A subject that frustrates editors and writers alike is that
of feedback on work.
Some writers want feedback. They’ve read, undoubtedly, about
our literary forebears, and they want to be in on that long tradition of
written correspondence that helped to shape many major writers’ work. There are
countless examples of editors who nurtured writers, and of writers who nurtured
younger writers, à la Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters
to a Young Poet.
The problem is that editors of journals don’t really have
the time to correspond with most submitters, even very promising ones.
Inevitably, a lot of writers await decisions, and editors have a responsibility
to communicate with them. Careful, detailed responses on the strengths and
weaknesses of work require reflection and time—time that most editors simply
don’t have.
As a result, well-meaning editors often dash off a quick
sentence of advice, and this sort of feedback can be perplexing because of its
brevity. It falls short of the sort of relationship that some writers are
hoping for, and yet most editors don’t risk saying too much out of fear it
could be misconstrued. I’ve known many writers to become very offended by the
sentence of suggestion that some editors scrawl at the end of a rejection
message. And those who are open to criticism may take the product of a few
seconds of attention entirely too much to heart.
A reader sent me the text of a recent rejection slip he
received on a story he submitted to a journal. I think it’s an excellent
example of the blunderbuss approach of editors who strive to be personal but
who lack the time to make a proper connection. Here it is:
Thanks very much for sending this story to [journal name].
Unfortunately, it's not quite right for us. The sense of detail felt vivid, but
the opening felt to me predominantly description and summary of Anika's
relationship situation, without as much tinges of emotion or attitude or drive
from her or acuteness in her situation as I needed for it to seize me.
We appreciate your interest in our magazine. Please feel free to
submit other work in the future.
Regards,
[Editor]
Let’s take a few minutes to break this down.
First, the editor thanks the writer, as he absolutely should
for all work entrusted to him, good or bad. It’s a polite and businesslike
note, and the decision to reject the work is stated early; I do hate weeding
through a long note to arrive at the verdict, which is the only information I’m
actually interested in.
Doesn’t this rejection feel an awful lot like poor workshop
feedback? It’s a formula I call “faint praise + but.” The editor says, “The
sense of detail felt vivid, but …..” In truth, it is much easier to explain
what is not working than to describe what is. But what would be intellectual
laziness in a workshop is acceptable in a rejection slip, I suppose, since the
information is being provided to justify the work’s refusal.
But what follows the “but” here is a mess. Look at this
clause! “The opening
felt to me predominantly description and summary of Anika's relationship
situation, without as much tinges of emotion or attitude or drive from her or
acuteness in her situation as I needed for it to seize me.” It keeps rolling
out, and is complicated by the error with the word “much” where “many” is
called for. To untangle this sentence and say it directly, the editor wants to
feel something from the opening, but finds only straight information.
Of
course, there is no universal law that requires an intro to be fraught with
emotion, and the fact is that this editor went into the story with desires that
didn’t match the author’s purpose. That’s fine; we often have personal
preferences that drive our decision-making. As literary editors, though, I
think it is incumbent upon us to use the language as well as we can to get our
point across. Such messy prose signals messy and off-the-cuff thinking, and the
writer doesn’t benefit greatly from this long syntactical fart.
The
most important part of this rejection comes in the last sentence: “Please feel
free to submit other work in the future.” I must reiterate this as many times
as I can: Editors don’t ask to see more work if they don’t mean it. We have
plenty. “Please feel free to submit” is a less hearty invitation than “Please
submit.” It’s a free country, after all. But I’d take this editor at his word and
send again, were I this writer—except I really wouldn’t, because I’d want to be
treated with a little bit more care.
For
myself, I don’t want feedback—just a simple yes or no. While I mentioned
workshops earlier, it’s important to remember that submissions are not there
for workshopping. When we submit, we consider the work finished. It may be good
or it may be bad, but it’s not a work in progress. It’s possible that some of
us are sending out drafts, but if so, we’re wasting a lot of people’s time.
A
conversation about a piece of writing is a lovely thing, and often a helpful
one. If editors don’t wish to have a relationship with writers, they should abstain
from writing a quick sentence in place of a conversation. For me, at least, the
editor’s verdict is sufficient feedback.
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