editing their work or do you mostly work with stuff that is already polished?
AR: Yes, it’s interesting how Matthew’s use of the second person warps the story in A Jello Horse. There was a review of it in The Believer today by Jim Ruland (he seems like an O.O.W. — Original Outsider Writer) that said, in an address to Matthew: ‘When you say “you,” you mean “me” (meaning you), right?’ It’s remarkable how much that device bends the story.
So how do I pick ‘em? I guess it’s case by case. With Blake, I had seen some of his writing around and been kind of wowed by what he was doing, so I asked him for a poem for isReads, and he followed up with a query for the chapbook series. He sent “Pretend . . .” which remains one of my favorite short stories on any of the Internets. In general I use my intuition, yes, and let the story guide me. Like with A Jello Horse, Matthew submitted that for a PDF Chapbook, and I was going to just turn it down because it was too long, but I started reading it anyway and I got the feeling that I had to make the book because it wowed me. It’s one of those things that made me say “whoa, how did he do that,” and impressing me on that level, especially by virtue of a formal conceit, is a sure way to make me work hard to find a way to put something out.
So, as to working with “potential,” if there is something in a manuscript that really captures my attention but the rest of the story needs a lot of work, I will definitely take time to edit it with the writer. I think there is a direct relationship between how much I’ll edit and how much I love the concept of a piece. Like with Light Boxes, there were a few things going on that I was transfixed by, but it was clear that Shane was just sending me an early draft. I sent him a few rounds of notes and felt like I got to participate in shaping the book, which was really rewarding. Especially because Shane’s turnaround time was amazingly swift, and amazingly dead on.
Of course, now that I’ve got all these connections in Hollywood and with high powered NYC agents, har har, I’m getting a lot of submissions that I wasn’t getting a year ago and I’ve had to really change gears. I’ve had to pass on work that last year I would have spent a lot more time with. And I’m having to pass on work that I would LOVE to publish if I could. I mean, work by authors that in the beginning I solicited but didn’t hear back from. I’ve kind of expanded out to breaking point and I wish I could fit more in, but as it is I don’t know how I’m going to be able to promote the titles I have for next year. Which I think of as a good problem.
PK: I think it’s a good problem too.
So, I guess this naturally leads us into the Shane Jones thing, which must have been quite a surreal experience for you. I know you’ve told the story elsewhere, but I’m hoping you could let our readers know how all that went down.
Also, do people seriously say that Jones sold out? Or is that all tongue in cheek? I mean it’s the exact same book that you published, right? What’s wrong with a writer wanted a bigger audience for their work?
AR: Well it wasn’t surreal, but it was really exciting and nervewracking. I think because of all the attention the book had been getting along the way — it was released in February and by April (I think it was April), it was selected as a “Mover and Shaker” at Goodreads. It had received some good reviews and I was approached by a publishing house in Germany and one in Croatia about doing translations, so hearing from Dickhouse, the production company that Spike Jonze runs with Johnny Knoxville and Jeff Tremaine, wasn’t totally out of left field. The director of development there had read an interview with Shane and wanted to check out the book. Naturally I was giddy about the attention, but I didn’t really expect it to work out like it did. So when it got written about in Variety and all the media blogs, I think some of the big house publishers caught wind of it. Penguin contacted me about the reprint rights and Shane got an agent. It seems to me that these are all the things that writers want to happen, but Shane got them in reverse order.
I can’t imagine people actually think that’s a sell out maneuver. I think, maybe, that word got used as a joke in the beginning but it went away pretty fast. The indie book world isn’t the same as the grunge movement in 1992.
PK: I’m a bit confused: what does this “reverse order” mean?
AR: I mean, the usual steps to selling your book’s film rights to a major director go: write a book, get an agent, get the book published by a big house, hope that Hollywood takes interest.
The fact that Shane’s case is different is one of the most profound examples of how the digital economy has changed the media business. Shane’s steps went: catch Hollywood’s interest, get an offer from a big house, then get an agent. His agent essentially cherry picked on that play.
Of course, I acknowledge that this recounting diminishes Publishing Genius’s contribution to what’s happened, but I don’t mean for that diminishing to extend to PG’s stature or legitimacy in the publishing world. Still compared to what can possibly happen with Shane’s work, the 600 copies of LB that I printed and the attention I was able to bring it are pretty small. But I’m not trying to say there’s no value to what I do, or what other small presses do.
PK: Wow! I had thought, from the buzz and everything, that there were more than 600 copies floating around. I hope you kept a couple to sell for $$$ when the movie comes out!
OK. That got out of hand and I apologize. And you’re not a Republican. I’m sorry I told that guy that you were. But I was pretty drunk at the time and you should’ve seen your face!
OK. Enough of that. I have to tell my readers that if you see something on the Publishing Genius site that you want, GET IT NOW! I often lolligag and didledaddle for months before I buy a small press book. I don’t know why I do that. Well, I think I know why. There’s just so much to choose from that I want to make sure I’m spending my limited free money wisely. As a consequence, though, I’ve missed out on some PG books that I wanted. I make sure to preorder now. But selling out of books is a good thing. It means you’re doing well. Are you doing well? What kind of print run do you usually start out with? Do you order more when they run out. How do you know when you’re not going to print anymore copies of a certain title?
AR: I’m still trying to come up with some response to that time when you called me a Republican. I guess it shouldn’t really be considered an insult or something, right? I mean, it’s too bad the GOP has been sidetracked by inane values issues, and I don’t necessarily agree with all of their policies, but it seems too simplistic to assume anyone on the street would get whatever joke you were making.
Uh, okay, weird interview pause.
Uh.
As far as how PG is doing financially, I would say I’m operating close enough to the $0 line that I can think of it as a hobby. It doesn’t drain me more than being in a band does for a guitar player who buys new equipment regularly. I usually start with a print run of 200 and make more, but I’m thinking of upping that initial printing because I’m getting more distribution. I will keep all of the titles in print forever except for the handmade one that went out of print a while ago, Whale Box by Lauren Bender. And that is online as an eBook.
PK: Heh. Well, I guess I’m just unlucky! Because the two books I missed out on were the Shane Jones book and the Lauren Bender book, though I did read the Lauren Bender one online. I was at the reading when Shane Jones was here and wanted to get his book but I was hella sick and had to leave early so I never got it. But now I’ll just have to wait for the swanky Penguin version.
I just realized that I’ve talked way too much during this interview. But I get excited about this scene and really dig local happenings and authors. Do you forgive me?
OK. Thanks a lot for doing this interview. One last question, though. What’s the most fun thing you’ve done this past year?
AR: Shane showed me the cover of the swanky Penguin version yesterday. It’s pretty cool. It’s fun to watch it develop now in its parallel universe.
I’ve enjoyed this interview — I didn’t think you talked too much at all. My favorite part was thinking about the theory stuff. It got me motivated to get back into that ethico-linguistic future philology.
What’s the most fun thing I’ve done this year? I played cornhole, which is that game where you throw the beanbag into a box. I was thoroughly exhausted while my band was ending up our tour in Charlottesville, VA, and I was starting to get depressed, and starting to drink four Bud Lights at breakfast, when Jamie (bass player) got a call inviting us to a pool party. We picked up shorts at the Family Dollar and found ourselves lounging by the pool at one of those young, affluent condo complexes. I lost a race swimming but won in the tailgate competition, and that turned my funk around. So much, so much blue sky that day.
If you enjoyed this interview, you really should check out Adam Robinson’s press, Publishing Genius here
Thanks for this interview. It’s great seeing deserving indies getting mainstream attention. Congrats, Adam!