Much of a poet’s life is a triumph of blind optimism over cold reality. Preparing to head out to a gig, you mull over the hard-gained experience of years of performance, consider the maximum number of books you’re likely to sell – settling on a wildly impossible number, despite all the evidence to the contrary – and pack those. Then you add the same number again, because why not? Maybe this is the one night of the millenium where the good folk of [insert town name here] feel – each and every one – compelled to buy a volume of poetry. And then, backpack bulging with copies of your work carefully swaddled in bubble wrap, you squeeze in a few more, because what good are they doing sat at home?
Returning, several hours later, your rucksack lighter by a meagre two or three copies, if at all, your confidence in the public’s willingness to throw open their wallets – temporarily – dented, you vow you’ll remember this, and travel lighter next time. But even as you say it, you know that’s a lie. Books didn’t sell at this gig? They’re more likely to at the next one. It’s the law of averages, right?
That’s how things work for me, anyway. There is, as they say, no fool like an old fool. And then yesterday‘s gig happened. I’d driven to Ludlow with fellow poet Emma Purshouse – each of us had a ten-minute spot supporting the wonderful Hollie McNish in the town’s Assembly Rooms – and the car was positively awash with books. Even we knew we’d gone too far this time, but hey, nothing ventured…
We mooched about Ludlow in the sunshine, returned to the car to lug our books to the venue, had a quick soundcheck, and met up with Hollie, who is a glorious human being. Warm, friendly, incredibly supportive of other poets, and an utterly compelling performer. If you want to see a poet single-handedly dismantle sexism, misogyny, and the patriarchy and make you laugh while they’re doing it, get thyself to a Hollie McNish gig pronto. You won’t regret it. Emma and I did our sets, scurried to the back of the auditorium during the interval, and then spent the duration of Hollie’s set laughing more than is seemly, and clapping till our hands were sore.
And at the end of the night, when the queue of people wanting Hollie to sign their copy of her book Lobster’ had finally dwindled, we returned to the bookstall to see how we’d done. Reader, I returned home with one copy of snapshots. One. Emma’s weighty bag was almost empty. Thank you, Ludlow. Thank you.
We all know what this means, of course. Next gig, I’ll take even more books.