[To John Martin]
August 29, 1978
Just read your letters to Wormwood [Review] and N[ew] Y[ork] Q[uarterly] and myself. I think you’ve gotten yourself into too much of a tizzy over nothing. And I also get the feeling that sometimes when you write to me you consider me somewhat of an idiot.
Let’s clarify some points as we hit them in your letter. “The books we publish here are really the important part of the whole scene, as that’s where your real income is coming from.”
Point: my income from you is $500 a month, which amounts to $6,500 a year. Out of this I pay child support, which is nontax deductible. As the big boy of your publishing house I am probably listed in the poverty level and eligible for food stamps, and have been for years. Of course, you know that in former years I’ve lived off of less, much less. I haven’t complained about this because I am crazy enough to just want to sit down to a typewriter and write. But what I do object to is your telling me how well Sparrow and Buk are doing. It’s not all that prosperous and never has been, for me. I speak here of economics only.
“If I didn’t publish your books here first, then there would be no German and French translations.” This reminds me much of a statement my father made when I objected going to World War II. “But, my son, if it hadn’t been for a war I wouldn’t have met your mother and you would not have been born.” That, it seems to me, was not a very good pro-war argument. Your statement is not necessarily true. Some of my work was translated and appeared in foreign publications that were never published by Black Sparrow. And, who knows? Someone might have suggested a book translation? This is the importance of appearing in magazines. I think the main reason my work has been translated is that, so far, my writing has been strong enough and interesting enough to warrant it.
Marvin Malone has been publishing special editions and centerfolds of writers as a regular feature of his magazine for years. He has done it several times in the past for me and it never bothered you before.
And the reference to a “leash” around Malone’s neck . . . my god, please. You ask that I not feel too free about giving away “large chunks of work, as per Malone.” John, all writers submit their work to journals as they write it, poets especially, novelists sometimes and short story and article writers, always. There is nothing criminal or foolish about this process. I send large areas of work to Wormwood and the NYQ because they are the best two poetry journals in existence. I write 5, 6, 7, no, I would say ten times the amount of poetry that the average poet writes. If I divided all the poems into little batches of 4 or 5 and sent them off to every crappy little mag in America I wouldn’t have time to write, I’d be pasting up envelopes night and day. I think that you are getting over-possessive and wary. There aren’t that many spooks in the bush—you have thousands of poems to choose from and they are still leaping off this typer like crazy.
Then in your letter to Malone you ask for ten of the chapbooks to sell to your customers. I don’t think he’ll react too well to that. It’s like you’re looking for every edge. Say like in the 75 (really 150) drawings I do for each book. That takes me a month during which time I can do nothing else creative. You sell 75 of these books (signed) for $2625, which, if you subtract it from my $6500 salary leaves you only $3875 to pay me. You’ve got wet back labor working for you. And once you told me over the phone, “Just think, for every drawing you do, you get $35.” That’s when I first thought, this man really thinks me an idiot.
“Let me bring out the books.”
You are, John. But you’re often like a jealous wench.
I remember the projected book of Bukowski-Richmond letters. You went crazy on that one. And Richmond went crazier.
As far as, “the whole secret is to be big enough so that the work gets around and is read by a decent number of people, and yet remain small enough so that the Internal Revenue Service doesn’t come around and ask for an accounting of every penny since 1971.”
John, if they do, I’ve got nothing to worry about. I remember once when your office was still in L.A., coming around to do some signings and you said as I walked in, “Here comes the great man, here comes the great writer.” O.k. I brought your shipping clerk some beer. Then we got to talking around and your shipping clerk gave you a little sass, and you turned to me and said, “Look at this $90 a week shipping clerk trying to wise it up with me.” That sounded pretty good to me because you were paying me between $250 and $300 a month, I forget which. And he wasn’t even a famous shipping clerk.
I’ve stuck with you. I’ve had offers from New York publishers. I’ve had offers from competitors. I’ve stayed with you. People have told me that I was stupid, many people. That hasn’t bothered me. I make up my own mind for my own reasons. You were there when nobody else was, you helped me get money through archives. You bought me a good typewriter. Nobody was knocking at my door. I have loyalty. I guess it comes from my German blood. But I ask you to leave my mind clear for my writing; all I want to do is type and drink my wine and do some small things. Letters like this are a waste of energy. Just let me write and mail my shit out like any other writer. Don’t be too much of a mother hen. I’ve lucked it with some good poems this year, plenty of them. I’m glad they are still arriving and swarming all over the place. Women is my best work. It’s going to cause a great deal of hatred, much reaction, just like any excellent original work of art has always done. Fine. And we should do better in Europe with this work than any other. But I want to go on, I want to write and keep right on doing my act. I just wish you wouldn’t treat me always like the complete idiot. I know what’s going on. That’s why I’m able to write it down on paper.
You are just like anybody else I know in my personal life. People have a tendency to guide me around, to pull me around by the nose. Once in a while I have to give them a nip on the hand. My old black cat, Butch, does that once in a while. I understand him more and more. Let’s hope that you understand me. It’s a long time to 80, if I make it, so let’s make the road clear with no bullshit on the path. I want to come to your funeral and be able to drop a tear and a small bouquet of flowers. Ok?