Mark Baumer’s resolution was 50 shades of absurd…or was it?

Mark Baumer, of Providence, RI, is a literary inspiration of sorts. Baumer wrote 50 books this past year, which is an impressive feat if only for his steadfast dedication to the task. It didn’t start out so straightforward though. Indeed, it started out with a humiliating dose of failure.

In January of last year, Baumer, who has in the past walked across America and blogged about the experience, launched a Kickstarter campaign asking for $50,000 to fund his 50-books-in-a-year endeavor. He had never previously written or published a book. His funding campaign ultimately crashed and burned; he raised less than four percent of his total goal.

After his ultimately unsuccessful attempt at a foray into the world of book publishing, Baumer had all but given up on the project. Baumer’s friends weren’t going to let him off so easy though; they kept asking what had happened to his books.

“I got tired of people asking me if I was ever going to write fifty books in a year,” Baumer wrote on his website, fiftynovels.com. Saddled with an MFA in creative writing from Brown University, and a sizable ego, he couldn’t handle the feeling that he had failed.

“My goal/mindset was basically to write every book in the world,” he explained. Baumer said he didn’t want to die being the guy who always talked about writing 50 books but never actually did it.

Beginning in June, Baumer started writing. By the year’s end he was finished.

Baumer decided to release all the books, with titles like Someone Who Did Something  and  A Milk That Drank an Infant, incrementally online and free of charge to his readers.

When it comes to setting — and accomplishing — goals, Baumer occupies an extreme end of the spectrum.

In the day and age of increasingly egalitarian Internet art, which favors the shocking and absurd, and in which every nook and cranny of cyberspace houses a minor celebrity on the verge of fading back into insignificance, Baumer is not exactly unusual.

In most cases though, it’s probably not wise to treat your endeavors as though you’re going to die at any moment. (The Protagonist by no means endorses writing as though you’re swiftly going to die, especially for the casual writer.)

However, there’s nothing earth-shattering about the advice to set practical goals for the new year either. I could regurgitate a couple: Set aside some time for writing everyday. Balance “trashy books” with highbrow ones. Read a book before you see its cinematographic rendering. Read something from a Top 10 list. Join a book club. Join a writers’ workshop. Finish everything you start. Read from a genre you’re not accustomed to. Pick something you’re not sure you’ll like or an author with whom you’re unfamiliar. Pick something you know you’ll hate; it’s good for you.

This is all solid advice, I suppose, but it’s nothing new and it doesn’t set the bar very high. Frankly, doing something you think is “good for you” literarily-speaking, while not necessarily enjoying it, is a waste of time in my book. Perhaps Baumer’s anecdote is not new either, but buried somewhere within the tale of his remarkable 180 degree shift, there is an important reminder.

Yes, we can learn a lesson from the Baumers of the world, even those of us with no interest in fame — something can come of even the greatest, most public personal failure. If this is the case, surely something can come from all the small failures along the way as well. Let yourself think big; if your dream isn’t turning out the way you wanted, you can reroute and try again. The result may surprise you. If we can learn anything from Baumer, it’s to not be daunted by the task that seems too large, that by all accounts is too large. Let your friends hold you accountable for your craziest of ambitions. And, perhaps most importantly of all, almost anything is possible these days if you just keep digging into the furthest, darkest reaches of the Internet (Baumer garners a great deal of support from online literary communities.)

Be mindful of the dangers though. In a fast-paced world speckled with Baumers, we see the flip side of this democratic kind of fame. We see renowned public figures like the young and snappy Jonah Lehrer, who was publicly disgraced this year after his plagiarism and literary fabrications came to light, founder amid the demand for the next better, more ingenious thought. We want it faster than ever before. Those who cannot keep up are quickly eclipsed.

Goals should be feasible to some degree, but not at the risk of resolutions being more about limits than what is possible, about not setting ourselves up for failure; failure is inevitable. Resolutions should be about learning to recover and run with it. And when you inevitably just can’t get past some failures, when you want to scrap it all and start over, be equally comforted in knowing the world will soon forget.

Occasionally The Protagonist briefly profiles the work and life of a local artist; this is one of those times. 

Brooklynite Keara Driscoll waitresses by day and writes poetry…well, whenever she has a spare moment to jot down her thoughts on the scrap of paper she keeps in her pocket.

Driscoll has been writing poetry in some form or another since the second grade. “I think I believed all poems had to be about dogwood trees, or ferns, or deer loping into the woods,” she said, of her “juvenilia.”

Now the 26-year-old has an MFA in poetry, anthologized work and invitations to read at popular reading series throughout the city. Driscoll remains humble, however, about her art. She’ll accept invitations to read, but seems wary about promoting her own work too much.

Perhaps counterintuitively, for Driscoll being busy is crucial to the act of making poetry.

“It makes the periods I save for poetry more productive,” she explains.  ”I know I have only a couple of hours between work and class, a half hour to read during a lunch break, etc. Some days I skip buying lunch and sit in the park and write until I have to go back to work.”

Driscoll says her current lifestyle, dedicated to waitressing and applying to teaching jobs, makes for “the best way to keep a flexible schedule that allows time to write, and provides enough money to live in an expensive city with profound ties to poetry.”

She adds: “It’s also enabled more encounters with whole butchered pigs than a girl could want, and if that’s not poetry I have no idea what is.”

Maybe fittingly, dismembered animal parts often find their way into Driscoll’s work.

Even for the most seasoned poet, writing doesn’t always come easy. All the time in the world can’t make eloquent beauty suddenly manifest on the page.

Of her process, Driscoll says: “Most days, I stare at my notebook for a while, write that email I’ve been putting off, clean the shelves in my fridge, make my bed, organize my desk, text all of my friends and THEN finally write, often starting with the phrase, ‘I have absolutely nothing to say.’”

“It doesn’t matter,” she explains. “I’m doing it.”

***

Ghazal that Confuses Humans with Animals

by Keara Driscoll

Should a harmful force be present a snake could, theoretically, swallow itself

up to the head.

Imagine! You, your own donut, packed safely in your throat, with only skull exposed.

Of course, there is no next step. Close your eyes. Sheath those gooey jewels.

Above all, tell no one about the ecstasy of tonguing your own tail.

Whoever first inserted foot into mouth was briefly on point.

Though s/he failed to recognize that guilt doesn’t stop at the ankle.

More often, it resides in your nose. You’ll have to swab with tree-sized Q-tips.

Know also: the results of your throat culture reveal traces of Whoever The Hell’s progeny

at the top of your tulip.

Culture implores you, don’t swallow your offspring. You are no shark, no serpent.

You are fat-happy heifer, ready to be cleaved for your calves. Low pleasantly

as they collapse in pasture.

Oh, Ahi! Progenitor of greed. We’ve been listening to your swelled midsection—

don’t force our fingers around your windpipe.

Don’t make us cut you open to take the ocean back.

Photo Courtesy of Michael Geffner

Where could you go to find parasols, corsets, a homemade merry-go-round plus bubble machine and a kimchi taco truck this weekend? That would be the second annual NYC Poetry Festival, just a quaint ferry ride away, on Governor’s Island. The festival featured several outdoor, makeshift stages scattered throughout a fenced-off, grassy area, where poets and other artists took to amped microphones and let loose, literarily-speaking. Prosody emanated nonstop from all corners of the space all weekend, while poetry-lovers lounged on blankets and sipped icy beverages. Throw in a ferry ride and you have the makings of a whimsical weekend retreat, which unfortunately happens only once a year.

(by Alissa Fleck)

The festival—or poetry bender, if you will—sponsored by the Poetry Society of New York, featured recent MFA graduates and emerging talent alongside more established poets like Thomas Sayers Ellis, Amber Tamblyn and Jennifer L. Knox. It was a diverse showing of the, particularly local, poetry community. Numerous organizations were represented as well, promoting and selling their literary wares. And yes, there was even a homemade merry-go-round, with multiple ride speeds, its maker offering up free rides to festival-goers. (Future festival attendees take note: sun, tacos, beer and a merry-go-round at “make it faster, make it faster” speed can be a recipe for disaster.)

Stephanie Berger, co-founder of the New York Poetry Society and mastermind behind the festival, said, of similar events: “It’s really fun to conjure up that young, artistic DIY spirit.” And that was the spirit of the weekend indeed, though it was by no means limited to the young…but maybe just the young at heart.

Berger and other Poetry Society members were responsible for bringing 50 reading series on board, to curate over 200 poets in the intimate, sunny setting. The festival also featured a variety of other artists, and even a kids’ space (some poetry is not for the young, faint-hearted or modest).

The spirit of the day—artsy, very chill—was encapsulated by Knox prior to her reading at the end of Saturday: “If you’re still here, like me you’re probably tripping balls,” she said into the mic. “Come on, don’t lie,” she urged, when only a few hands shot into the air in agreement. The mood and setup encouraged a respectful and jovial dialogue between poet and audience.

When Saturday’s events were drawing to a close, spectators could be overheard lamenting the inability to camp out all night on the island in anticipation of the next day’s events, their dismay indicating, of course, the festival was a rousing success for all involved.

Photographer Michael Geffner produces the Inspired Word.