Dear Mr. Sunshine
Published January 15th, 2005 | 
“Sorry, no. BTW — I don’t think Davison’s alleged comment that your poetry is “disturbing” was intended as a compliment.” — JCE, 12/15/03
I included in that little scrap of a response to my original submission because I figured that someone like you would probably scarcely remember even writing it (You’re absolutely right, I don’t remember, but give me a moment. . . Okay, gotcha! Never been published. Seemed to have me confused with the editor of another literary magazine. Bloated cover letter full of cherry-picked blurbs of “praise” from poetry editors who have never actually published anything you’ve ever sent them. Paper smelled of candy-scented perfume and nicotine. Poems full of saccharine and whine.) your life being so busy and important and all. I wish I could forget it as well, But I’m not that kind of person. I’d considered reporting you to the Poet’s Market publishers, if you’re even still included in it. (“This is the Poet’s Market — Put down your pen and come out with your hands up!”) It doesn’t seem like you’d be interested in being a part of it any longer anyway since you are apparently so very exasperated by the submissions you receive. Or maybe just the ones by female poets who write about annoying “girl things” or by those who don’t write in that oh-so-popular, rambling, modernist style devoid of any rhythm or punch (Hate to break it to you, babe, but Modernism hasn’t been popular for quite some time; I’m sure Modernism is quite dead. Although, “rambling” could easily be used to describe your letter). I only considered reporting you for a moment and simply because I figured I could hardly be the only person who has been treated so shamefully by you, but, I decided it would be silly anyway because someone like you will always cause his own demise with no help from anyone but himself (I know, isn’t it tragic? But, now I see that I had it all wrong. I’m gonna go straight now, Ma. I promise). It’s a fluke that jerks like you amount to anything in the first place, so even if you manage to, you can’t hold on to it for very long (Have to admit it, sometimes, I do feel like I’m making a last stand at the Alamo ). You can’t treat people like shit as much as you choose to and expect to have anyone on your side in the end. A bad attitude will always turn everything to shit eventually (You really don’t see the irony in this statement, do you?). It’s a matter of time. It doesn’t matter anyway because it sounds like you are the self-proclaimed king of your own pathetic, little kingdom anyway (I state almost exactly this in my submission guidelines. Pity you didn’t read them). Bet your throne has even been fashioned from a trash heap (Hey now, not everything in the slush pile is trash ). Like any real editor would ever so abuse his position to go so far out of his way to make another human being feel like dirt (I scribbled a pen two inches or so across a sticky note — not so very far out of my way at all). I can hardly imagine the likes of Peter Davison doing such a nasty, purile (Gee, I’d hate to go up against you in spelling bee) thing. That is the most hideously low class thing I have ever heard of. Look out, poets! He has a post office box, a stack of Post-it Notes, and he’s not afraid to use them! (You would, of course prefer that I used carrier pigeons?) What a Big man! What the hell is wrong with you? (Inner ear infection, maybe?) What kind of person does that kind of thing? Did you forget to take your Midol that day? (Did you?) Did your smog-choked, idiot, Jersey mind make you feel like that would be a good thing to do? Why in the world would anyone want to threaten a very young woman’s chance to evolve as a writer? Even if my work was crap, why do I need to know that? Why rob me of my journey? (Well, if you were taking a trip cross-country, you’d want to know if you had four flat tires, right?) Why not just let the act of writing make me happy, even if that’s all it would ever be? Why does that matter so much to you? (It doesn’t matter to me. However, might I point out that you sent your poems to me soliciting my opinion — you didn’t leave them home in a drawer. ) If it sucks so much, why not just toss it aside like the crap that it is? It Just doesn’t make sense.that’s why I’m so confused about it. Do only frustrated writers become editors or make themselves editors, in your case in the first place? (Well, it’s true that I did, once upon a time, make myself an editor, but he kept chewing on the furniture and pissing on carpet, so I had to send him away.) What kind of sad, sad, insecure, little brat would scribble a bunch of heartless bullshit like that and send it to another human being? It’s the senselessness of it that so baffles me. Maybe I am only a lump of clay as of now. So what? Why be so outraged by that? If I am such a joke of a poet, why bother wasting one of those precious sticky notes in your office supply arsenal to tell me so? Something about me must have greatly annoyed you. As if that would be difficult to do! (No, I don’t suppose. . .)
I just wish I could go back to thinking I lived in a world where people like you didn’t exist — those who walk around wanting to make other people feel worse so that they may feel better about themselves for a second or two. Other people mean so tragically little to you. The ironic part is what you told the Poet’s Market people. It’s really amusing to me now. It is almost like you aren’t even the same person. Maybe you’re not. Maybe personality #9 or 10 was at the helm. Who knows! You were actually quoted as saying to “not take rejection personally.” That’s cute! You also said to “not let anyone stop you” — also, very, very cute in hindsight. What if a rejection was personal? In this case, very personal. (And I stand by those words. My rejection of your poetry wasn’t personal. I don’t even know you so how could it be personal? Did I call you nasty names? Did I attack your character? Did I, for example, call you an “anorexic psycho cunt who’s dosing on laxatives and the best diet pill you can find?” You presume to know me based on a one-line rejection note. I don’t presume to know you based on the contents of this letter. I can give you the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to a temporary case of diarrhea of the mind. You might also recall some other words from that PM listing: “Write from love; don’t expect love in return.” ) There was nothing constructive or professional about that. It’s like a child wrote it. I am all for constructive criticism. I have evolved by leaps and bounds because of it.(hmm . . . but evolved into what?) I have received praise and very helpful suggestions from true editors-of important magazines across the country, including the Atlantic Monthly, dickhead. (And that’s supposed to mean exactly what to me?) From what I’m told, it’s almost impossible to get anything handwritten from publications at that level. The goal of constructive criticism is to better serve one’s evolution, not to damage it.
I know I should just be content to personally know, that you are an idiot. (Is it possible to know something impersonally?) That should be enough. But, I’m Italian, and Sicilian at that, so I need you to also very clearly know and understand how enormous a fool you indeed are. I can’t be happy just knowing this on my own. Though, honestly, you probably already know this. Why else would you feel the need to be such a tremendous ass except to momentarily calm the screams of self doubt in your own head! Maybe you should tell your shrink to up your dosage instead of immediately picking up a pen next time you are so irritated by someone who is so undeserving of your brainless nastiness. (Are we still talking about me? Sorry, I nodded off for a moment.) If all 21-year-old artists or writers were told their work was crap, there would be no writers, no poets, no books, no art, no anything anywhere. If,anyone was ever insecure enough to listen to revolting jerks like you, the world would be very still and very quiet. Why not tell me something useful?’ Or just shut the fuck up altogether, which would be my suggestion because you obviously have nothing positive to offer to the world. Why don’t you keep your unnecessary negativity to yourself? Here’s to hoping that you will take my advice and save the next person from squandering any energy or postage on your dumb ass.
How dare you treat me like just another faceless pain in the ass with bullshit aspirations that has come knocking on your door! (But you ARE a faceless pain in the ass and, like it or not, your aspirations ARE bullshit until you actually accomplish something. The goal of constructive criticism for YOU is to help YOU evolve as a writer, but helping you evolve is not MY goal or MY responsibility. And what do feelings have to do with it? I’m not running a 12-step therapy session for failed poets- and I’m not proctoring a fucking workshop. I’m just a guy trying to fill white pages in a few publications. It’s not that I am completely indifferent to you in a broader humanitarian sense. I certainly bear you no ill will, I do not wish you disease, rape, torture, get hit by a bus, or what-have-you, but as a writer, you were simply trying to sell me something in your cover letter that you couldn’t deliver in your manuscript, so to that end, what do you want, a biscuit? Get over yourself.) How dare you treat me like nothing, like I have no feelings, no willingness to learn and grow! How dare you treat me like I don’t matter! I am a person. My name is Sidney. (Hey, somebody fetch me a violin and a box of tissues!) I am not just another anonymous link in the same old chain that you are apparently so sick of dealing with. How dare you spew your venom so ignobly! Do you honestly feel that you are that important? Like you are such hot shit? Like you deserve to say things like that to people? Like it’s okay? Who the fuck do you think you are! Maybe you should turn that ridiculously harsh judgment upon yourself once and a while. It amazes me how the path to success is always paved with the corpses of hateful assholes like yourself. You make me sick. Everybody just like you makes me sick. Everything I would ever need to know about you is all in that one chicken-scratched sentence. And to think that such an act could occur to you at all, But especially during the holidays for Christ’s sake! That makes me even sicker. I received that God damn thing on New Year’s Eve for fuck’s sake! Thanks so much! (And I received this letter three weeks later, the day the doctors cracked open my elderly father’s chest for a quintuple bypass and he nearly died on the table. Your letter didn’t exactly make my day either. So on that point, you can just go fuck yourself. We all have our little crosses to bear.)You just don’t give a shit about anything, or anybody. And you couldn’t even bother to sign your name, you fucking coward. everything about you is so gut-wrenchingly vile.
The funny thing is that I am not left contemplating the “quality” of my own work as you would hope, at least any more than one normally would, but only how microscopic your penis must be (So my rejection slip makes you think about my penis? Well, all right!) for you to ever desire to trample the potential of a young and hopeful individual who poses no threat to you whatsoever. I could eat glass I feel so sickened by you. Tiny, little man who belittles little girls for his own amusement. What a great life you have made for yourself. Congratulations. Your life must be very rich and full. As if anyone could give one shit about your opinion. One could hardly respect the ignorant, knee-jerk opinion of an immature, catty, dickless piece of shit like yourself. I must admit that it is a large comfort to me that your little “publication” is only printed once a year or so, then is probably very promptly tossed and recycled, which means, that more people end up wiping their asses with it than actually reading it. But, hey, if nothing else., you certainly did remind me why I despise the east coast, especially the Northeast, and all the bitter, cynical, old fucks who populate it. You people make great comedians, but that’s about it. You have nothing to offer the world except sarcasm and mocking, judgments. So, on that note, perhaps you should look in the mirror once and a while instead of tactlessly attacking other people who did nothing to offend you in the first place, maybe search high and low for a little dignity, God, most importantly,get a fucking life. if I had a dick, I would tell you to suck it. Thanks for giving me a glimpse of how horrible a person can be to another person. Oh, and I can even sign my name!!( No, I don’t suppose my response was especially kind, but I doubt that it’s the unkindest thing anyone has ever said about a person’s writing — Hell, I’ve said worse things about my own writing. And while my brief reply may not have been constructive, it was instructive after a fashion. Did I tell you to give up writing? Did I to stop submitting your poetry to literary journals? Was my note not also handwritten? Did I not take the time to read your poems despite their obvious deficiencies? Did I not reply to your submission in a timely fashion? What greater courtesy should I have extended to you? Fact is, chick, I don’t really know of too many 21 year-olds who haven’t been told their work is crap at some point. Fact is, I don’t know that many older, published writers who don’t, from time to time, get told their work is crap. Even John Updike, that paragon of American Literature, has been told he’s not all he’s cracked-up to be, most recently by a writer not fit to scrape gum off the man’s shoes with his teeth. If memory serves, I think I read this criticism in the Atlantic Monthly, Davison’s rag. I doubt Updike responded as you did. He probably just smiled, looked at his bank statement and his body of work sitting on the shelf, walked into his bathroom and took a hideously low-class Northeastern dump.)
(signed) Sidney Elle Testa
If You Want Me to Respect Your Privacy, Keep Your Hands Off My Privates
Published January 1st, 2005 | I was sitting at my computer one afternoon minding my own business, catching up on reading email and answering correspondence when I stumbled across this email from this guy accusing me of invading his privacy. Apparently, I had published an email message of his online without permission. He suggested that I had somehow stolen it from his own computer (he couldn’t imagine how I got my grubby hands on it) and threatened to notify a number of important agencies if I did not remove it from my web site. After taking a moment and thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that I had indeed posted his message in the “Last Word” section of the Asterius Press home page. I was puzzled. It is not exactly a secret among my readers that I post such communications on the web site without asking permission as an object lesson to disgruntled writers. There are public statements to that effect online, and certainly I am not the only editor who publicly lampoons individuals who choose to task me with their egocentric horseshit. This guy was a bit of a novelty, however: he had never actually submitted anything to me other than this letter of complaint. He just wanted to give me a piece of his mind. What is also interesting is that his email had been on my web site for more than two years at this point and this was the first time he’d said one word about it. Normally, if I do or say something someone doesn’t like, I hear about it within a few days. Prior to this incident, I hadn’t received a single complaint from authors of any message posted there.
It got me thinking about privacy. I make no claim to being an expert on privacy law — I am not, after all, a lawyer. However, I’d like to believe I know a little more about privacy and copyright than most of the people who submit manuscripts to me. The architects of American democracy were mostly concerned with invasions of privacy by the government and its surrogates — not with privacy violations perpetrated by individuals. The absolute right to privacy is not a right explicitly guaranteed in the constitution of the United States and is still pretty well limited to four basic kinds of privacy rights: unreasonable search and seizure, misappropriation of one’s name or likeness, publication of private facts and using private information to create a false impression or “false light.”
Essentially, this guy sent a rather belligerent, unfriendly email message to me, the editor/publisher of Asterius Press bitching about my guidelines and my demeanor. He sent this message to me willingly and for no legitimate reason other than to make it known to me what he thought of me. In other words, I was the subject of his message and he made me a party to the communication. As far as I’m concerned, that makes his email as much my intellectual property as his and I am free to share its contents with whomever I choose to share it with and the manner in which I choose to share it makes no difference. And, since he voluntarily transmitted his message to me, it’s hardly a purloined product swiped off of his computer or from the mail server. Unreasonable seizure does not apply (and that usually applies to agents of law enforcement, anyway). Misappropriation doesn’t work either — I posted an email, I didn’t exactly print his name and picture on a t-shirt and go hawk it on Main Street. I didn’t publish any private information about him. His name is not, by itself, private information. Nor is his name uncommon or notable enough to identify him specifically to a third party who is not already familiar with him. Nope, can’t stick me with that charge. Nor did I put him in a “false light.” I published his message whole and not at all out of context — I didn’t even edit it. I doubt anyone reading it could get a false impression from the man’s own words.
It was fairly clear from the man’s threats that he either didn’t understand privacy law or he was operating under the assumption that I didn’t and would respond to threats. He said that if I didn’t remove his message, he would file complaints with my ISP, the Better Business Bureau, the FBI and the FCC. For one thing, my ISP doesn’t have anything to do with my web site, and its privacy policy and terms of use, only apply to its services, so my ISP couldn’t and wouldn’t help this man. And the BBB? Well, they are a public consumer advocacy group — not a government agency, right, so all they could do for him would be to investigate the matter — and they wouldn’t do that unless there were numerous complaints against me. For the record, I am not a member of the Better Business Bureau, nor is the electronic publishing arm of Asterius Press a commercial enterprise, so it really doesn’t fall under the purview of the BBB. The FBI? Even if I had violated this guy’s privacy, I can’t see the FBI sending a S.W.A.T. unit to my house to drag me away to the gulag. And the FCC doesn’t have a lot of jurisdiction over the Internet. Certainly, I am not sitting around worrying about Michael Powell’s thought police. I’m afraid all this guy could do is to take his complaints to a lawyer and attempt to file a law suit. I can’t imagine a lawyer of any stripe who would do more than snicker at him and send him on his way. Privacy Law varies from state to state. There is also a statute of limitation for filing such a law suit and I don’t think it’s more than two years in most cases. So, if he can’t tag me with a privacy violation, can he fairly get me for copyright infringement — after all, even though my use of his email was public and notorious, I didn’t, admittedly, ask him if I could post it, and I did make fun of him, although I don’t think the founding fathers had email in mind when they crafted the first copyright laws. A reasonable man might think that if this man doesn’t care if I know what he thinks of me, how could it hurt him if Joe Shmoe knows what he thinks of me? At the very least, he should have considered that I would tell some of my literary friends about the incident, which amounts to about the same thing as putting the offending email on my website. Also, having disturbed my private space with his unsolicited, unwanted comments, insulting me in the process, he can hardly expect that I would respect the sanctity of his communication as if I were a priest who’d received it in a confession booth. So yes, I’d cop to copyright infringement — save for one thing: In posting this message in the manner I did, as a very public response with the clear intent to poke fun at the man, I’m fairly certain, if my understanding of the 1994 Supreme Court ruling in the matter of Campbell v. Acuff-Rose and general test for fair use are correct, that my response to his email is fair use and is also protected first ammendment speech. By that I mean that in interjecting my comments with the clear intent to poke fun at the man, I turned his whiny message into a parody. I don’t know of any similar incidences in which an editor was successfully sued for posting a letter or email on his website. As I stated, I am not a lawyer, so I may be gravely mistaken in my assessment. However, I think what’s really happened here is a tit-for-tat expression of bad manners. He insulted me and I returned the favor. If this guy is embarrassed by his email, perhaps he should be. So, Mr. Man, when you show some humility and apologize for being an ass, I’ll apologize for equality immature, equally assinine response, but I have no intention of removing the offending email from my web site. You feeling me, sport?
