Who’s Your Daddy?
Written by John Erianne on April 12, 2000 – 5:27 pm -Judging from the response to my last column, I take it no one cared for my last installment. So be it. Like I care.
In all honesty, I think most of the people who’ve dealt with me over the last several years have found me to be both professional and generous with my time. But, let’s not misunderstand anything here. My behavior towards them is a direct result of how they present themselves to me. My first year in business, I received a little over 1500 submissions. I now receive ten times that number. Factor in the individuals who have come up to me at poetry readings to shove a notebook in my face and you are talking about a flow of paper that no one human being could handle while holding down a full-time day job and trying to have some kind of life. Yet, by budgeting my time and generally surrendering my time when needed, I manage. Still, I only have about two functional hours per day to wade through submissions. My time is precious. Serious writers respect this and don’t usually waste it. Most of them know better. Those who don’t learn and they can learn the easy way (reading my guidelines) or they can learn the hard way ( a verbal bitch-slapping). What irks people, I imagine, is that my axe swings in all directions. I don’t single-out the beginners. You’d be shocked at some of the things I’ve said to more experienced writers. I remember this one fairly well-known poet who submitted his poems with sticky notes instructing me on how to forward his poems to other editors when I was done with them. Can you imagine my reaction to that? The difference between being a serious poet and being a wannabe is not the line drawn between the beginner and the widely published laureate. It is, rather, a mentality one assumes when one submits work to a publication. The line drawn between wanting recognition as a “poet” and being completely serious about your poetry.
When I submit my own work to a publication, I always operate under the belief that the editor is king of his kingdom and I am but a wandering troubadour trading song for bread. I know my place in the food chain. It would not occur to me to be disrespectful or assume a negative attitude with an editor. It would not occur to me to ignore the guidelines especially if they were as clearly spelled-out as mine are. If I don’t like the editorial guidelines or the publication, I simply will not submit and I understand that it doesn’t matter to that editor whether I submit or not. There are more poets than there are places to publish. So, take your work elsewhere and good luck to you.
The wannabe doesn’t understand this because he is not interested in serious creativity. For him, it is all about stroking his ego. “I’m THE POET,” he declares. With the more established poet,like the guy with the sticky notes, it manifests itself in the belief that because he has this number of publication credits and won this or that award, he somehow is above the need to present himself in a respectful manner. He wants you to bow down before him. He has forgotten that he wouldn’t be “THE POET” if it weren’t for dedicated individuals like our lowly editor who believed in him and his work and gave him a chance once upon a time.
With the beginner, this usually manifests itself as a demand for attention. His poetry is a form of trite exhibitionism that’s sickening for any serious person to read. He’s not interested in writing better; he just wants your approval. For example, a couple of years ago, the 50+ year old man started a correspondence with me. He had been writing since his early twenties and had never had anything published. He held onto this illusion that the publishing world was against him and that it was who you know and not what you wrote which was the measure of success or failure. He thought that if he sucked-up to me, I’d publish him. So, after months of stroking MY ego, he finally took a chance and submitted four poems. I accept one of the poems because I genuinely liked it and it was short. The other three poems were amateurish at best. I put the one poem in my accepted file and sent the other three back to him with a scathing, but accurate critique. You would think he would have been happy to have his poem accepted after so many years of failure, but all he cared about was that I didn’t like his other poems and dared to tell him so. A couple months after, he sent me those three poems again, this time accompanied by a glowing acceptance letter from the National Library of Poetry. Well, if a prestigious organization like the NLP thinks he’s a genius, obviously I must be mistaken, right? He was angry with me because I was so brutally honest with him. He loved the NLP because they lied to him. The irony here, is that the NLP makes its money by publishing bad poetry and selling their books to their own contributors. Only a wannabe could so easily be fooled. He just wanted the love he was denied as a child — poor baby!
“Love me, daddy,” he says. “Give me cookies, daddy,” he cries. And if you don’t give him his cookies: “I hate you! I wish you were dead!”
You know what I say to that?
!SMACK!
“Who’s your daddy, now?”
