Sh_t and Bricks

I've done my share of editorial work, both as a general editor selecting work by merit for publication and as a line editor pointing out mistakes in spelling, grammar, construction, etc. Nothing bothers me more than to receive a manuscript, for a single poem or for a book, which the author has not carefully prepared.

It feels as if the poet (writer, whatever) has taken what he has produced, dumped it loose on my doorstep, and asked me to see if there is a jewel in there. Most times I am turned away by the stench and texture alone; for a special reason I may dirty my hands.

What really annoys me is that a writer, finding that he can't do anything with his work, expects that I can and will, that I will grub through the material and find the lumps that may be precious stones, that I will turn worthless material into solid brick and build a structure with them.

That's not my job. My job is to see that the material offered is suitable for the purpose intended. To inspect the single poem and on its merits, not vague promises or possibilities, to decide whether it can be used in a work to which it has been submitted.

The same holds for a longer manuscript. I need to see that quality is maintained throughout, not to provide that quality. I need to see that the bricks fit together, not make or shape the individual brick.

It is so important that a writer learns early to be his own primary editor. He has to be able to recognize the smell of what he produces and measure that against what others make. He has to understand that you can't simply dry it out and give it a different shape. A brick made of sh_t is still pure sh_t and not much of a brick compared to other bricks.

So, before you hand me your crap, be aware of the smell of it. I may need it for fertilizer.

REJECTION / ACCEPTANCE

Another issue of TOWER Poetry (Volume 57, Number 2) is set and in the process pf being readied for the printer. The poems have been chosen or rejected and the authors should soon receive their notification. The Agony and the Exstacy will not be a very public matter. I remember my earliest rejection slips; I never wanted to talk about them, just seethed under a seeming calm exterior. And the acceptance notices? Inwardly I leaped with joy and shouted with glee, but the outward demeanor was strictly Joe Cool. Hah!

The problem is that a writer will never really know why his work was rejected; he has to accept the platitudes handed out by the editor. There can be so many, and most are a combination of one or more that even the editor might find difficult to explain.

The best reason to reject work is because it's awful, plain and simple garbage. How do you let a writer know without killing his creativity or bringing curses and fatwahs upon your own head? You tell lies - little ones, big ones, whatever it takes.

A second good reason is that the work is sloppy. The underlying idea may be sound but no work has been put into presentation, no attention to details (of language, grammar), no structure or flow. Sometimes an editor feels like saying "Take this back and do some work on it" but he can't be everybody's critic. A writer, a poet, must be able to see for himself.

A third reason is that the work does not fit the parameters of the place it was submitted to. Don't send your poetry just anywhere that accepts poetry for publication. If you send a three hundred line tragic epic to a magazine that publishes mainly pastoral love poems you are asking for rejection. Research your market; send what seems to you to suit. You may catch an editor's eye.

Another reason is more illusive to explain. The poem is good. It suits the general mood of the issue. Yet there may be a little something that goes against the grain, the common flow. If something such as this was apparent in another submission, a sort of support piece, it might pull at an editors attention rather than be passed over. Passed over for no real reason except that it didn't grab.

So, a bit on rejection. The thing is, acceptance works the same way, for almost the same reasons. You never can tell.

"C'est la vie," say the old folks.