Yesterday, NPR aired an engaging tribute to Russian poet Andrei Voznesensky, who died earlier this week.  One part of the story, which was by writer and book critic Alan Cheuse, almost took my breath away. Voznesensky, Cheuse said, filled sports stadiums with tens of thousands of fans. That in itself is amazing, but there was something else: All those fans chanted Voznesensky’s poems with him.

Kelsey and I do our best rock star imitation at a recent poetry/old time music performance. Tens of thousands of chanting fans not pictured.

This weekend I am having a poetry reading in Bell Buckle, TN, population 400 and something. I am quite sure that a stadium full of people will not be in attendance. I am quite sure that no one will be chanting my poems as I read them. And I am even a bit afraid that NO ONE will come.

Despite the fact that I’ve been involved in marketing at my “real job” for quite some time, I have found it SO hard to market myself, essentially, and promote my poetry book. Here’s how the promotion for this event has gone: I wrote an email about the event and then eyeballed everyone in my address book, thinking things like “She’s too busy with her kids,” “He won’t want to drive that far,” and “She’s already heard me before.” And I didn’t email those people. I couldn’t bring myself to “intrude” on them, despite the fact that they are people I know, people who presumably have some interest in what’s going on in my life.

I followed a similar pattern on Facebook, creating an event and inviting some folks, mentioning it on my status a time or two – but what kept me from inviting everyone I know?

The answer to that question probably lies in some sort of psychoanalysis, and I don’t want to go there. But you should know that despite my reticence, I did still invite some people I thought unlikely to come. I did push my boundaries, even if you might argue that I didn’t push them enough.

I’ve been with author friends when they’ve had inexplicably low turnouts at events that were well-publicized. Even very well-known authors tell stories of their bookstore appearances where no one shows up. It’s hard not to feel demoralized in such a situation – it’s like throwing a party and inviting all the neighbors, and none of them show.

And yet, I know not to take things personally. And I know that I shouldn’t equate “success” with a high turnout. Yes, there’s a chance no one will come, but there’s a better chance that at least a few people will be there. And if only a few people are there, I’ll have a better chance to connect with them than if there were hoards of people clawing for my autograph. And there’s also the chance that someone will come who totally surprises me.

Of course, there’s also the viewpoint that I should be perfectly happy if no one came, if I consider these lines by Emily Dickinson:

I’m nobody! Who are you?/Are you nobody, too?/…How dreary to be somebody!

Read the entire short poem on poets.org.

Perhaps the final analysis of this weekend will somehow vindicate my methods – or perhaps it will convince me to approach my next event much differently. Either way, I know I will learn something – and I’ll be back to share the results with you.

In the meantime, how about you? Would you prefer life as a nobody (like Dickinson pretty much was during her lifetime), or as a somebody like Voznesensky, a rock star in his life’s pursuit? I’m honestly not sure which life I’d choose. What are your thoughts?

Related links:

On NPR: Remembering Poet Andrei Voznesensky

Kory Wells would like to say she brazenly tossed aside her twenty-year career as a software developer to forge a lucrative career in poetry. She’s content to report that she now writes poetry, prose, corporate communications, and the occasional snippet of software code in a life-work balance that functions pretty well most of the time. Author of the poetry collection Heaven Was the Moon, she’s been recognized by Ladies’ Home Journal for her “standout” writing in the anthology She’s Such a Geek. Visit Kory's website.
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