THE BOOK FIGHT

of how the oil shortage was affecting their lives—through blog posts, voice recordings, pictures, video, and other user-generated content.

For the record, I’ve worked on my own experimental projects, too; one of my favorites, Dark Detour, is a Halloween horror anthology series told in real-time through social media and more. Happening in the days leading up to Halloween night, you’re invited to virtually travel in real-time with a series of hapless victims as they descend deeper into a place from where there seems to be no escape. It’s a horror story for the digital age; part of the fun is that this story was delivered through our characters phone to yours in various ways.

My belief is that innovations in storytelling lie not so much in the structure or shape of stories, as our brains are hardwired to recognize these patterns of quest, voyage-and-return, rise of the underdog, and overcoming the monster—but instead lie in the content, the execution, and the experiential and emotional considerations. And for me, story is an experience that takes us to a place where we ache to go again, and again, and again, to tell our friends. The convergence and experimentation of story and technology was summed up perfectly by Don Draper in Episode 13, Season 1 of Mad Men as he chokes up with emotion, watching footage of his family on a carousel during a pitch to Kodak: “Technology is a glittering lure. But there is the rare occasion when the public can be engaged on a level beyond flash, if they have a sentimental bond with the product”.

Of course, cross-platform storytelling isn’t simply about nostalgia. It’s more ad-

venturous than that. But where it’s going is the great unknown, which is exactly what makes it so exciting and enticing. One of my first questions to storytellers, filmmakers and clients is “how do you want your audience to feel when they close down the laptop, switch off the television, shut the book or leave the theatre?” And the language around that reply needs to be more deeply considered than a simple, “great,” “happy,” or “that they loved it!” UK filmmaker and storyteller Martin Percy understands this on a level that really triggers active considerations of behavior change with his work Climate Emergency Interactive—a virtual watch party that aims to turn viewers into doers. This is an opportunity for people from around the world gather online to experience a film together. It’s about the climate Girl with no face, Arles, France 2021 © Eric Kwaku Akoto and ecological emergency. And how it relates to social justice, colonialism, sexism, intersectionality, politics, and creativity. It’s a collaboration between UNIT9 and the University of the Arts London (UAL) and was written by UAL students and staff, aiming to help students at UAL and people around the world find ways to build a more sustainable future. It turns viewers into doers. Real Talk About Suicide is his interactive film with a mission. In ACROSS ALL the UK, suicide is the leading cause of CULTURES, death for men and women under the age of 35. But, remarkably, most of us have STORIES REMIND very little idea about how to actually help a suicidal person. US OF WHAT IT IS Fundamentally, as humans, we have an intrinsic core desire for story; to give TO BE HUMAN. context and meaning. Great stories make us feel, but also present us with scenarios to consider how we might react, what we might do in the event of, or force us to form an opinion, and to look at an international roster of fabulous stories and storytellers underpins that we, as storytellers, have a great responsibility to continue to build bridges and never walls. ●

THE UNEXPECTED PAYOFF OF POETRY

LA MARKS

o pay an artist

TIs to invest in new seeds To plant deep within

I’m not precious about the way I try to reach out and change the world. Poetry for me is a means, not an end. Poetry is the canoe to cross the river, not the burden to carry up the mountain a la Fitzcarraldo. Ask me why I have written impromptu typewriter poems on demand for the past ten years, and I’ll tell you it is because it became apparent that it was simply the most sustainable way to practice the literary artform. It was the one way that I could get paid to write and perform, as well as a way for me to create a positive impact through one-on-one interactions with strangers, and create a ripple effect of opportunity through employment opportunities for fellow writers. I’m good at it, the world needs it, I like doing it, and I can make a living from it: The “why” for me was as easy for me as ikigai.

IKIGAI: the Japanese concept of discovering your life’s purpose through four measurements

• that which you love • that through which you can earn a living • that which you are good at • that which the world needs

It was the “how” that wasn’t always easy though—it rarely is for writers of any genre, but especially for poets. Broadway and the movie biz have done an incredible job of commercializing and cementing their role in our economy and culture. Visual artists have blue chip galleries and a glitzy world of international art fairs to lure the moneyed classes into their orbit. Chefs and fashion designers are high profile, highly paid, and show up on magazine covers and morning talk shows. The literary arts has the publishing industry, sure, but it is insular, exclusive, hierarchical and hypocritical (sorry but where is the lie) and not exactly a tourism draw or a hub of “exciting” (read: expensive) cultural activity. Even though our words are

THREE PROSE POEMS

JOSE HERNANDEZ DIAZ

The Human Tree I started growing tree branches out of my head and hair after my girlfriend broke up with me. She said I was a lost soul and a bad seed. I told her I’m talented just a bit disorganized. That’s when branches began to dangle from my forehead. Eventually, lush leaves bloomed from the brown branches. I was turning into a tree all right. I accepted it. After all, I was indifferent. A lost soul one could say. What did it matter if I had crossed over to plant life? I was alone. Perhaps a blue bird could live among my branches. So long as a woodpecker doesn’t destroy my bark, I’ll be fine. I’ll survive. I always have.

New Kid in Town I was on the subway when I saw a clown, a pirate, and a mermaid. Since I was new to the city, I tried to act casual. The clown was dressed like a bright rainbow; the pirate had his trusty parrot side kick, per usual; and the mermaid was majestic like the ocean. The funny thing is nothing happened. The clown got off Downtown in a hurry. Next, the pirate exited on Main St. and the mermaid must have gotten off after me. I tipped my Dodgers’ hat to her as I exited at the circus. I enjoyed my visit at the circus. I saw a man on a tricycle juggling a samurai sword. I saw a lion mimicking ballet. The move to the city was just what I needed.

Trapped I’m trapped inside of this prose poem. I can’t get out. The lack of line breaks is too liberating, it’s anarchy in here. Everyone is doing as they wish, feet up on the coffee table. I saw a man writing graffiti on the Governor’s mansion, the bravado. The wind is pleasant here. Pleasant like the ocean. I wanted to be a short story writer growing up; I settled for a puppeteer. I like the music in here, jazz and Spanish guitar. If you ask me, I don’t think prose poems should last too long. Eventually, you run out of gas, naturally, like a tattooed biker on the interstate. I’m trapped inside of this prose poem, but I don’t want to get out. It's nice and cozy in here. I’m invincible. the building block of all communication and culture, from the page, to the stage, to the screen. I am constantly trying to envision the literary arts community doing better at being seen, valued, respected, and supported by everyone in our society. I’m a founding member of PEN America’s Literary Action Coalition, and we’re working to earn that recognition from the government, investors, culture makers, consumers, and the population at large. Like I said, it’s not easy.

You might agree with what I’m saying, that there is a need here, an obvious niche to fill and bridge to build. But why me? Why me specifically? Am I really qualified for the job, never having taken a poetry course in my life, no framed BFA or MFA diplomas on my wall, no relative who just happens to be Marina Abromovic’s accountant? Well, listen to this: in public elementary school in Sacramento, CA, my fourth-grade teacher wrote “such a creative and smart girl, but she talks way too much and distracts the other students with her stories” while I wrote not one, not two, but three “Young Authors” books to submit to a district-wide writing competition. Whether I won the competition is a story for me to tell my therapist another day. If that childhood anecdote doesn’t strengthen my application for this peculiar role, maybe I don’t even want the job.

See, I’ve always known what my mission in life is, even as a little kid. My mission, my calling, is to help people connect in creative ways to build a better structure for society. Not just for connection’s sake: again, it is the means not the end. We need to connect more deeply and must actively reject the alienation and isolation that our society sells us, so we can reweave the fabric of our communities and patch together a more resilient, equitable and empathetic society, cutting out the ripped and rotten bits to heal and grow stronger. I have known my goal since my memory of conscious thought. The problem was I didn’t know how to go about achieving it.

First I tried architecture, designing villages that would encourage human interactivity. Then I realized architects need to love math. Next I tried diplomacy, imagining that governments could speak to each other and somehow improve the day to day lives of their citizens. Then I moved to Washington, DC, and realized that only the wealthy and aristocratically connected can shape the policies that rule the world. Next I tried tourism, sure that individuals crossing national borders would share experiences that could bridge the gaps between them. Then I saw that only elites can afford to leave their countries. A brief stint as an executive at a social media start up helped me discover my love of The Deal, but the megalomania of homogenous tech founders was more than I could stand.

Then and only then, did I discover poetry. Not writing poetry for myself to get the rabid animals of my feelings out and capture them static on a page. Not writing poetry in hopes of being heard by thousands of adoring readers and fans. Writing “poetry as entrepreneurship,” as an antidote to alienation, isolation, fear, apathy, self-hatred, and the crushing weight of our banal, basic, and cruel existence. Poetry to pay my bills in a way that didn’t make me feel like I was lying to myself or others.

I’m doing it all Doing it all for the love And for the money

So now that you get the “why”—buckle up and let’s talk about “how.”

In November 2012, already disillusioned with grad school, I brought a typewriter and some performance artists to the opening of a Japanese restaurant on K Street in Washington, DC. Random, gray-suited people walked by and paused, intrigued, as we whipped up fresh poems like omelets, surrounded by mixed media art we’d hung on the walls to turn the place into a fully immersive art experience. It was totally unexpected, rich, and nourishing, and of course we focused especially on haiku. And I was blown away by how fun and easy it was for me to spin these tiny poems and hand them off to their recipients with no hesitation, doubt, or even editing. Yes, the typos abounded. But as I passed each tiny literary gift to the strangers before me, and their eyes lit up with surprise and delight, I was moved myself, and the customers flowed into the shop. It was like I’d opened a portal into a slightly different reality.

I knew there was something there. What I didn’t plan was a decade of entrepreneurship built around it. In July 2013, I moved to New York City to work for a now defunct bike tour company, immediately meeting two other typewriter haiku writers. (I decided the proper English term for this is haikuist by the way—I don’t own the name but I’m sure I coined it.) We started writing haiku on typewriters on the streets of Williamsburg, and in no time for Manhattan corporate clients as well.

big city - big goals bright lights shine and spotlights blind money flowed like wine

After three years of growing interest and profit margins at the game, in June 2016 I knew that it was time for me to quit my day job and become (the world’s first?) full-time, professional typewriter haikuist, and grow our group from three hipsters in New York to a network of twenty five poets coast to coast performing at events for all the top tech companies, artsy orgs, and funky philanthropists. It was a heady time: We were in a political crisis, but the economy was booming. I was managing all day-to-day operations of the growing company, but I also felt unheard by my business partners and started to realize that while our work was fulfilling my mission in some ways, we didn’t share the same values or goals.

we’re living the dream but something isn’t quite right i’m losing my voice

By the end of 2018 I hit an impasse with my two erstwhile collaborators, and knew I had to change something to get back on track with my mission. I didn’t set out to become a narcissistic rock and roll typewriter monkey, and I needed my work to directly correlate with my joy and an elevation of human consciousness. I launched my own company on my birthday, January 6, 2019, unleashing a year of retaliatory action and trauma that you’ll have to read my memoir to even begin to understand. (For now, let’s just say it involves a night in a Kings County Jail and learning a lot about something called “malicious prosecution.”) But against all odds, my new company thrived, and our capabilities and roster of talent grew and diversified. I put forth a clear new vision and stopped feeling ashamed of myself for taking credit for my hard work. I survived the most trying year of my life, and made a profit (and some enemies, duh) while doing so. And we weren’t just doing typewriter haiku at corporate events anymore (though we still love doing that and it still amazes people). We started working with ongoing clients making original content, creating campaigns, copywriting, teaching, curating spoken word performances and competitions, and I consulted on freelance biz dev and media projects using the skills I learned growing my own business.