Diary of a Mad Editor

Archive for the ‘The Last Word’ Category

Revenge of the Troglodytes

Back in June, I responded to an editorial written by Ron Offen in my blog post “Gotta Be a Troglodyte If You Don’t Drive on the Electronic Superhighway.” Well . . . Mr. Offen is back with the second part of this editorial in the current issue of his poetry journal, Free Lunch. In “Poetry and the Web II: The Ephemeralization & Degradation of Poetry,” he takes his anti-Internet argument a step beyond and condemns ezine editors for publishing poetry online:

” . . . in recent years there has been a proliferation of so-called ezines appearing (I escew the term “published”) online. The reasons are primarily financial and practical, but are also philosophical. That an online e-zine is cheaper and easier to produce than a printed magazine seems obvious. The philosophical reasons are less so . . . . if such naysayers of print are right (which is highly doubtful), why would e-zine editors, who presumably care about the future of poetry, trust its future to a medium that is essentially anti-poetic? Why would they promote — to coin a word — the ephemeralization of the art?”

Where do I begin? That this sort of screed deserves a response, there is no doubt, but the reasoning behind his argument is spinning faster than a hamster’s treadmill and it’s making me dizzy. The credibility of Offen’s conclusion rests solely on the reader’s acceptance of that conclusion as fact rather than as a half-baked opinion. Aside from his own prejudices against web-based publishing the only thing he offers in support are the opinions of Nicholas Carr, a critic of new media and computer technology whose myopic and decidedly dystopian view of the future is well-known — and well-documented (ironically) in his blog RoughType among other venues.

Mr. Offen’s argument against poetry on the web in general and ezines specifically boils down to three reasons: Internet technology is unreliable, The writing in ezines is of a substantially lesser quality than what is published in print, and lastly, that ezine editors believe that print is obsolete and are hell-bent on killing print as a medium.

The idea that web publications are impermanent and, therefore, unreliable is not a new argument. Ezines go under just like print zines and, yes, that sometimes means that the poetry disappears at some point. But it’s absolutely disingenuous to suggest that print publications are more reliable than ezines because “when a print magazine that has published your work goes out of business, you still have a hard copy of your work.” That’s just silly. Most print poetry publications have a very small press run and an even smaller net circulation — which means that a lot of that published poetry isn’t even being read. And who is reading it? Offen asks “Who is . . . visiting [poetry ezines]?” (which I will address shortly), but who reads print literary journals? I’ll tell you who: the poets who submit and are published in those journals, professors teaching in writing programs and a scant few diehard fans and critics who are even aware of that print journals existence. The vast majority of readers are not interested, have no reason to be interested and have no means of accessing these publications. University libraries that used to routinely subscribe to and archive small press literary magazines now do so sparingly if at all. Failed magazines are largely forgotten, their issues languishing in shoe boxes, closets, lost to collectors of rare literature or just plain lost. So are print poetry publication really more reliable? I’m thinking, not so much. And as to who is reading poetry ezines . . . well, the same people who read print zines — and some people who don’t routinely read print zines or poetry in general. I will use one of my own ezines, The 13th Warrior Review, as an example. It gets regular traffic from well over 30 different countries representing every continent on the global map except Antarctica — thousands and thousands of readers each year who appreciate and love good poetry and not only read each issue but return time and time again to reread favorites. Each issue is part of a growing archive. And what if, for whatever reason, the ezine ever does go belly-up? Well, I still have all the files and I could just as easily do print collections/anthologies or can restore the publication in some other e-format if I’m of the mind to do so and have the money. The point is that I have options available to me that a traditional print publisher may not be open-minded enough to take advantage of.

I am also deeply offended by the notion that the poetry published in ezines is inherently inferior to the poetry published in print zines. This a sweeping generalization based on a prejudice and nothing more. Literary publications, whether they be in print or online, are only as good as the editors who publish them. To suggest that editors of print publications are automatically more discerning critics of poetry — Ughh! Talk about a “fallacy”? Good Christ, man! I’m thinking that Ron Offen doesn’t read too many ezines since, by his own admission, reading poems online makes him “cranky.” I think there are plenty of online editors who’d take issue with the accusation that we don’t care about quality. And speaking only for myself, I doubt very much that any of my own contributors would argue that they send work to me “because it’s easier to get published.” I’ve published a number of the same people Mr. Offen has and yet, by contrast, he’s published a number of people who certainly haven’t gotten a free lunch when it came to submitting to me.

Finally, I would take issue with the accusation that ezine editors are somehow cheerleading the death of the print medium simply because we promote digital publishing. While I have ecountered a few people online who are overly enthusiastic when it comes to e-publishing and stand in direct opposition to print, these individuals are rare. Most of us who engage in online publishing are book lovers.

I love print. I cut my teeth in print. I was an editor of print publication long before I discovered the Internet. What I’m selling isn’t the ephemeralization of art (and btw, Mr. Offen, you didn’t “coin” the word, an architect and futurist the name of R. Buckminster Fuller did), but the ephemeralization of publishing — and there is a big difference. What does ephemeralization mean, anyway? Doing more with less, right? It doesn’t mean choosing quantity over quality — it’s a means for producing more of the same quality with fewer physical resources. And how can that be a bad thing for the always cash-strapped small press?

The art of writing doesn’t somehow become less artful just because it is presented through a different medium. The reason more books are being published nowadays isn’t in spite of new media, but because of it (examples of Harry Potter books and Billy Collins notwithstanding — both are a phenomena that have little to do with the efficacy of either print or digital media and, thus poor examples and, fyi, when he was U.S. Poet Laureate, Collins created 180 Poems, a very popular poetry site so I doubt he has a major problem with poetry on the Internet). Can Mr. Offen truly be that obtuse as to fail to see this? Digital technologies such as on-demand printing, e-paper, improved reader devices like Kindle and the Sony reader are opening up a whole new world of art and information for us. The Internet isn’t killing the print-based media; it may well be the only thing that will save it.

So what if it changes us and how we perceive the world? The medium has always been the message from the time Socrates lamented that the birth of the written word might destroy the oral tradition up through the invention of the printing press and the telegraph machine, the telephone, the television and, yes, the personal computer and, now, the Internet. And, guess what? The world has not ended due to any of these innovations. We are still here regardless of the fact that everything changes. We evolve. We must continue to do so. That’s part of our job as human beings and as creative artists. Creative artists who stand in the way of that are not all that creative and I have my doubts as to whether or not they are true artists. So deal with that or do us all a favor and get the hell out of the way.

He’s Says He Was Only Joking, but I’m Thinking He’s Just a Joke

You ever hear the saying, “when you’ve dug yourself into a hole, quit digging”? Well . . . that’s some good advice for Mr. Dean Grondo, wannabe story writer who was featured in a previous post, “He Must’ve Written His Story in Crayon.” Grondo decided to respond to that post with the following comment:

“You guys are makin’ me giggle
I think Cindy and everybody missed the part where it says,
‘Due to time constraints I’m forced to use this form letter and I offer my apoligy for this.’
It’s a fucking joke!
Sorry Cindy, whoever you are, that my apparently bad joke screwed with your head. But, how could you guys not know that this was a joke?!!!!!!!!!!Insofar as my FALLOUT from all this….
Boo Fucking Hoo”

— Dean Grondo

Don’t get me wrong, people — I sincerely love comments and wish I got more of them, but explain to me how this comment helps Dean Grondo argue his case. He must belong to the wine of the month club (read: “whine”). I don’t believe Grondo was “joking” when he responded to Cindy’s rejection of his story and I will get to that in a moment. First, though, let’s assume for the time being that Grondo was joking. What was the point of his joke? Why would anyone receiving his “joke” find it amusing? I’ve stated this before and I guess it’s one of those things I’ll be repeating over and over (because you can’t repeat things often enough for the brain dead fucking retarded among us), but if you absolutely must respond to a rejection, respond with a polite “thank you” for taking the time to read the submission. Because a little good will goes a long way.

Now I don’t believe this “joke” was intended as a joke because it obviously was made solely to amuse the douchebag who sent it and not intended to entertain Cindy. And considering the nature of Grondo’s rejected story (according to Cindy because, like I stated in the post, I didn’t read it) Grondo either didn’t read or intentionally disregarded Yellow Mama’s submission guidelines, which in itself can and does ruffle the feathers of a hard-working editor. So we have a guy who doesn’t respect editors, who doesn’t respect the submission process and thinks it’s perfectly reasonable to attack editors who don’t automatically bow down before his awesome ego.

Grondo should’ve taken my advice and simply apologized for being an asshole. Of course, I’ve never met a genuine asshole who was at all apologetic about being an asshole so I didn’t really expect an act of contrition from him. But, even an asshole should know when he’s beat. Now that the shoe is on the other foot, Grondo should just shut up and wear it. Because, while I can’t speak for Cindy, I can certainly do this until they drag my corpse away. So if he thinks he knows what fallout is . . . just keep digging that hole, brother.

He Was Just a Bellhop on the Elevator to Hell

I received an email recently from a guy who I hadn’t heard from in awhile, asking me why I didn’t mention David Foster Wallace’s recent suicide on my blog. “I know you weren’t exactly a fan,” he wrote, “I thought you’d have something to say about it.” Well . . . no, I hadn’t planned on it precisely because I’m not a fan of DFW’s writing. But since you mentioned it, guy, I’ll put my two cents in.

Probably, the major reason I’ve never been a fan of Wallace’s work has less to do with him than with postmodernism in general. Postmodernism is one of those things that makes for great chatter in the confines of a graduate school classroom, but has little appeal to me outside in the real world. I’ve always thought of David Foster Wallace as a terribly clever stylist but an ultimately empty storyteller too easily lost in the minutia of “words, words, words ….” And really, as far as DFW was concerned you were either in my camp or otherwise a fanboy. He wasn’t a writer who inspired indifference — which is, I suppose, the closest thing to a compliment I can express. I kind of feel the same way about DFW’s writing that I feel about coffee. Everyone I know drinks coffee, but I’ve never acquired a taste for it. I mean, I’ve tried to like coffee — I’ve tried it about four times since I was four years-old (which rounds out to about once a decade) and I’ve never enjoyed it. By the same token, I’ve tried to read and enjoy Wallace’s writing over the years and couldn’t manage it. I’ve often thought that his so-called masterpiece, Infinite Jest was actually a joke played on the reader. I only actually know one person who’s read the thing cover-to-cover and claims to have enjoyed it and even he said that he didn’t get into it until about “page 700.” I’d say that after 700 pages of a 1000-plus page opus, you’re already pretty well into it, so if it takes you that long to feel as if you’re into it . . . well, I rest my case.

As for David Foster Wallace, I don’t think I could write a glowing obituary of the man. I didn’t know him. I didn’t enjoy reading his work. And it’s not like this guy came to some heroic or otherwise brave end. The fucker hanged himself! Don’t get me wrong, I can embrace the notion that suicide is sometimes a noble thing — like when a unmarried soldier throws himself on a grenade to spare the life of a buddy who’s married with six kids so that guy can go home safe to his family. Or, when a terminally ill woman is face with a choice between dying after much suffering or dying in peace wit some dignity. David Foster Wallace’s death wasn’t such an occasion. I can’t feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for his poor wife who discovered his body. I feel sorry for his parents. I feel sorry for those fans who will miss his presence in the literary world. But sorrow for him? Since David Foster Wallace was a self-proclaimed truth-seeker, here’s a little truth: His life and death don’t amount to spit in the grand scheme of the universe. And I think that’s ultimately what drove him to suicide. In his 2005, commencement address at Kenyon College, he said, “Worship your intellect, being seen as smart — you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. ” I think he was talking about himself. Just my humble opinion. I think the truth of his own existence ate away at him. I think it made him unhappy. I think he couldn’t carry his own luggage spiritually, emotionally or intellectually and it did him in. But it’s politically incorrect these days to call a suicide a coward. We’re supposed to blame society or something. Treat the suicide with deference rather than with shame. Pity that I’m not a politically correct individual.

What I know is this: though a star in his short life, David Foster Wallace will be forgotten. His books, will sell well for a time because of his death, but will eventually fall out of fashion. His writing and his death will just be more chatter for the graduate writing programs. He has become a cliche and not a proper example for the next generation of writers to follow.