When Aleathia first approached me to ask whether I'd like to submit to her microzine "Durable Goods",  I had no idea what a microzone was. But then the old linguist in a far end corner of my brain poked me with his cane and croaked: "MAG = big" "MICRO"= small", ye big eejit!

When i finally got my copies in the post, I was more than pleasantly surprised. The whole idea, the layout, the way it was folded, the cover design... I just loved it. Aleathia, who is a nurse by day and a brilliant poet and editor by night, accepted two of my poems in issue five, and I'm really humbled and honoured by that. Submission is by invitation only, but have a look at the blogspot and maybe you'd even like to subscribe:

http://durablegoodsmicrozine.blogspot.com/

Is it Led Zepplin? Don't know, but that line of a song has been haunting my inner ear for days. Not only has it been a long time since I posted anything on here, it's been a long time since I've had a really good night's sleep and it's been a long time since I was born. Only four more days, and I'll turn 34.

I remember, about ten years ago, when I was still happily doing my thing at University, not worrying about owt except what country to travel to next, and whether or not I'd get an A in the last test, I every so often mused about my "thirties." I was convinced that by the age of 33 at the latest, I'd have a really well paid job that would keep me from constantly worrying about money and that I'd possibly be married and have children, and a house, and a driving license. How naive some people still are in their twenties.

Needless to say, I haven't got any of that, but I have other things, I never thought I would have. Now, the other day, I was joining in the collective moan about the year 2009 in general and my life in particual. What a crap year it's been, never enough money, no prospects, getting old and wrinkly, been made redundant twice, etc. etc. But then my boyfriend reminded me that I was alive and breathing, that we'd had a couple of nice holidays, that at least he had a job, and that we had no major illnesses. So it wasn't all that bad, and he's bloody well right. It wasn't all that bad.

What a decade it's been though. Between 2000 and 2010 I did an internship in Chile, finished University, got my first job and my first flat, travelled on my own, had another amazing trip back to Chile in 2003, lived the high life in Berlin, met the love of my life, moved to England, where I possibly had the best time of my life (looking back), finally saw Paris and Barcelona, had Champagne for the first time ever, discovered crumpets, started writing and got published, started learning Hungarian, became unemployed.

Off to the next decade. In this one, I'll watch less crap on telly and will try and have a more positive outlook on life. I hope so anyway.

I had just about finished my creative writing course at Sheffield University when I felt I had composed such an abundance of poetry that it would be well worth having a go at publication. My tutor seemed impressed by my work, friends and family liked it, and my only sincere critic (my boyfriend) didn’t know what he was talking about…in my view anyway. I uploaded a selection of my work as a project onto Lulu.com, a platform for authors, poets, visual artists and anyone else who wants to have a go at self-publishing. It is fast, easy to use, and affordable.

I selected the layout, size, cover art….and after a few mouse clicks I was a published poet! There it was; my very own book, with my name on it. In black and red, a tasteful black and white photograph on the front and back, a blurb, a title, and now listed in the Lulu online shop.

I ordered a few copies for myself and friends and family and was ever so excited when they finally arrived in the post. I was a little disappointed at first, because the cover was quite blurred, the white typeface a bit yellowish, and it was more of a pamphlet than a “real book”. However, my parents were delighted and I was dead proud to have my poems bound and on a bookshelf, even if it was my own. However, the novelty soon petered out, because, needless to say, my book remained entirely unnoticed. A mention in the newsletter of my company resulted in a few “Oooohs” and “Aaahs”, but that was about it.

I had learnt the most important lesson of self-publishing: No sale without shameless promotion!

There are gizillions of self-published poets out there and they all want to sell their work and be noticed, but the chances are slim if you’re on sales rank 36,786. So here is what you can or should do if you want to bear the fruits of long hours of writing (unless you’ve had a change of mind like me and regard the whole process of writing as rewarding in itself):

So, unless you do any of the above, your book will most likely just sit in your “storefront”, and you’ll never sell any copies to people not kin to you (just like me).

A year on, I am still a bit disillusioned by the whole idea of self-publishing, but I don’t regret it at all, because it opened up some unexpected possibilities. For one, I had some really interesting exchanges with fellow writers on the Lulu forums, where – amongst a lot of complacent back-patting – I got some honest feedback on my pieces.

I also had the book reviewed by Michael Ernest Sweet, a Canadian author and poet laureate, who, whilst being brutally honest about my immaturity in style, encouraged me to keep going and even went as far as suggesting that I had the potential to make a  “lasting impression on the scene”. I consequently had some more of my work reviewed by him and a fellow Canadian poet and professor of Creative Writing, which was extremely helpful and channelled me in the right direction as regards my writing style.

Don’t get yourself into a crazy rush to see your poems and your name in print. Get an insight into the whole marketing aspect of it first, if you want to make some money from your words.  But most importantly, give it some thought and let your work mature and ripen.  In my view, a poem takes its time before it is completely finished. It may well be written in a day, but leave it for a while and chances are you will shorten it, add on to it, or re-write it completely before it’s finally ready to go.

It is November 14. That month when the sun never seems to be able to break through the thick carpet of cloudshanging over Berlin like a statement. We're in the year of the big, global recession, and I am minutes away from becoming one of its victims.
The boss sends me a message via msn messenger (nothing like the impersonal approach) could we have a quick meeting, and for whatever reason, I knew what I was in for as N. & D. had already been made "redundant". Now the third, recently hired employee, i.e. myself, would get the sack. He sits opposite me, I try to focus on his droopy eye, and the smoke from his menthol scented Marlborough stirs a cough in me that I try to swallow and as a result my eyes water. I don't want him thinking I'll break down and cry. He slides the piece of paper over the desk. It makes a hissing sound. He mumbles explanations but I keep staring at the header "Notice of termination of contract" or something like that. No particular reason given. I can hear myself say three things: Will I get paid for this month, can I go home now, (I mean, immediately), and make sure you hire a chain smoker next time. Answers: Yes, yes, and a baffled smile.
I leave the room, shut down my workstation, to hell with whatever I was in  the middle of doing anyway, they'll figure it out. I pack my few personal things in a plastic bag, go and shake my puzzled colleagues' hands, thank the boss for the opportunity, and then I close the door behind me, go out into the Berlin haze, and cannot help but feel relieved. Worried, about the fact that both of us are out of work now, worried about how to take it from here, but relieved that I can breathe freely again, and won't stink of smoke every night from having spent 8 hours in what must be the last "smoking office" in town.