Upon the New Year, I made a resolution to submit as many stories
to as many publications as possible. My only other New Year’s resolution in
2004 was also literary in nature. I
resolved to read as much classic literature as possible and discovered my
favorite novel of all time – The Count of Monte Cristo. Hopefully this
resolution will have a return of similar magnitude.
Those of you following me know that I completed my first
novel last summer. Crafting the final sentence was an exhilarating experience,
like the anticipation setting in just before a first date. This is it, I
thought. I had graduated from being an aspiring
novelist to an actual one. Like many
freshmen novelists, I had overestimated the exclusivity of this pool of first-time
novelists. But my story is unique, I thought. It’s fresh. It’s never been done
before. It addresses old issues in new ways and draws on new issues presented
by the zeitgeist. It’s a masterpiece that delves into the remaining undiscovered
corners of human consciousness!
And this is where I expose myself as either a heretofore
undiscovered genius or someone so clueless that the rest of my writing will
just devolve into the masturbatory drivel found only in narcissistic oases of
incompetence and irrelevance. Do I dare
write poetry in a coffee shop? Do I dare
to eat a peach? Whoa! I almost fell over the edge there. When a struggling
writer uses a T.S. Eliot quote to explain his philosophy, he’s about two
semi-colons away from requiring the services of the men in white hats.
In his book, Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton tells the story of being
in London with a friend who worked in publishing. An acquaintance of the
publisher – apparently a poet of sorts – sees the men and says hello before
walking on. Upon his parting, the
publisher turns to Chesterton and says: “That man will get on. He believes in
himself.” By sheer coincidence a bus
drives by with an advertisement for Hanwell, the famed asylum. Chesterton remarks: “Shall I tell you where
all the men are who believe in themselves?” He goes on to make the point that
the world is full of foolish people who believe in their talents to such a
degree they are incapable of seeing how the outside world truly perceives them.
Actors who can’t act believe in themselves, as do singers who can’t sing and
writers who can’t write.
How can one striving to be a successful writer both refuse
to give up yet also avoid such delusions? In order to keep going amidst such
disappointment, it is tempting to accept such refuge. I’ve tried hard to avoid this. Every writer
knows this is just to protect a fragile ego. But rejection only becomes toxic when
it is avoided out of fear. I’ve decided
to own my rejection. It’s humiliating
and evil but once you’ve been Stockholmed, I imagine there’s little else to
fear. It’s been said that great art requires courage. I’m not so sure. I don’t
think there is anything particularly artistic about courage or inartistic about
cowardice. But if you’re courageous in the face of rejection, you’ll keep at it
and improve; consequently increasing your odds of discovery.
As I’ve been researching avenues to publication, the term
that keeps getting thrown around is platform
– or being positioned in such a way as to be noticed by an audience. Now, I
have this blog, a Twitter feed, and a Facebook page but I have absolutely no
standing or reputation as a writer…except among friends. While I keep these
planks up to date, I have little hope of breaking out until I get my name in
print somewhere. So I purchased a copy
of the 2014 Novel and Short-Story Market and got to work.
This past weekend I sent out my third submission in two
months. Note: I mean exclusive submissions – a new story every 20 days. If I can
keep this pace up, that’s 18 submissions to 18 different publications before
the end of the year. I stand a better shot at publication with 18 submissions than
from just one novel. So far, the experience has provided some much needed
therapy. By which I mean that the publications I’ve researched – with few
exceptions – use some of the most cliché terms in the lexicon when describing
what they seek.
First, each publication – like every rejection letter I’ve seen
– uses the disclaimer that this is a very subjective business and one ought not
be discouraged by rejection. Yet, there
isn’t a single title that fails to differentiate itself as “seeking only quality
fiction of the highest caliber”. Aside from being redundant, if everyone only publishes “the best” – how come all these rags
aren’t publishing the same stuff? Also, everyone wants “fresh prose” and “nothing cliché” – I can’t
think of anything more cliché than referring to a work of prose as “fresh”. They want extraordinary literature that
“brings the characters off the page”…well, unless someone is reading my book in
a diner, it’s 1985, and there in an A-ha video, that’s not going to happen.
Secondly, many of them – more than one would think – make it
a point to say that they don’t publish mediocre work. This reveals an
intriguing paradox within the publishing world: That while admitting the
business is subjective, they use some of the most subjective terms in contexts which
assume the author knows what an editor would consider “mediocre”. And why would
any writer, regardless of the stage of their career, submit anything they’d consider
mediocre?
Hence, the title of this essay…and I’m not poking fun at
Dave Eggers. I like Dave Eggers. He can get away with humorously cocky titles because
he is a good writer; and, since he’s funny, we know it’s not from a real lack
of humility. And since his stories are also incredibly sad, we know he takes his
craft very seriously. Instead, I am poking fun at the publications who request
such things ignorant of their contradictions. The industry frowns upon new writers with
cocky attitudes, but also upon those displaying a lack of self-confidence. They
insist they only accept the best, but their rejections always encourage us to
keep trying…despite not being the best. A rejection that says, “You suck!”
would be quite refreshing in that the writer could at least be assured of its
honesty.
So here I proclaim…
(Due to the
questionable sanity of the author as indicated by his use of two semicolons and
a T.S. Eliot reference, J.H. Bernard has been committed to Hanwell Asylum to
undergo a vigorous re-education campaign. The reader will do well to view his contempt
for the publishing business as a rant befitting only a resident of Hanwell. We are
here to assure the reader that the “paradoxes” identified by Mr. Bernard are in
fact perfectly logical statements made by those of us with superior literary tastes
and intellect. And if you are incapable of understanding such statements, well...we will get to you in short order. - The Men in
White Hats)
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