Autographed Copy
In November of 1991, I almost bought a book of poetry. I was in The Bookworm in Omaha when a blue book with a cat sketched on the cover caught my eye. The unknown author, Steve Langan, had published his first collection, Freezing. The author’s bio said he was a graduate of the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He lived in Omaha, so the store stocked a stack of his book with a sticker on each one that advertised, “Autographed Copy.”
I leafed through the pages. I found a poem titled, “The Black Pants.”
There is absolutely no sign
of a struggle. A pair of black pants
in the road that was not
in the road yesterday at this time,
six a.m. Its zipper
is to the cobblestone. Its absent
legs are spread.
It has been run over.
It’s getting run over right now.
I cannot tell if these are the pants
of a man or the pants of a woman.
There hasn’t been a murder
in this town for thirteen months.
Ice remains from the ice storm.
My Ford Ranger will not turn over.
At this time, the bare trees are still.
I turned the page and found “The Black Pants, Day 2.” Langan had written a series of seven poems about the pants until on the last day—in the final poem, the pants are gone.
Farewell, black pants. Whoever
took you away must have needed you
for something I can only guess…
These seven poems captured my imagination like no poem had since 1975 when I discovered “I’m Nobody! Who are You?” by Emily Dickinson in Mrs. Olsen’s tenth grade English class. By the time I graduated from high school, I owned two books of poems by Emily. Sixteen years later, I was considering buying a third book of poetry.
I took one, two, three steps toward the checkout counter. I flipped through the pages until I found the autograph. I stopped walking. Langan’s signature, “written” in blue ink, was two scribbled letters. One out of ten readers might identify the first letter as an S; no one could identify the second one. It could only be described as being something from A to Z—or just a stray mark—as if the author had been bumped as he signed the book.
I went back to the bookshelf. I looked at the other copies of Freezing. Each one had the same scribbled two-lettersignature.
I didn’t buy the book.
I raged in my mind. I work hard for fifteen dollars! Poets complain, “Everyone reads poetry, but no one buys it.” So why didn’t this poet go the extra mile for his readers. In third grade, Mrs. McDonald gave me a D+ in handwriting. I understand sloppy signatures. I sympathize. But why couldn’t Steve Langan sign his full name? Earn my fifteen bucks with great poems and a great signature!
Since that day in The Bookworm, I’ve been conducting an informal study of authors’ signatures.
In June of 2016, I took a writing class in Iowa City. I decided, as part of my writing weekend, to spend some money on books. In the Iowa Bookstore was a table of autographed books. I picked up The Girls, a novel by Emma Cline. I’d read a positive review in The New Yorker. I opened the book to the author’s page? Two looping lines rose and fell across the page like long sloping hills or poor Pictionary drawings—but not letters. Oh how Emma’s fatigued hand must have ached as she signed extra books for the store. Why else would she have slipped off her shoes, stuck the pen between two toes, and signed the store copies with her foot. I wasn’t sure if foot-powered signatures were worth more than five-fingered ones. So I put her book back on the table.
Next I picked up The Diary of a Wimpy Kid. This would be the perfect gift for my nephew. He loves the series! But Jeff Kinney’s signature looked like a first grader’s drawing of two fish swimming. I did not buy his book.
I picked up Lucky Alan and Other Stories by Jonathan Lethem. I’d never heard of him, but I like short stories. Maybe his autograph would seal the deal. His signature looked like Rt, Wt. Had he changed his name after the book was printed? No sale!
The next book on the table only had one copy left. The Fireman by Joe Hill had the sweetest signature. First and last name—spelled out in full. Ten out of ten readers would identify the name written as Joe Hill. Even though it cost the most—28.99, I bought it.
Then I went to Prairie Lights Books. In front of the store was another table of autographed books. Unknown authors and poets. Unreadable signatures. No sale!
Writers so often read articles on how to write query letters, or how to market their books. Book signings are mentioned as a great way to make sales. The author, after meeting readers, will sign extra books for the store. Sometimes publishers send signed copies to sellers. The author can show they care about their readers by signing these books like Joe Hill—not like Emma Cline and Jeff Kinney and Jonathan Lethem and Steve Langan.
Fifteen years later, I met Steve Langan in person.
In the summer of 2016, I enrolled in the low residency MFA program in creative writing at the University of Nebraska Omaha. The students stayed for ten days at the Lied Center in Nebraska City. Steve Langan was one of the poetry mentors. I was there as a fiction writer, but I attended Steve’s lecture. He read a poem in progress about his Dad. After the reading, I told him about how I read his poem, “The Black Pants.”
“That poem has always stuck with me,” I said. “Even after fifteen years. I loved it!”
“Thanks for telling me that,” he said. “That made my night.”
I didn’t tell him that I didn’t buy the book, or why.
Later that night, as I waited for the elevator, Steve came in from outside the lodge. In his hand he held some loose sheets of paper. “I liked the poem you read tonight,” I said.
“I’m not happy with it yet. It needs some work.” He held the papers out to me. “Here, you can have the poem.” He gave me the manuscript he had read from during his lecture.
“Thanks.” Wow. This is the guy who I judged did not care about his readers. I told some classmates that he gave me the poem. “It will be cool to compare the poem when it is published someday to the version he read us in class,” I told them.
A few days later, I went down to breakfast. A group of ten teachers had just finished eating. I went through the buffet line and sat down just as the group got up to leave. Steve Langan stayed in his seat as the waitress took away his plate. Making small talk, I said, “I can’t believe how prolific Joyce Carol Oates is. She writes books of poems, essays, novels, and short stories. Plus she teaches full time!” (I googled Joyce Carol Oates autographed book; she neatly signs her full name—all three words!)
“When I was in graduate school,” Steve said, “the novelist Jim Shephard, who teaches at Williams College, told me a story about Joyce Carol Oates. Jim was sitting in a bar with some friends in front of a window that overlooked the street. He and his buddies wondered, ‘How does Joyce Carol Oates do it? She teaches full time and gets so much writing done’. Just then she jogged by on the sidewalk, right in front of them. ‘What! All that writing and time for a run!’ They shook their heads. ‘Life’s not fair!’”
I told Steve the first author reading I ever went to was Jorie Graham, thirty years ago at Luther College. “That was a big deal for me back then. I grew up in a small town, so I’d never met an author. I listened to her reading. Years later, she won the Pulitzer. I still browse through her books, but I struggle to understand her poems. I don’t have hours to spend figuring out the meaning of a poem.”
“She was my mentor in graduate school,” he said. “Brilliant lady! Great teacher! Read Erosion. It’s one of her early books. Those poems are more accessible.”
Steve chatted with me until I finished eating.
The next day, I ordered his book Freezing from Amazon. I had it sent to the lodge, using two-day Prime delivery. I tore open the package and found The Black Pants poems. I read them again. Loved them again. That night I went for a walk. I stopped at a bench, took a seat, and opened the book. I started to read the poems I would have read fifteen years earlier if the autographed copy had been signed Steve Langan. A full signature for a reader paying full price!
The next day, I found Steve sitting in the audience at another teacher’s lecture. I asked him to sign the book. “Be glad to,” he said.
July 2016
for Larry—
do not run over
the black pants,
yours,
