Howlapalooza

Wowsers. Any doubt in my mind about the legitimacy of my enthusiasm was quelled yesterday when I experienced the one-two punch of Howl and Pitchapalooza.

I grant that Howl is not technically an official Litquake event (not one at all, actually), but there were flyers for the film all over the sign-in tables. More to the point, the contrast between these consecutive events is indicative of Litquake’s diverse programming and many-headedness. It is often possible to find inspiration between programs, for while each panel, reading, or seminar is informative, it takes the big picture to truly make use of any specialist's advice.

Many people are giving Howl lukewarm and even scathing reviews. The film is certainly not without its faults, but I thought it was a sexy film — sexy in that Henry Miller way that imbues in you a lust for life. Of course, I feel that way every time I hear the poem “Howl” and, though criticisms that Franco does the poem and the poet injustice may be apropos, I certainly did not go into the screening expecting anyone to enhance the damn thing, and am surprised that some people did expect this. The main problem is fusion of various forms of film — animation, drama based on court script, historical re-creation, and the curious documentary-style choice of interview with, instead of the subject in question, an actor (Franco) pretending to be the subject (Ginsberg). Much of the film's value consists of verbatim transcription from actual interviews with Ginsberg; that the directors conveyed this through faux-interviews, for example, seems not only to belittle the content but to render it suspect.

But as I don’t review films and know little about them, I won’t attempt that here. Instead I will focus on a few of the powerful moments in the film, such as the juxtaposition of the poet and the prosecutor reading the same lines of “Howl” in Six Gallery and the courtroom, respectively, as Ginsberg's peers and those in the courtroom had quite different reactions. Focus not on the poor choice to have the audience members look the camera in the eye (as though — as Mick LaSalle says in The Chronicle — they have the consciousness of someone living in 2010), but on our responsibility as civilians to weigh the purport of words and how we interact with them: to read books as though on a jury charged with the high task of deciding the future. What makes sense in that gallery may indeed not make sense in the courtroom. Is that true?

Present is that righteous recognition that there are books with enough power to change the way we see the world. When the attorney defending Saturday night’s (sold out) Barbary Coast Award recipient Lawrence Ferlinghetti says, in his closing statement, “Let there be light. Let there be honesty,” you will get the good chills up and down your spine! The gods' work, people. Ginsberg expounds on this freedom of expression:

“We say anything we want to — we talk about assholes. We talk about cock. We talk about what kind of relationships we’re in.” He went on to talk about the distinction between what you tell your friends and what you tell your muse — and that one should eliminate this distinction, if possible — that that was his goal: “To write the same way … that you are.” He spoke a lot about falling into a “fear trap” in which people are afraid to express who they really are, to talk how they talk no matter how strange that expression might be.

This was of course one of the main topics in the courtroom: in the crucial discussion regarding the poem’s literary merit, one of the principal debates was on form, and an expert witness testifying against Ginsberg (I mean Ferlinghetti) made the argument that “Howl” imitated the form of Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” and therefore was not original, and that no imitation can be a great expression. Ginsberg talked a lot about the development of his poetry and how it formed from attempts to express himself honestly when he wasn’t able to do so on a personal level. He said he was writing for Kerouac, that he was forced to try to enchant Jack to keep his attention because Jack didn’t want to hear Ginsberg's self-pity or pathetic attempts to cleverly mask his sexuality. Also, he wrote things he could and would never tell his father. “I assumed it wouldn’t be published, therefore I could write whatever I wanted to,” he said.

That particular quote gave me plenty to think about as I walked down Post Street from the Kabuki directly to the Hobart Building, where I went to catch Pitchapalooza — the complete other end of the spectrum in which authors pitch book ideas to industry specialists (agents, publishers, and authors) to hone the fine (and debatably necessary) art of selling one’s idea before it is even written. The contrast in these events had me quite excited as I walked down what seemed less a street than a path between relevant discussions.

Hosts and Book Doctors David Henry Sterry and Arielle Eckstut teamed up with Author Enablers Sam Barry and Kathi Kamen Goldmark for the event, which was introduced by Litquake co-founder/director Jack Boulware:







The thing is that in today’s world, when so many people are trying to publish books — and when it’s possible and actually quite simple to publish your own — when the major publishing houses are facing a transition the likes of which has debatably not happened since the printing press … there is a very fine science that may be (and arguably must be) employed in order to travel that grandiose path. As Arielle says (and I do encourage you to watch the full videos here), there are professionals in every corner of the industry for whom these issues comprise the daily struggle. To have access to these experts is an invaluable resource, one that can take a work of art and turn it into a conversation. For it is one thing to create a work of art and quite another to disseminate it.

When asked about the potential lasting effects of “Howl” — another criteria used to establish the book’s literary value — one expert witness responded with the excellent explanation that the court case could itself help establish the poem as a turning point for — and allowance of — poems of its type. The significance of the poem, in his opinion, was its potential to pave the way for a broader conversation. As the defense won, of course, ‘poems of its type’ have flourished, and a freedom of form and of ideas runs rampant throughout contemporary poetry. Damn Bukowski. But so now one must really take both aspects seriously: the creation and the distribution.

I always thought I would sit in my room alone and create fictions and poetry that I would never even try to get published; I would let them accumulate in notebooks and trust in providence to publish them when the world was ready for their vast wisdom and unparalleled humanity. The validity of publication seemed to me then an unnecessary stamp, and the pursuit thereof pedantic and somehow completely beside the point.

But this is um the information age, when we can speak directly with people who occupy every niche of the book industry — from editors to publishers, agents, and even the authors themselves — we can communicate with the entire spectrum of humanity in real time. Why would we wait and hide our poetry in dusty books and drawers? The art today, ladies and gentlemen, is a balance between creation and one’s ability to share that creation. There's no reason to pretend people aren't around.

I’m not trying to denigrate all the underground artists who are starving for their ideas and so sensitive they could break with a single thought (cheers to you, my bread and water friends), but one could argue that those who do not attempt to communicate directly with the world are turning away from it. It was with that attitude that I approached Pitchapalooza last night, that I entered the room with a perspective far from the one I used to have as a budding young Ginsberg aspirant. It surprised me.

Let's reiterate: Ginsberg required a sense of freedom, depended on the notion that essentially no one would read his writing, to express himself honestly and openly. Yet one should develop a pitch with the same artistry with which he or she creates, should have exactly the world (read: market) in mind. How is this conflict to be resolved? Is it possible to be honest of self both to ministers of money and to the public at large?

Watch these various takes on the pitch and the reactions of Litquake’s friends, the experts. I have selected these due to their disparities in content and in style (again, you can watch (nearly) all of them on my channel). See the creativity behind each “sales pitch.” If you believe in what you have to say, world, then you better know how to dress it up and walk it out of the house. Or …












I missed the last few readers because my camera died, but Mr. Sterry said he probably got footage, so check back later for that. As a result, I missed one of the two winners of the pitchapalooza (apologies to winner and reader alike)! Chris Cole, who I am proud to have published here here and here (!) was one of the two:



 

As Sam points out near the end, in one of the more poignant moments of the night: "this is what we're dealing with." Excellent pitch after excellent pitch, each very strong and creative. You need to know these things.

In a nutshell, these are the elements of a good pitch (in no particular order):


Have presence and take your time.
Present any relevant expertise you have at the beginning of your pitch. If you don't have the credibility, find an expert to write your preface or an endorsement.
Make clear what your genre is: it will be confusing if the agent doesn't know whether your book is memoir or fiction, for instance, and the agent wants immediately to categorize you.
If you have a platform, mention it. Publishers want to know that you can get your book out into the world, especially as marketing budgets evaporate.
Present a strong title up front.
Don't get bogged down in description or plot summary — it's better to start with the strongest image you have and fill in the details as you go.
Capture the voice of your book so the agent knows what to expect.
Performance can absolutely make or break your pitch. Therefore, make it dramatic (no monotone).


You can learn a lot more about the process of getting your book out there by checking out Write That Book Already!, written by Kamen Goldmark and Barry, and Putting Your Passion into Print: Get Your Book Published Successfully, by Eckstut and Sterry.




I hope that has you psyched some. When people ask me what I’m going to during Litquake, I tell them that I never completely decide until things are happening; it’s important sometimes to follow your instincts. Attending Howl was a last minute decision, but as you can see, it turned out to be perfectly timed.

See you at 111 Minna on Friday night for the opening reception. It’s free!



— yours, Evan