“Why are you posting your work on the internet?”
An Artist Statement
Hello Gentle Reader!
Perhaps you are thinking to yourself:
Katrina, why would you post your work on the internet?
How will you ever make millions of dollars or become world famous or have your work quoted by bored high school students for centuries to come if you just put it out there for free?
Shouldn’t you be saving it up for a big break, or constantly submitting to various literary magazines in small hope that an acceptance or two might arise out of the piles of form regret emails?
Here’s the thing.
I’ve complied and agonized. I’ve submitted. I’ve edited and edited and edited. I’ve published. I’ve been to and performed at open mics, slams, bookstores, and performance spaces, and I’ve run a couple for spurts of time. I’ve toured, hosted workshops and critique groups, and taught classes. I’ve spent money growing my ‘brand’ (whatever the hell that is). I’ve waited months for rejection letters that misspell my name. Submittable and Duotrope were bookmarked on my home computer…and my work computer. I’ve subscribed and organized, paid the fancy fees, and bought the sample copies. I have poems I have been revising for over twenty years because they are not quite right.
To be honest, I’m done with the game. I have come to grips with the idea that I am not going to be a world famous poet and create a living off of the madness of the words that pass through my mind. However, I am still a writer and I still want to share my work. I still want my work to have an audience, to inspire, and encourage. I still want my work to be read, pondered, and discussed, even if it just by a few. So here I am.
Despite previous publications, I have always retained the rights to my work, which is great because I can do whatever I want with it. All the work posted on this site has been previously published in at least one if not a couple of places over my first forty years on this planet, and all of it has been revised to the point of abandonment. It’s here. It’s posted. It will never be edited or submitted or published again. It’s done.
These are not journal free writes or diary entries; these are pieces of art I have spent time and effort on. They are not whims; they are productions. They are not about me, but they are my creation and art. They are as polished as they will ever be and I am ready for them to flutter away.
I live a humble, ordinary life. I like my career and am content with what I do to pay the rent. But I am also a writer. I’ve tried to quit, I have. But it never really takes, so I am left with words, words, words, and am running out of places to store them. I created this site because I’m ready to stop holding on to the piles and piles of work, the old notebooks and the secret diaries. The late night confessions and early morning regrets. I am ready to clean out my hard drive.
Perhaps this is not how fame and fortune are achieved. Perhaps my sweet words will never be tattooed on someone’s forearm, or taught to eager students hoping to learn how to write effective alliteration. Perhaps no one will ever read my words. But perhaps they will.
One thing is definite: my words will never be read sitting in a notebook or on a hard drive seen only by busy editors skimming through the first couple of lines before hitting the accept/reject button. (I don’t blame editors, by the way. I am one. It’s a lot of work and after a while all the poems sound the same.) If I died tomorrow, my words would die with me. Is that what I want? Maybe. I’m not sure.
Today I am sure that I want to share my work. I am sure that I want to do so consistently and for years to come. That is what this blog is: A collection of the abandoned poetry of Katrina Kaye, beginning in 2020 and lasting until I die, or change my mind, or get bored, or whatever. We’ll just see how it goes.
©Iron and Sulfur 2022
This internet site and all it’s contents are protected under copyright. The law automatically protects a work that is created and fixed in a tangible medium of expression from the moment of its creation and lasts the author’s life plus an additional 70 years.