That fine old institution, the publishers' slush pile, is, we hear, heading off into the sunset - in some publishing houses anyway. The slush pile is the stack of unsolicited manuscripts that no publisher's office was complete without. This was where first-time authors sent their work, hoping that, like Cinderella, their manuscripts would go to the ball. It's a fact that most of the material sent in this way is not suitable for publication. Yet, for those of talent in the past who didn't have agents, it was a way into publishing - for example, William Golding's Lord of the Flies, rejected 20 times before being accepted by Faber. In recent years, J.K. Rowling, author of the Harry Potter adventures, was turned down by Penguin, Transworld, and HarperCollins, before Bloomsbury saw the light and the dollar signs and snapped her up.
Now, according to a report in the British media, slush piles are disappearing from several publishing houses because they just don't have the resources to allocate readers to wade through them any more. In fairness, the slush pile never yielded more than a couple of publishable books a year per company, but it did have a certain romance to it - the idea of being lifted from obscurity. As Mark LeFanu, spokesperson for the Society of Authors commented: "One of the rewards of publishing used to be looking out for a gem from the slush pile . . . But now that the small companies have been taken over by conglomerates, publishers no longer have staff dedicated to reading manuscripts." Yet another example of publishing losing its traditional "personal" touch.
Sadbh trotted off to a foggy Dun Laoghaire last week to listen in on some of the Poetry Now events. The announcement of a case of footand-mouth disease in Co Louth had cast uncertainty over the festival, but it went ahead. Several of the readings were held on the fourth floor of the County Hall which necessitated a trip in the lift where Sadbh was fascinated to note that, along with numbers for various floors, there was a button engraved with the word "fun". Hello? Press for jokes, perhaps? Not quite. The county council man hooted and explained it was actually a misprint for "fan". Such a start could only enliven proceedings, and Prague-based poet Justin Quinn and French-based poet and novelist Adam Thorpe gave fine readings. Don Patterson and Marilyn Hacker read later in the evening. Afterwards, several folk adjourned for a post-reading drink, and to admire the beautifully-produced anthology 01, with its irridescent cover and oldfashioned, uncut pages, that showcased all the poets reading in the festival. Among those who went along afterwards were poets David Wheatley, Justin Quinn and Don Patterson, along with academics and critics Colin Graham and Selina Guinness, and Dun Laoghaire's poet-in-residence, Conor O'Callaghan, who invoked much amusement by smoking a very large cigar. Caitriona O'Reilly, whose new collection, The Nowhere Birds, will be published by Bloodaxe next month and who read last Sunday morning, was also there for the post prandials. At one point, critic and academic Christopher Ricks flashed past the hotel lobby, on his way up to an early night. Ricks, Professor of English at Boston University, also participated in the festival, giving a memorable lecture on Bob Dylan, complete with recordings of the inimitable voice - and animated dissection of such classics as Lay, Lady, Lay. Later, Ricks, who is writing a book on Dylan's lyrics, jumped back up on to the stage to issue a final exhortation to his captive audience, the gist of which was: "Salute him when his birthday comes"; Mr Zimmerman will be 60 in May - so don't forget.
NO doubt there will be a full house tomorrow night to hear Seamus Heaney reading from his new collection, Electric Light, at 8 p.m. at the Abbey Theatre. Like U2, Heaney always gets a specially warm reception at home. It may not be the size of Slane, but it's still an impressive feat for a poet to fill a large theatre. Call 01-8787222 for more information.
They're at it again, barneying on about whether there should be a special prize for women writers: it is sexist/stupid/shortsighted etc. The prize in question, the Orange, was established in 1996, and has had a panel of women judges since. The prize is richer than the Booker, at £30,000, and hence the predictable mutterings about the folly of men being excluded have tended to come from that gender. Good writing is surely good writing; it does seem daft to have a gender-specific prize for literature. Anyway, the plot thickens, as they say. This year, they've decided to have an allmale jury to decide on the shortlist - although the eventual winner will be chosen by a panel of women. Oh, help us! Among the 18 books being considered for the short-list are: The Hiding Place by Trezza Azzopardi; The Bonesetter's Daughter, Amy Tan and The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood. The shortlist will be announced on May 10th.