You're sick of hearing about it I know, but recently, after thinking I was actually done with that Ziegfeld collection, I realized I had several drafts in my files that I’d arrogantly labeled, “FINAL.” Ha. I’ve spent quality time every day this past week reviewing those drafts, making notes on one main version, and retyping the whole thing yet again.
There’s a lot of spark I tend to leave out of subsequent drafts, and this process has really livened up the collection. I had random single versions of poems as well, and they were reviewed and had choice lines moved to the main version, too. Sometimes there’s just a line or phrase that really shines, and it leaves me wondering how it was excised in the first place!
I also found poems that ultimately hadn’t made the cut. The collection has a sort of narrative arc to it, and I have been so drawn into the lives of there people, Anna Held, Marilyn Miller, Ziegfeld himself, that digressive poems have naturally been written, but now do not contribute to the greater work.
I’ve made some other decisions, too. I contacted a friend with many years of experience to proofread the finished work, because let’s face it— it’s nearly impossible to do so on your own. I have made the offer when distributing every self-published chapbook to reward anyone that finds a typo. Luckily no one’s taken me up on it, or I’d be destitute. So, with all the work I’ve put into this project, it deserves a professional eye on it.
I’ve spoken in the past with an extremely talented designer, and I will reconnect with him again when the time comes. I am fairly certain this, too, will be a self-published work, but perfect bound and perhaps through Lulu or one of those other services. I too often see the vices of self-publishing, but there is a certain equity in it as well. I am hoping to make this more than a vanity project, but the target audience might be a bit too narrow for any outside company to want to take a chance.
I’m thinking about adding four line drawings, too, because if it’s going to have limited appeal (poetry, Follies) why not go all the way. I used to draw as much as I wrote, once upon a time, and I’m not sure how visual arts dropped out of my expressive tool set. I am fooling around and seeing what I come up with.
Below is one of the poems that didn’t make the cut, but similar to others that are included. My overall goal is to bring these people back to life- as stars, as humans, as Follies legends. Please let me know what you think in the comments.
Flo and Billie Disagree
Flo motors up to Hastings after the show,
after his own dance around costumers, songwriters,
bill collectors, chorus girls, and
Billie is up late, waiting.
“Who was it tonight, Flo? That little brunette
with the dimpled knees? That big girl
with the icy stare and the long fingers?
Or perhaps Little Miss Sugar Lump,
this season’s latest fashion?”
Billie picks up a cloisonne’ vase,
impressed herself a moment by its weight
filled with water and gladiolas,
then throws it in Flo’s direction.
Her aim is good, her arm strength less so.
Flo has plenty of time to duck.
The vase crashes to the floor,
shards of porcelain and pink petals
exploding across the Turkish rug.
“Now Billie—“
“Don’t you ‘Now, Billie’ me, Flo!
I’ve had it! This is the last time!”
Billie finds a lamp in her hands,
pink dupioni’ silk, cream colored base,
ginger jar style. This one’s a little
lighter than the vase, and her
aim superior. Still,
Flo dodges the stylish projectile.
“Billie, your problem is that
you always pick the wrong girl!”
Flo smiles, hoping to diffuse the
raging red-headed volcano before him.
Another vase grazes his shoulder.
“Now Billie, wait! I’ve got something
to show you!” He pulls a wide bracelet
from his pocket, unwrapped, thick
with diamonds. Flo holds the
peace offering out to his wife,
who pauses just a second to admire
the glittering stones in the dim light
of early dawn.
Billie seizes the gift, and
tosses it into the far corner
of the parlor, making a mental note
when she hears where it lands,
behind the potted fern.
She is not careless, after all.
