A Writer’s Spirit Prompt #5

Today, we kick out the stool.

Remember yesterday’s prompt? You recorded your habits, preferences, and rituals, as if you were an anthropologist, studying a culture. Today, you mess with that culture. Did your subject (you) require morning writing time? Write in the evening. Did you require a computer? Use pen and paper; use crayon to really shake things up. Change your place, your time, your tools, your habits of mind. And do some gentle writing—no expectations. What happens? Does the writing change?

A Writer's Spirit Prompt #4

Most writers have habits of mind or practice, and some of these habits can rise to the level of ritual. But sometimes these behaviors are not even conscious ones. We find ourselves writing in certain ways, with certain tools, at certain times of day. Today’s prompt asks you to describe your writer self in your most descriptive terms, as if you are observing yourself from a distance (e.g., “When Karen writes, she uses the bluest pen, with bright thick ink that globs when she stops”).

This is a writing prompt, but do not feel pressured to make a poem from it. You’re just an anthropologist, recording the habits of the locals—or rather, one local: yourself. If something comes of this, go with it.

Looking ahead, tomorrow’s prompt will ask you to think of ways to disrupt your habit—so be as faithful a recorder as you can today, and if you can’t think of anything you typically or “always” do, make something up. Imagine your ideal conditions.

When editors get creative with 'no'

A memo to editors of literary journals: You do important work. But you are not the important part of the work you do.

I know. I’m an editor myself, and I have been for years. I’ve learned on the job, through some pretty good decisions and some ridiculous mistakes. But the most important thing I learned about literary editing was that the work is the most important thing—the work, and the readers we connect to it.

Still important, but less so, are the writers of the work. The work has a life beyond the writer. It lives on the page and in the minds of those who receive it. The work originates with the writer, but it’s a lot bigger than that. Its potential, once a writer summons it into being, is nearly endless. It’s different for every reader. It’s a living thing.

So let’s recap. Here’s a list of the most important entities associated with literary publishing, in order:

1. The writing.
2. The audience who receives the writing.
3. The author who operated the pen or the keyboard.

Those are the top three—and not that editors and publishers aren’t on the list. Maybe they’d share the fourth spot. But as an editor, I know that these three entities come before all other considerations, and that I am their servant.

It is undeniably true that editors do holy work. They are the clerics who convey the prophecy from the prophet to the people. Without them, the reach of the work is limited; without their discretion and insight, excellence would never be known, past the writer, and worthwhile voices would be lost to a lot of noise. But a problem happens when editors exalt themselves over their vital and necessary work. It happens often enough that nearly every writer has a story.

I have a regular feature here, one I haven’t written in a while, called “Reading the Tea Leaves of Rejection.” In that feature, I parse the language of a rejection note so that writers can understand the messages they’re receiving. A rejection is both highly crafted and highly coded, and it’s important to pay close attention to the wording—to understand that a “send again” message is more than a breezy kindness, and to get a feel for how their work was received.

Today, I was kind of blanking on a blog topic, and I asked a large group of my friends for oddball rejections that I could choose from for a Tea Leaves feature. The response was huge and the examples were stunning. It became clear to me that among all of the excellent literary editors who are now operating, there are quite a lot of people operating not with a public servant’s heart, but rather on the engine of pure ego.

Let’s look at some examples—all names removed to protect some stunned writers and some editors who, like all of us, deserve the benefit of the doubt:

• M. recalls that an editor wrote to him about what poems were supposed to be like—and included a treatise she had written on Anthony Hecht, her paragon of poetic quality. “It was long, too,” he remembers. “A couple of pages and barely about my work except to say it wasn’t real poetry.”
• T. remembers an editor who felt helpless in regarding his writing. “My weirdest rejection situation came from an editor who stated their main sorrow in life was that they would never have enough time to teach me how to write, even if they set aside their other projects,” he says—and to be clear, T. never asked this editor to teach him anything; he was just wanting a decision on a submission.
• K. recalls two memorable rejections. “One journal used to use a form letter that was a play on an ‘it’s not you, it’s us’ breakup letter. Literally, it repeated that phrase a few times, which made it feel ironic and not so nice,” he says. “It was trying to be funny and cute, but a funny and cute rejection like that felt kind of disrespectful to me. I haven’t submitted there since.”
• K.’s other weird rejection was scrawled in pencil on a piece of the journal’s stationery: “Sorry, but no.” Says K., “This was so bad that I have kind of grown to like it. I still have a photo of it somewhere.”
• S. notes that her poetry was rejected for its “remorseless insistence on free verse.” She admits to being puzzled: “I’m still not sure what I should have felt sorry about.”
• L. received a weird fiction rejection once that sounded somewhat angry, as she recalls. “They didn’t think the one-sentence overview in the cover letter matched what happened in the story well enough. It was quite strange, and I’ve never submitted to that journal again.” L. hunted and found the correspondence, and she offered this actual quote from the editor’s rejection note: “Hmmm. I always try to be encouraging in my comments about a story, but your’e making it tough to do.”
• Another L. writes, “I just looked this up so I could get the wording right. I got one a couple of years ago that rejected all of the poems, but noted the one that was least offensive because ‘Despite its personal references, it felt less self-absorbed than some of the others.’ The whole tone and response felt really sexist to me. IDK, sorry for being a woman and connecting to the world around me, I guess?”
• My friend J. received a similarly dismissive and possibly sexist rejection slip, but while L. can laugh hers off, J.’s unfriendly rejection still works on her. She notes that her rejection “blasted me on writing about the experience of being a mother, and writing from personal experience at all.” She adds, “I’ve never forgotten it, and it’s one of the main reasons I’m still reluctant to send my work out.”

I’m going to interrupt my list here to point out that what J. describes is some of the real damage that can come out of an abuse in an unequal power relationship. Here’s J., new to publishing and sending her work in good faith to an editor, and that editor responds to her by saying that her lived experience is not sufficient to be the stuff of poetry. I’ve had the pleasure of reading J.’s poetry, and I found it to be both insightful and well crafted. Maybe the editor misspoke or was misconstrued. Maybe the editor has a strong preference for poems that avoid domestic topics. But the advice was phrased in a way that wasn’t meant to build J. up or to encourage her to keep trying; instead, it lingers with her as yet another societal voice telling her that women don’t matter, mothers don’t matter—she doesn’t matter. But I know for a fact she does.

The heck of it is, when writers send their work out for possible publication, the very act announces that the work is not intended for workshopping. An editor may have a critique to offer, but submitted work is regarded by the writer as finished work—not work in progress. What a writer is asking for is a decision—yes or no—and, ideally, a home.

Many writers love receiving advice from editors, and these folks should have some unique insights. No one reads more new poems than a literary editor, and few are as adept as saying what works and what doesn’t in a poem. But my strong sense is that if one editor doesn’t like a set of poems, another might—or might not. I just send it on along, while I focus on writing my new work and tracking what’s in the hopper. A rejection is a piece of information. A dozen rejections provide a compelling piece of information. That simple “yes” or “no” is the only information I really need from an editor who has spent a brief time with my work. If an editor shows interest, I’d be very happy to talk about edits or revisions, but barring that, an editor’s opinion is just one person’s idea about the work, and I’d just as soon keep it brief.

J.’s editor, though, went beyond the purview of an editor to comment on … what? J.’s humanity, maybe, and its value? But feedback about the choice of subject matter is just next to useless. I’m not even fully convinced that poets are fully responsible for their choice of subjects. I write what I’m compelled to write, and sometimes that’s motherhood—the most significant experience of my life.

• Another J., a memoirist, tells me that she was rejected because her piece was just too sad. “It made us want to cry,” the editor told her, explaining that the journal couldn’t publish something that sad. 
• W. writes that he received a rejection accompanied by a link to a website offering information on basic plot construction.
• My friend S. writes that she was rejected once because, in the words of the editor, she wasn’t “established” enough. She also notes that she was just recently rejected by the editor of a journal immediately after she had done the same to that editor—a would-be tit-for-tat situation—“And yes,” S. says, “they mentioned that in the rejection letter.”

I file all of these rejection under the category of editors behaving badly. Sometimes they’re behaving cruelly. Sometimes they’re behaving self-importantly. And sometimes they’re behaving ignorantly, with a very narrow view of what poems, essays, or stories are allowed to be.

Editors curate a journal. They work toward a publishing mission that they’re allowed to define, and they get to say no to work that doesn’t fit that mission or doesn’t meet the quality of the work they wish to print. All writers get rejections. I don’t even regard them as particularly negative. Rejecting, in and of itself, is a neutral act.

And incidentally, we read a lot into acceptances, because they’re what we want, and they’re a sign that our writing is going in a good direction, but they’re rather neutral, too. The writing is the thing, and the publishing activity is what happens around the thing. It’s so much nicer when the publishing efforts are successful, but excellent work is rejected every day—and ridiculously bad work is published. Acceptance is no indication that a writer should work less hard.

It kind of sounds like I don’t love or appreciate editors—but I do. I think my own editing work has been the most exhilarating and educational work of my life. I know that I’ve helped and encouraged writers, and I also know that without meaning to, I’ve hurt and discouraged my fair share.

But editors need to be humble, even when they choose to share hard news. I’m not referring to a simple rejection, but rather some element of commentary or critique that they feel compelled to spend precious time communicating to a writer—often this is exactly the information that the writer most needs to hear—they really ought to practice audience awareness. To newer writers, editors represent a voice of authority. That authority should be used with grace and discretion.

***

I received more editor horror stories than I could easily use in one post—plus lots of full rejection slips that I plan to parse in future installments of my Reading the Tea Leaves of Rejection series. Check back Wednesday for more unusual responses—and on Thursday we’ll turn the tables and discuss editors who are making the literary world a better place with their actions.

A Writer's Spirit Prompt #3

Head to the grocery store and buy something new. For me, I think I’d go for one of those whole sugarcanes in the produce section—those great stalks I’m not sure how to break into, but that I know are filled with sweetness. I’ve always considered buying one, just to see what they’re like.

The prompt: Savor the new tastes and texture of your choice—the rip or snap or bend of it, how it feels against tooth or tongue, the sharpness or saltiness or sweetness, whatever about it surprises. Let words come. Let yourself trace it back to its origin. Say you’re sampling an exotic cheese; can you taste the grass the cow ate? Do you smell salt on the wind? Let the food—a gift from the Earth—transport you.

As with all of these conceptual prompts, there is no pressure to write—just to explore and imagine, using food as your guide.

That daily poem is not your symphony

The daily poem is a staple of National Poetry Month. Practically every poet I know is part of an April 30/30 project, cranking out a poem each day, offering and receiving instant feedback, responding to prompts or forging ahead on their own projects.

I often work in projects, and particularly daily projects, throughout the year. It doesn’t have to be April for me to be working on a new poem each day. I have meditation-related projects, where I think intently on a subject and write about it in a discrete poem every day; I also sometimes observe seasons—liturgical, hemispheric … even sports seasons.

It’s a lively way to operate as a writer, and when the theme of the project is constant, it’s one way of going deep the limited time available in a busy life. I like the energy of this kind of challenge, and it’s sort of fun to see the poems pile up. Obviously, some of them are no good, but some have life beyond the challenge, and these seem to make the whole exercise worthwhile.

Recently, though, a mentor said something rather thought-provoking to me. We were enjoying a rare in-person visit, and she pulled me aside to tell me, “You know, I don’t really understand this poem-a-day thing. To what point?”

No one had ever really put that question to me before, and it’s rather substantial one—why do you operate the way you do? And while there was an element of real curiosity in my mentor’s question, the gentle critique was there, too. Is a poem the product of an available hour? Or should poetry do something more substantial?

Most of my favorite poems were the product of longer contemplation. Maybe an exception can be found among the Romantics, who took long walks or did copious amounts of drugs and then wrote like the wind, with a draft in a single sitting (or, in the case of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan,” a partial draft, lost when that single sitting was interrupted). But then there’s William Wordsworth, rewriting The Prelude his whole life (when he should have quit while he was ahead).

The contemporary lifestyle doesn’t allow for long, focused contemplation. We have work and family—not always the case for writers through the ages—and we have huge houses (and no staff). What we don’t have is quiet—Xbox or the big game in the next room, playdates and ringing phones, projects after the work day, pets.

There have always been distractions. I’m just not sure we’ve ever known our current level of distraction, or that we’ve ever had quite as much vying for our mental energy.

But what if we did devote more focused attention to a single poem, instead of one a day? What if all of April’s writing activity resulted in only one poem—and not even a long poem, but a fine one, the poem that makes all other poems seem a little less necessary?

What if we cultivated a contemplative spirit instead of a quick one? What if we toyed with the idea of a masterpiece, instead of a lot of minor pieces?

I was talking about this today, and a musical analogy occurred to me. These daily poems play an interesting role in the life of a poet. They keep us limber, and they train us to think like a poet does—a little obsessively, prying beneath the surface of things. They hone our skills, much like finger exercises keep a musician limber.

But where’s my symphony? Or where’s my concerto, at least?

Maybe I’m squandering my poetic life on arpeggios. And maybe for me it’s time to think past the daily poem.

***

Have you been following my contemplative prompts for National Poetry Month? Visit Better View of the Moon for tips on cultivating a writer's spirit.

A Writer's Spirit Prompt #2

Poetry, for me, is connection. It is made of breath and observation and words, which are transformed in the gut and brain of the poet, the hottest smelter available for refining meaning. My suggestion today: Pay close attention to some natural thing. (I did this yesterday, and I chose a bright tiger swallowtail farming a lilac blossom. I felt lucky to see something I had names for—more than butterfly or flower.) Today, watch some natural thing—even the rain or snow through your window—and breathe into it. Really observe it. Then grab a pen and see what words suggest themselves. You don’t have to do anything with them; you’re merely the transcriptionist, and your job is to get them down. Maybe later you can make a poem—or not. The point is the watching, not producing.

A Writer's Spirit: The healing waters of Eureka Springs

Where I am: a town with springs, where people once came to heal.

I’m on a writing retreat in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, a place I like to come from time to time, and a place I give my partner and he gives back, alternating months, because children are little beauty machines that run on minutes and hours, like noisy parking meters that accept only time.

It’s good to get away—and then it’s good to come home.

I’ve worked hard this trip—not much time for fun—but during a recent visit I went on a popular ghost tour at a grand hotel, the Crescent Hotel. (I didn’t see any ghosts. It seems I am willing to believe in them somewhat more than they are me.)

The tour recounted the hotel’s start as grand resort, with tea dances and coach rides, then as a college and conservatory for women, but most significant to the tour was its stint as a hospital for the desperately ill, starting in 1930.

To shorten a long tale, the person who started the hospital, Norman Baker, a former magician and radio personality, gave cancer patients pseudo-treatments made from watermelon seed, corn silk, and clover. The tour guide recounted how he had patients sign blank pages upon admission, and then his staff wrote letters home on their behalf, touting the patient’s improvement and enjoyment of the stay. Some of these letters were apparently sent after the patient’s death, and the ghost tour culminates in a basement room where bodies were sometimes kept on ice until one last check arrived.

It’s a macabre tale, to be sure, but it’s also documented. Scores of cancer patients were swindled and their lives were shortened through trickery, and Baker, the millionaire pseudo-doctor, was fined $4,000 and imprisoned for his crimes—for four years.

It’s a terrible thing, how some can take a pure good and twist it. Eureka Springs was visited long before European settlement by people looking for real healing. Some say there’s a powerful energy vortex here, and it makes sense, if you believe that kind of thing—something like sixty-three springs in the city limits, crystal-rich mountains all around.

And I’m here. I’m not sick—the body, mind, and spirit keep doing their thing—but sometimes my writing self gets buried; sometimes the ideas roll down like water and I have nothing to catch them with—no vessel, just my hands, shallow as they are.

For me, contemplation and writing are the healing spring. The town of Eureka Springs has several public springs, some passing through stone basins or at the base of rock stairs. Locals have planted gardens and provided benches nearby. Some are quite pretty; one is sheltered by a purple gazebo with twin statues of couchant animals—I’m not sure what, but perhaps lambs?—giving watch.

They’re beautiful, these springs—and I’ve driven by them, glancing their way.

Sometimes that’s my relationship to poetry. There is magic, right there, and I view it through glass, on the move.

But yesterday I stopped to touch it. I stopped at a spring I feel especially drawn to—Sweet Spring, it’s called. Historic photos show it perfectly encircled by stonework, but today it’s a ruin, and it’s better for it. It’s possible to scale down a few rocks and stand in front of the spring, put your hands under the flow—and I did. I let the possibly healing waters move over my fingers, my writing hands, and then I sat in the sun beneath a lilac in bloom and breathed deeply as they dried.

I’m not the first to come here to have something restored. And I came in good faith, like so many before, since before there were records.

I admit I put a kind of trust in this magic—I wanted the cold waters to wake something in me. The trick, I think, is not to let anyone come between you and the magic—no charlatan touting a cure. If you want to be saved, you have to touch the good earth—let it touch you back. That’s the source. That’s what can make you whole.