It was clear, from day one, that we wouldn’t get along. They go for subject matter- the abstract, the sexual, the mysterious. To them, topics are key and can overshadow poor writing, as long as the subject is strong. I go for expression. I think that any subject can be made into brilliance, with the right style. I think dark poetry and such is often forced. It’s a pose. People want to stand out and be artistic and deep and they create feelings that they don’t have. I want to read something real.
Once they realized that I was not afraid to disagree with them, they quickly learned to interrupt and cut me off. It’s kind of a cult-mentality. The group of staff members is a very close community, and as soon as one person’s opinion is stated, it is the duty of the other members to agree. Personally, I think this is a cop-out. A literary magazine should be representative of every type of writing about every kind of subject matter, which can only be done if the editors have different perspectives, to bring out the value and weaknesses in different pieces. I am really the only variety in this group.
I know that I am not the world’s greatest writer, and it is unlikely that I will ever be. Actually, it is unlikely that I will ever be recognized for my writing, at all, at least in the way that I want to be. This being said, I think I’m good. I know how conceited that sounds, but I do think that I can write. I have to be able to write, and I have to keep getting better, because this is the one thing that I love to do. I have to do it justice.
I had assumed that they would not enjoy what I submitted. As editors, though, I was sure that they could separate their own taste from their acknowledgment of the value of the writing. My two submissions were at the bottom of the pile, anonymously. When we got to them, everyone fell silent, as they do when we move on to any new piece. Finally, someone spoke up, “Wow. Where do I even begin with this?” Okay… Is this good or bad? Impressed? Disgusted? “I mean, honestly, I am genuinely concerned for the mental-state of this author.”
It went something like this:
“Yeah, I don’t think this person knows that we are supposed to be in college.”
“I know, right? Missing your mom? Okay, how old are we? You don’t write about that.”
“Exactly! And this other one about the love letter to nobody? God, someone please find this girl someone to go out with. This is just pathetic. If you’re going to write to nobody, at least find someone. Honestly, pathetic. Who is that lonely?”
“But the one about her mom? That’s messed up. They have medication for that kind of thing, and, I am not even kidding, I really think they need some. It’s psychotic. I truly am worried about this person.”
“I feel like if I met her in person, I would have to go up to her and be like ‘what the hell is going on in your head?’ Like, what is wrong with you? Please, let me help you.”
And it continued like that for the next ten minutes. I sat there, dumbstruck and insulted. This is not how it’s done. This is not professional. Where is the grading scale? Where is the mention of my line-breaks and metaphors and symbolism? Did you notice the repetition and the alliteration? I’m sorry you can’t relate to having a relationship with your mom, but does that really mean that my writing is less valuable?
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. The editor kept her head down, knowing that those pieces were mine, but she didn’t stop them. It was almost eleven thirty that night when we finished up, and I said my polite goodbyes, picked up my folder, and walked out. I wasn’t more than a block away from our building when it hit me. I sat down, against one of the buildings on Broad Street, and sobbed. I called my mom (exactly what I was criticized so harshly for in one of my poems) and cried.
There was no piece of me left. The one thing that I prided myself on, the only thing that I truly enjoyed doing, had been stripped from me, completely. On top of this, every aspect of my sense of self-worth, what I loved and what I had experienced had been thrown on the ground and spat on. I was ashamed for, essentially, everything that made me who I was- my family, my relationships, my pride and my weaknesses.
There is a false notion that, to be recognized, you have to be different. You have to feel differently and see differently and believe differently than everyone else. There is no beauty in the commonplace, because everyone has experienced it. What really makes art is what is not understood- something that leaves you wondering and maybe even a little shaken up. This is not true. To anyone who reads this, please do not fall victim to this misconception.
Notice that nothing was said to criticize the way I write, only what I wrote about. They chose to create an idea of the me, as the author, to criticize, instead of criticizing the work I had done. I take no offense to someone telling me that my writing is bad. I encourage this, actually, because it gives me something to work with. No one in this group could tell me that my writing was bad, just that the anonymous author was.
I don’t write so that people will be shocked. I write, because I have something to say. I don’t read to be disturbed or confused. I read because I want to feel something, something that I can understand. I don’t admire art because it’s abstract. I admire it, because it says something to me. Anyone can be shocking. Anyone can talk about something taboo. To write about something that everyone knows, that everyone can relate to, and bring out the life and beauty in it... that is good writing, at least to me.
If you have ever been told that you can’t do something, or that you are wrong for doing it… keep doing it and do it better and harder than you ever have. Don’t let people, who want to be something they are not, try to mold you into the same, confining shell that they have created for themselves. Write what you know is true and real for you, not for anyone else. Never write, because someone wants to hear it. Write because you need to say it. Write something that means something to you, and I promise, that it will mean something to someone else, as well.
