What Anne Sexton Taught Me About… Self-Promotion

A few years ago, when I was checking in at a writer’s conference in Kentucky, the organizer noticed that I was from California. “We were curious about you,” she said. “We don’t get many people from the West Coast.”

Even though I knew the woman was being friendly, her statement set off my anxiety. Walking away, I felt pressure to socialize with the other writers scattered around in the room, tote bags dangling from their shoulders. I didn’t want to do that. I’d just gotten there. Everyone would ask me about being from California. And even though I knew it was irrational, it felt like people might be looking at me.

So I did what anybody would do in that situation: I hid behind a column in the corner until it was time to go to the first panel. During the three-day conference, I didn’t speak to a single person.

Which is to say, I might have a bit of social anxiety. Or, as I like to think of it, I’m shy. These days, while I can confidently say that I wouldn’t hide behind a column anymore, I still struggle with the social side of writing. This is a problem, as the writing business is full of readings, parties, conferences, workshops, editorial lunches, and awful-sounding events like “pitch fests” and “speed dates with agents.” In other words, it requires that ugly, business-belch of a word that floats through all industries: networking.

So far, I’ve avoided networking as much as possible through cold-pitching and blind submission, but lately I’ve had to admit that my social anxiety might be holding me back. For example, asking for a letter of recommendation is torturous for me, so I’m unlikely to apply for any opportunity requiring one, no matter how enticing.

For another, I don’t have a mentor—and few of my friends are writers, which may keep me from bigger success in the long run, at least according to a study from Paul Ingram of Columbia Business School and Mitali Banerjee of HEC Paris, a France-based business school. It showed that “social networks are actually a more reliable predictor of fame” than creativity, confirming the depressing idea that, in the art world at least, good work isn’t enough—the more people you know, the more likely your work, and name, will be shared.

So what’s a person with occasionally overwhelming social anxiety to do? I find inspiration in a surprising source: Anne Sexton. Famously, Sexton, a housewife with a high-school education, started writing poetry in a mental hospital in 1957. A decade later, she won the Pulitzer Prize. Sexton became a literary star because she was an exceptional poet, and because, as the daughter and wife of salesmen, she was excellent at self-promotion, despite her own debilitating anxiety.

According to Diane Middlebrook’s biography, Sexton panicked whenever she left the house. “She yearned to browse in bookstores and libraries, but couldn’t go unless a friend accompanied her,” writes Middlebrook. “Grocery stores, drugstores, and department stores terrified her.” As poetry began to provide an emotional outlet and path to independence, Sexton sought connection with other poets. “I belonged to the poets,” she wrote later. “I was real there.” She wanted to attend a poetry class at the Boston Center for Adult Education, but was too afraid to call for information. A neighbor not only phoned the center for Sexton, but accompanied her to the first class as emotional support. It was the first of many times Sexton would ask for help when her mental illness posed obstacles to her career.

She was also ambitious. From the beginning, she submitted to top publications and, when a poem was rejected, she sent it out again right away. At one point, she had 60 poems circulating for publication. When it came to meeting poets, she singled out individuals she admired and focused on building relationships with them. After reading a poetry anthology, she fell in love with W. D. Snodgrass’s poem cycle “Heart’s Needle.” When The Antioch Review accepted one of Sexton’s poems, she learned that Snodgrass was teaching a workshop at its summer conference. Sexton not only asked the editor, Nolan Miller, whether she could attend; she asked, too, if they would provide her with a scholarship so she could go for free. The publication agreed. Since she was afraid to travel alone, Sexton enlisted a poet friend to attend the workshop with her.

Reading about her exuberant interactions at the conference make me think of all the times I’ve been in rooms with writers I admire without saying a word to them. Or times when I purposely made boring small talk because I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and offend the person. I would rather, I suppose, be forgotten than risk saying something dumb.

No one at the conference could have forgotten Sexton. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful; she was also sophisticated and flamboyant at a time when many poets wore bookish, conservative clothes. As Adrienne Rich put it when she met Sexton in 1959, “I didn’t expect her to be such a knockout—tall, tan, wearing white, and looking very gorgeous.” Later, when Sexton applied for a grant at Radcliffe, the committee considering her wrote comments like “Wow!” and “We’ll know she’s around. She has enormous vitality and zest!”

Sexton’s behavior was as attention-catching as her appearance. At the conference, according to Middlebrook, Sexton “aggressively sought the attention of instructors, always asking the same question: does this poem have a voice, my voice?” She also used her femininity and sexuality, often playing on the gender roles of the 1950s by appealing to the male gatekeepers for help, thus earning their goodwill. Snodgrass said she gave the sense “of openness to experience and to insight.” Miller put it more bluntly: “Here I am, a little housewife, and suddenly I’ve turned to poetry and I still don’t know what I’m doing.”

When I read about Sexton’s entrance into the poetry world, I get a sense of someone throwing everything she has at it. She made the most of every opportunity: dropping names, flirting, flattering, and always seeking help. Nowhere is this more evident than her relationship with Snodgrass. The few times I’ve studied under a writer at a workshop, I’ve sent a prim thank you note a week later, usually after worrying whether the writer would find it annoying. Sexton, by contrast, sent Snodgrass a long letter right away. It starts with “Dear Mr. Snodgrass honey,” launches into how she put three pictures of him up by her desk, calls him pretty, handsome and a genius, asks for Robert Lowell’s address, invites him to stay at her house, encloses a poem for him to critique, tells him that his poetry inspired her to bring her daughter home to live with her, and ends with, “Love to you and Mrs. Snodsy.”

This lack of boundaries led to problems later on, but at this stage, it helped her: through Snodgrass, Sexton audited Lowell’s poetry workshop at Boston University, where she met Sylvia Plath. Sexton used her connection with Lowell to help publish her first book, To Bedlam and Part Way Back. She asked for his advice in ordering the poems, and soon he was passing the book “on to other readers for advice about placing it with a publisher,” writes Middlebrook. Sexton understood that the literary world was, as she wrote Snodgrass after a literary party, “all very political and ‘who do you know’ and ‘do you have a new book in process.’” Not only did Houghton Mifflin publish the book, by the time it came out, she was a literary star. It was widely reviewed and that year, it was nominated for a National Book Award.

Of course, Sexton is a problematic role model; I find much of her behavior manipulative, or at least overstepping boundaries. Middlebrook’s biography also reveals that she sexually abused her daughter. Later in life, Sexton’s poetry slipped as her alcoholism led to sloppier writing, and many people stepped back their support as, due to the disease, she began to exhibit desperate and intrusive behaviors. What worked in the beginning stopped working as her celebrity—and problems—grew.

Still, I identify with Sexton’s determination to put herself out there, even when she wasn’t sure who that “self” was. Once she discovered poetry, she dove in, achieving a great deal in a short time. Her fame was tied to the personal nature of her poetry, which in turn was tied to how she presented herself to the world.

As someone who experiences only a fraction of the anxiety she struggled with, I can imagine how difficult pushing that aside must have been, yet, she did it anyway. I, on the other hand, tend to hide from people, sometimes literally behind columns. The parts of myself that are the most interesting are also the most socially risky, so I rarely risk them, especially in professional situations.

Sexton’s example shows how much it pays to let people see who you are, even if it includes a lot of messy humanity, because in the end, that’s how we relate to each other. I know that when I’m writing and, increasingly, I’m trying to know it when I’m not.