An Open Letter to the Literati,
Almost exactly six years ago, a man walked into the bar where I worked and ordered the 187,381st Brandy Old Fashioned Sweet I would make in my lifetime. Something flashed inside me and time stopped. I knew I’d never forgive myself if I spent the rest of my life bartending. It was time to put everything on the line and make a go of VA Press.
A few years before that, the press was born from an obsession with creating a publishing outlet that could represent writers like the ones I knew, who lacked academic ties, money, or fancy friends. You know, writers.
It felt like I’d found my destiny, binding collections by regional authors and compilations of entries from Secret Words, using wingnuts and 2”x4”s as clamps to hold the Elmer’s while the pages dried. Word got around and authors started sending stuff they hoped would fit. I booked some of them readings and tours. I fell in love with editing and designing books, giving unknown artists a stepping-stone, establishing a credible body of work that could speak for itself.
100 books and nine years later, these obsessions have come to fruition, in spite of none of our titles finding remarkable circulation. I’m unspeakably proud of what VA has become. 100 books is a lot. To say too many would be a disservice to the indescribably brilliant authors whose works bear our tag. But maybe some of these titles would’ve benefited from more attention. I had a warped idea that having a canon of great poetry would generate a reputation that would inspire exploration of the catalogue. It was a far-sighted and egotistical vision for which I apologize. It’s hard to see reality when you believe you’ve found magic.
I’ve made so many deep bonds and fallen in love with so many words. I truly have lived my dream, and have paid for it the whole way. Not selling books and continuing to produce them means debt. At first I paid out of pocket, then, possessing the naïve confidence that can only come from the arts, took out a few credit cards, then whatever was needed to get the next book made. I had to live in my car. I had to declare bankruptcy. The press continued. Giving up was never an option.
Now we’re a nonprofit, which so far means we need multiple people to navigate an obstacle course of bureaucracy in order to produce less work than before, all for the promise of stability and longevity for the authors we’ve printed.
A week ago, I was in the middle of editing and that same flash of epiphany from six years ago hit me. It’s become obvious I’ve trapped myself in my own ideals. Nine years of uncompensated labor has taken its toll. I no longer love what I do.
I’m unfathomably grateful to Rena Medow for helping preserve the press by creating the nonprofit. I cannot thank her and the rest of our board enough for their unwavering support of this house built from genuine love for the printed word. I’m equally appreciative of the support we’ve received through donations, subscriptions, and people gushing over our books.
I believe what we’ve created is worth keeping in print. Hopefully, the board will be able to find inspired, motivated souls to continue the work that’s been done. Should this not prove possible, we will do everything we can to find a home for our books at another nonprofit with stronger framework. This goal may be as lofty as anything else that’s sprung from my skull, but it’s all I can offer after a decade of broken dreams.
I plan to finish editing the remaining books to which I’ve committed, though I completely understand that authors may be reluctant to commit their work to an uncertain future. I’ve spent enough time fretting about that future, trying to pass the torch a number of times with no success. Either someone will take it or the light will burn out.
Thanks to all the writers who’ve allowed me to make their words into living objects. What we’ve done together is astounding. I must walk away before the memory is soiled.
Freddy La Force
Milwaukee
May 2nd, 2023
