Verisimilitude is a Friend of Mine

One thing inherent in the study of writing fiction is verisimilitude. The problem with many fantasy scholars is their reductive attitude towards verisimilitude.  Hume, for example, refuses to use the word “realistic,” instead she advocates “mimetic” (a loaded philosophical term, implying a style of fiction that “mimics” life) while scholars like Petzold, prefer “noematic” (I won’t even get into that one). Let’s avoid the philosophical conundrum of trying to define “reality,” but agree that 90% of readers of literary fiction will know what we’re taking about when we say: “realistic fiction.” Usually, it means something is being conveyed with great verisimilitude.

Now here’s the problem: Petzold dispatches Verisimilitude in one paragraph, Hume dedicates a chapter to it. As a literary term, it simply means: the appearance of being true or real; likeness or resemblance of the truth. Yet open any how-to-write-fiction book and you’ll find hundreds of pages describing verisimilitude. Often, this term takes many names in a Creative Writing class. For beginners and intro classes, it maybe called “authority” or “believability.” For example, when you write a story about a professional mechanic who doesn’t know the names of his tools, one may feel the way a director feels watching a bad actor and say: “I don’t buy it.” This usually means that your character lacks vocational authority, your writing lacks verisimilitude. Usually, in my experience writing, the word itself was only used to offer the reader tactile and sensory details, for example, you must describe sights, smells, textures, tastes in your writing, this “sensory information” is also a kind of verisimilitude. How important is verisimilitude in fiction? Well, it is everything, even for fantasy fiction. For example, Harry Potter may be set in a world of wizard and magic, but much of the characterization and conflict derive from social verisimilitude: issues of class and race, the boy-girl relationships of school age children. Despite the character’s abilities to cast spells, fight evil Dark Lords and what-not, they still succumb to a “crush” like any adolescent protagonist of a “realistic” novel. Fiction uses all sorts of trickery to make things believable. In the end, fiction is the ultimate artifice, one that aims at being more “real” than the real thing. On this, more later.

As such, I would like to name a few “kinds” of verisimilitudes used in fiction writing. Over several posts, I’ll try and explain how they are used in fiction (including fantasy). This is a preliminary list, bound to expand and suffer from the same problems any theory of literary taxonomy is bound to suffer. Nonetheless, here it is:

Sensory Verisimilitude: Descriptions of sound, taste, smell, and sight. This is important in all fiction, but some (The romance novel for example, may rely on it more heavily than others genres of fiction).

Social Verisimilitude: This one is rather complicated, it includes depiction of social issues, while also everyday social interaction. It may also be broken down into smaller groups:

Dialogue: often the type of 20^th century dialogue influenced by Hemingway, dialogue to resembles the way people talk (see “Hills like White Elephants” and “A Clean and Well Lighted Place”). It shows characters that never vocalize their issues directly, talk around the subject with a type of “short hand speech” that avoids exposition.

Narrator Voice:  the believability that the “voice” telling the story belongs to a person (crucial to the 1^st person story) but also the level of disclosure presented by a character narrator (third person or first). Here we can get really picky into POV issues; arguably, part of the reason omniscient narrator is no longer as widespread in fiction is that it lacks verisimilitude. I’m still debating whether “subjectivity” should get its own category.

(Vocational) Authority: The believability of what someone does, i.e. a homeless person gives enough details of how he or she survives that one “believes” that the character is “really” homeless; or a ballet dancer who goes on and on about her shoes. This is not only jobs or hobbies, but also of social roles. The interactions of two brothers (depending on their relationship) requires a type of authority, fiction aims to make the reader think: these two brothers sound like they have issues.

Behavioral (emotional) Verisimilitude: This simply means we expect emotional events to follow some logic, i.e. characters don’t laugh or cry for no reason, unless they are crazy. Mentally ill characters follow some kind of psychological logic, even if their actions don’t make sense, we understand at some level why the character does what they do. This is usually means the disclosure of symptoms of mental illness or atleast of psychological processes of the Freudian variety to render character’s emotions and actions “believable.”  For a novel that relies heavily on this type of verisimilitude, see Anne Tyler’s Accidental Tourist; for a quick example, see the story “The Beginning of Grief” by Adam Haslett.

This list will be updated as we go along.

The End of The Written Word?

In this podcast: Will the written word be dead in twenty-five years? A response to Phillip Roth’s comments: are books and newspapers obsolete? How about the Kindle? Will reading be the next punk-rock counter-culture thing?

“…against all those screens, I think, the book can’t measure up.”
- Phillip Roth

Follow the Quote to the Daily Beast: The most celebrated American author is at the height of his powers in his latest novel, The Humbling. In a rare video interview—his only for this book—Philip Roth sits down with Tina Brown for The Daily Beast’s new Web series, The Beast Bar, to talk about writing, mortality, politics, and why he thinks the novel is a dying animal.

About Phillip Roth
Philip Roth received the 1960 National Book Award in fiction for Goodbye, Columbus. He has twice received the National Book Critics Circle Award—in 1987 for the novel The Counterlife and in 1992 for Patrimony. Operation Shylock won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction and was chosen by Time magazine as the best American novel of 1993. In 1995, Roth’s Sabbaths Theater received the National Book Award in fiction. In 1998, he received the Pulitzer Prize for American Pastoral and was a White House recipient of the National Medal of Arts. His other books include the trilogy and epilogue Zuckerman Bound; the novels Letting Go, My life as a Man, and The Professor of Desire; and the political satire Our Gang (I feel silly recommending books by Phillip Roth, so I’ll list The Human Stain and feel free to look up everything else).

The Human Stain

It is 1998, the year in which America is whipped into a frenzy of prurience by the impeachment of a president, and in a small New England town, an aging classics professor, Coleman Silk, is forced to retire when his colleagues decree that he is a racist. The charge is a lie, but the real truth about Silk would have astonished even his most virulent accuser.

Coleman Silk has a secret, one which has been kept for fifty years from his wife, his four children, his colleagues, and his friends, including the writer Nathan Zuckerman. It is Zuckerman who stumbles upon Silk’s secret and sets out to reconstruct the unknown biography of this eminent, upright man, esteemed as an educator for nearly all his life, and to understand how this ingeniously contrived life came unraveled. And to understand also how Silk’s astonishing private history is, in the words of The Wall Street Journal, “magnificently” interwoven with “the larger public history of modern America.”

Announcements: Starting January W&L Reviews
 I dislike reviews, especially because writing a book is so difficult that part of me wishes to give a big hug an a huge mug of beer to anyone who manages such a task. But seeing the state of reading in general, I think the short story could certainly use a boost even from the few souls who venture into this corner of the internet (where short stories are loved). Well, why not.  Starting in January 2010, the blog will feature a monthly review of a short fiction collection. Why shot stories? Well because I love them and I’m usually aware (to some degree) of up-and-coming authors and try to be aware of recent collections and what not. I’ll try to keep things balanced, avoid anthologies when necessary, and attempt to find new writers. It’s a great pleasure to discover a new voice in fiction. I remember discovering Daniel Alarcón in VQR and getting his book a few years back. This year, he got a story in the Best American anthology and that makes me really happy. There’s pleasure in sharing good reads, so expect a review at some point early January.

The Art of Writing… Fantasy?

 

In preparation of a Podcast currently in production, I wanted to post something about fantasy fiction, an introduction that may, at least, justify my ambivalence towards it and start a series of chats about what seems to be a misunderstanding on both sides of the age-old argument of the “literary fiction” vs. “genre fiction” debate—a moot point for almost everyone who takes time out of his or her life to write fiction.  

This isn’t meant to be a personal attack on fantasy fiction or those who write and read it. Instead, I’d like to help articulate why fantasy (and other genre) writers are excluded from the most formal creative writing curriculum in the country. Recently, I have read some fantasy novels I didn’t hate, and some I even enjoyed. Partly, I think, it is that I didn’t (and still don’t) understand what makes fantasy work. I began (or was forced) to read large amounts of scholarship on fantasy writing during the last few months, and I was surprised to discover that most the scholars defending Fantasy were not only asking the readers to consider it an equal form of literature, but to believe Fantasy to be inherently superior to “realistic” fiction. Some of the most interesting (though sometimes just downright irritating) scholars include: Brian Attebery, Farah Mendlesohn, and Kathryn Hume. Let me start with some of the most irritating of the arguments I’ve found.

Hume for example, believes that “realistic” fiction has slowly been running out of ideas to the point in which it can only offer the stories of the marginalized and an ever increasing amount of intertextuality. So books are no longer about the elite and slowly have come to feature marginal protagonists, like drug-addicts or minorities. What’s wrong with that? I find her argument offensive: the people on the margins of society have ALWAYS had stories. It is simply, that those stories have entered a medium. So we’ve ran out of F. Scott Fitzgeralds, I guess all those Junot Diaz’s, Denis Johnson’s and Sherman Alexie’s are worthless. As for intertextuality, she seems to want to ignore “influence” as the primary motivator for all artists to pick up an instrument (musical or not). Let’s also pretend that fantasy writers never take ideas/concepts from older books… wait a minute. What about that 900th Arthurian novel, or the next Lord of The Rings rip off. Isn’t Harry Potter just Tom Brown’s School Days in wizard world? (To Hume’s defense she wrote this in the early 80’s).

“The ugly fact is books are made out of books. The novel depends for its life on the novels that have been written.”

- Cormac McCarthy

 As a student of literature, her argument sounds ridiculous to me. How are we to make sense of that in the evolution of the art form? This is the foundation of what literary study looks like pretty much at any university. This is what is called: literary “Tradition.” As a student of literature one is asked to try and “understand” a tradition. As a young writer you’re asked: how are you going to contribute to it?

It isn’t that Hume doesn’t believe in Tradition. She insists Fantasy belongs to a tradition undermined by recent developments in fiction writing. For her, Fantasy is part of the tradition of medieval romances, fairytales, and gothic novels, a way of writing that realists, especially the modernists, have ruined. This “mode” of storytelling is now being recuperated by those courageous writers willing to challenge doctrines of realistic fiction. Really… how about that book about (yet) another young sword-wielding hero fighting against (yet) another dark lord? Well that’s the problem, she does not account for all the terrible fantasy fiction out there. However, she does have a point. There are many Creative Writing students working on some crappy manuscript, like me, that don’t realize our conventions of characterization, plot, and structure aren’t written in stone. Instead, they are the indoctrination part of our formal education.  The thing is: Are we perpetuating an artistic doctrine willingly? When we write on a classmate’s manuscript: this line doesn’t work or this doesn’t sound believable. What are we doing?

 For me, I like these conventions. They are in part why I enjoy stories. But still, one ought to ask: if we are going to promote a kind of aesthetic convention ought we not to at least acknowledge the possibilities that there maybe something else out there. As such, I’ll post a few more pointers on fantasy. Hopefully they won’t be all rants like this one, but more generous depictions of how to redefine conventions of what we call “genre”; what we call “entertaining”; and what we call “literature.”

Bear with me, there will be updates soon. I promise.

Well, obviously the W&L blog has been neglected, mostly due to my academic load this semester, which includes reading fifty-plus novels and writing sixteen papers. All it takes is one insane professor. I’ll be getting back on track soon; there’ll be a few interesting posts on creative writing programs and fantasy (since I’ve devoted a great deal of my time to it this semester). Children’s literature is a complex monster. On one hand, there’s the hidden adult constructing (or reconstructing from memory rather) their version of childhood, which may or may not please adults. I don’t read children books very much (if at all) and I don’t intend to after this semester. However, I discovered two issues relevant to Creative Writing. Often, I bump into people who resent the “literary fiction snobs” (people like me, who openly dislike genre fiction) and are often disappointed to find out that Writing Programs don’t offer classes in writing genre. However, I have found out that there several programs that offer either a M.A. in Children’s Literature (which treats Children’s Lit as any form of literature) and a M.F.A. (or M.A. with creative thesis) in the writing of children’s literature which offers workshops led by reputable writers of children’s lit and many of the familiar or traditional teaching models of creative writing. However, without getting into the “fantasy is not only for children” discussion, I just wanted to let you know that fantasy is written in a few MFA programs! No, really!

There are two podcast episodes in “production” right now. We’re having some technical difficulties with equipment. One is about the Novel and the end of publishing (as foretold by Phillip Roth) and the other one is about the positive aspects of writing workshops. I also have another interview coming up, this one is about “co-writing” a book. So, keep your eyes and your ears peeled, and bear with me through this dry period. Thank you!

Crazy Little Thing Called Craft: Endings

People often ask me how I come up for endings to my stories – a valid question – knowing how to end a story is a crucial skill that should be understood early on. What’s the point of writing “Good Dialogue” if you can’t end your story? One of the problems young writers have is a lack of reference. I’m not surprised to encounter a workshop where fifty percent of students have never read short stories. That’s bad. For better or worse, the short story has become the training wheels of fiction writing. To add to the problem, students aren’t likely to study the short story as a form in the average literature class. There is a bias towards teaching novels over short story collections, but that’s a different issue. Nonetheless, it aids to see the reality of an intro or mid level workshop. When it comes to ending short stories, the answer is simple: read fifty short stories and ask me again. Often, the case is that the young writer enters workshop with no idea how a story is supposed to work. Imagine what would happen if someone who has never seen a violin shows up to a violin lesson. The first step: we should become familiar with the instrument.

The short story is like a musical instrument. Learning the guitar is not like learning the piano. You may take some of what you learn writing short stories and apply it to another instrument – let’s say a novel – but each instrument is fundamentally different. In which case, due to poor sales, I’d say the short story is more like a tuba or a French horn. All this just goes to say, if you’re not familiar with the contemporary short story – how can you expect to write one?

So, with that in mind, let’s look at a short story and see how stories “should” end. When I say “should” I mean this in a very subjective way. There are no “rules of craft” that apply 100% of the time. The trick is to learn these, so called, “rules” and later, learn how and why to break them.  A literary short story does not work like the average genre piece, in which the motivation for the reader to keep turning pages is often the unfolding of the events (plot). In literary fiction, stories tend to have logical conclusions which readers can predict – some are outright plot-less. The motivation for the reader to keep turning pages isn’t necessarily the question of “what happens next?” Literary short fiction is an exercise in rhetoric. It’s structured to give the ending a sense of “finality” without resolving all the problems the characters face. This type of ending aims to create some sort of emotional resonance for the reader. Some of my favorite short story endings are totally irresolute. Usually, a protagonist will face an internal and external conflict, and the writer must choose to solve one of these two problems while leaving the other unresolved. As with anything, the best way to illustrate this is with examples.

“When We Were Nearly Young,” by Mavis Gallant, is a story written in “informed past tense,” which simply means the protagonist has already survived the experience she’s telling us about. The narrator tells you, as the story progresses, that the she has become distant with the rest of the characters in the story. One doesn’t read to learn “what happens next?” the POV implies what has happened. We read to see how these events unfolded. There are two things I would like to point out BEFORE you read (or listen) to this story.

Conflict
Internal: Loneliness (idleness)
External: Money problems (poverty)

Narrative Device
The Journals the characters keep

This is a good example of a story where the protagonist’s external conflict is resolved while the internal conflict is left unresolved. Also, there are many clever uses of narrative device in the story. The one that essentially creates the ending is the comparison the protagonist makes about the content of their journals. The narrator often points out what activities the characters engage in. She describes what each of them is doing at the time, like when they go to the museum. Here’s an example, where the narrator describes each of the character’s dreams :

“I dreamed of food, Pilar dreamed of things chasing her, Pablo dreamed of me, and Carlos dreamed he was on top of a mountain preaching to multitudes. But I dreamed of baked ham and Madeira sauce.”

However, when the journals are mentioned, the narrator excludes herself from disclosing what she was writing. See below:

“We began keeping diaries about the same time. I don’t remember who started it. Carlos’ was secret. Pilar asked how to spell words. Pablo told everything before he wrote it down.”

This bit of information will make more sense once you get to the end of the story. Ideally, you’ll see how careful placement of information in the story creates and “ending.” I will not ruin the story with any more spoilers.

Listen Antonya Nelson read Mavis Gallant’s:
“When We Were Nearly Young”
at the New Yorker website.

 

Mavis Gallant was born in Montreal and worked as a journalist before moving to Europe to devote herself to writing fiction. Her Paris Stories and Varieties of Exile were published by NYRB Classics. She lives in Paris. You can find her books at:

Workshop: a Terrible Place?

In this podcast: Quote from Sandra Cisneros (25^th Anniversary of The House on Mango Street) and the experience of “workshops.” Daynee and Carlos discuss the not so good aspects of creative writing workshops and some of the kinds of feedback one may get in a beginners workshop.  

 

 

 

SANDRA CISNEROS

 Follow the quote to the interview at WNYC.org

The House on Mango Street 
Acclaimed by critics, beloved by readers of all ages, taught everywhere from inner-city grade schools to universities across the country, and translated all over the world, The House on Mango Street is the remarkable story of Esperanza Cordero. Told in a series of vignettes – sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes deeply joyous – it is the story of a young Latina girl growing up in Chicago, inventing for herself who and what she will become. Few other books in our time have touched so many readers.

Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories: And Other Stories
A collection of stories, whose characters give voice to the vibrant and varied life on both sides of the Mexican border. The women in these stories offer tales of pure discovery, filled with moments of infinite and intimate wisdom.

 

 

There’s still time to register for Write Night @ The Creative Cauldron
This is an open enrollment workshop and space for writers of all genres to come together and both practice their craft and assist other writers with theirs. The workshop supports and challenges writers of all levels in a nurturing environment and community.  Write Night will encourage participants to explore various genres over the course. Topics will include: creative non-fiction, essay, poetry, performance poetry, storytelling, essay, short story, flash fiction, etc. At $120 bucks, this eight week workshop is a great way to get feedback on your work.

 

The Small Press Scene

 

In this podcast: (explicit quote by Junot Diaz) The Small Press, a conversation with D. Cullen Nolan local author and founder of Phoenix Tree Publishing. Announcements: 1 Crafty Bastards, an exhibition/sale of handmade alternative arts and crafts from independent artists. 2 Write Night, an open enrollment creative writing workshop in the DC area. 3 Mixtape, a new podcast by Barrelhouse Magazine.

 

 

Spy in the House of Fitzwalter
During the 13th Century, only one man saw King John sign the Magna Carta and the Mongols conquer half the world. Only one man served as envoy, soldier, and spy across Europe, Africa, and Asia. Discover the life of Robert de London in Spy the House of Fitzwalter, in the historical novel by local author D. Cullen Nolan.

Crafty Bastards
This is the 6th year for this exhibition and sale of handmade alternative arts and crafts from independent artists presented by the Washington City Paper. The fair is all-day, outdoors, free to attend, and will offer goods for sale, food, entertainment, prizes, and more! Crafty Bastards will take place Saturday, October 3, 2009 in Washington, DC

Barrelhouse’s Mixtape
A monthly podcast on the independent literary scene.  Each month, we’ll talk to writers, editors, publishers, artists, pretty much whoever will talk to us about what’s happening in indie lit. Like This American Life, but without all the high production values and famous writers with interestingly whiny voices.

Write Night @ Creative Cauldron
Write Night is an open enrollment workshop and space for writers of all genres to come together and both practice their craft and assist other writers with theirs. The workshop supports and challenges writers of all levels in a nurturing environment and community.  Write Night will encourage participants to explore various genres over the course. Topics will include: creative non-fiction, essay, poetry, performance poetry, storytelling, essay, short story, flash fiction, etc. At $120 bucks, this eight week workshop is a great way to get feedback on your work.

JUNOT DIAZ

Follow the quote: in this interview at SlowTV  

Drown
With ten stories that move from the barrios of the Dominican Republic to the struggling urban communities of New Jersey, Junot Diaz makes his remarkable debut. In “Ysrael”, two brothers hunt a disfigured boy who hides behind a mask; in “No Face”, the mirror is flipped and perspective belongs to the tormented. In “Fiesta, 1980″, a spirited family gathering plays against the noiseless hum of a father’s infidelities. In “Boyfriend”, a young man eavesdrops on the woman next door and colors in the life overheard with the drama born of intense longing. And always, it seems there is the throb of waiting: in “Aguantando”, for the fulfillment of a promise; in “Negocios”, for rescue; in “Aurora”, for respite; in “Drown”, for resolution.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
Oscar is a sweet but disastrously overweight ghetto nerd who, from the New Jersey home he shares with his old world mother and rebellious sister, dreams of becoming the Dominican J.R.R. Tolkien and, most of all, finding love. But Oscar may never get what he wants. Blame the fukú — a curse that has haunted Oscar’s family for generations, following them on their epic journey from Santo Domingo to the USA.

NOTES: I need to work on my “interview skills.” The “hello” and “goodbye” portion of the interview were cut off for lenght reasons (I’m not sure that was a good decision). Hey, I’m still learning the art of the podcast.

Crazy Little Thing Called Craft: The Fugue

I’m a huge fan of comparing the idea of craft in music to the craft in writing. Creative writing instructors can learn a lot from music teachers simply because music has been taught in a formal setting for much, much longer than writing. Learning terms like “Sonata” for a short story or “Symphony” for a novel can be of great aid in describing the structure, events, and intensity of a particular piece. One could even go as far as John Gardner did, scoring the rhythms of his sentences on a staff. To add to the former post on Modular Design, I want to talk about the fugue as a form.

      The fugue is a work of music that features the counterpoint relationship between two (or more) voices that are independent in contour and rhythm and yet harmonically interdependent. Some folks believe that the form reached its pinnacle in the Baroque period with Bach’s “The Art of The Fugue.” I have to thank my friend Yang Li for introducing me to Glenn Gould, and to better illustrate what a fugue is, here’s a sample of what a fugue sounds like:

     In that way, I would describe a short story in the fugue form would include two narrative vectors (voices) that follow separate trajectories (contour) but are thematically interdependent (harmony). The relationship between these two narratives is reciprocal. They create a “wholeness” that otherwise would not exist as separate stories. One of the problems with this form in writing is that while we can listen to two voices at the same time, we cannot read two separate narratives at the same time. For that reason, they usually exist as intrusions on each other. Yes, it takes a while to get used to reading something like that, though it isn’t impossible. As a written form, the fugue ranges from alternating voices in large chunks (paragraphs) to some changing vectors every few sentences. If you look at the staff for a fugue pieces (ignore the bottom bass clef section) you can see how the piece looks like in paper.

     I see two different ways of charting a modular short story. The way Madison Smartt Bell deals with it is what he calls, the “football” graph. He chooses to represent vectors are two separate entities. Here’s an example:

     However, I see another, more tricky, but perhaps more accurate way of tracking the trajectory of the vectors. I guess you could call it the “Staff” graph. Here, the story is plotted over one another, like the clefs of a staff, and in this way, we can see their relationship a little bit better:

 

For an Example of the fugue form see: Marcia Golub’s “The Child Downstairs”

The first vector: I listen to the child cry downstairs. I don’t think they beat or abuse him, but he cries

The second vector: I want to tell you about a woman. She is married. She has no children. She thinks…

     This story, like many similar pieces, works by laying out the “meaningful pieces” of a story, as a mosaic, and count on the reader to make the connections. One can assume, that the protagonists of both stories are, in fact, the same woman. I don’t believe this is necessarily true, but I’d like to believe that’s the case. That’s one of the issues with this form, too much ambiguity prevents the reader from becoming fully vested in either the characters or the plot(s). We have several elements the reader desperately wants to put together and make sense of. This may create a greater intellectual investment in part of the reader, in fact, novels like No Country for Old Men and As I lay Dying, create that effect. We as readers want to put the story together. Here, John Gardner’s advice on jazzing around with structure may come in handy “don’t confuse storytelling with puzzle-making.” whether the story works or not I usually consider it on a case-by-case basis.

     While I was writing this, it also occurred to me that the example I had given earlier “City of Clowns” resembles more of the fugue form, that I had originally intended. I was really looking for a “collage” form that would resemble “Happiness is a Warm Gun” in structure. There’s an excerpt of Rick Moody’s “Five Stories” on AGNI online. This a modular story of five distinct pieces together, only one of them is posted online, but I’ll guess it’ll have to do until I find something better. Until then, enjoy!

On Becoming an Editor: An Anthology

I’m always happy to learn by doing. So when I started telling people that I’m editing an anthology (that’s what I’m calling it now) which I intend to publish myself later in the winter, people immediately started asking me how do you do that, and why.

Why? Because I think it’ll be a good experience. Some people are just not going to understand the idea of self-funding a tiny press that’ll churn out a few dozen books that only my friends will read. Ever heard of a small press literary journal? I think more people submit to them than subscribe to them, or even read them. That’s sad. I attended the Small Press Publishing Panel at Fall for the Book today and learned all kinds of good stuff, like the struggle for editorial identity. When one looks at the New Yorker, one is looking at an institution. Barrelhouse, for example, is a small press journal, but it tries to bridge the snobby world of literature with a low-brow pop-culture twist. They do a kick ass job at it. I have a rejection from them somewhere in my stack. When I decided to put this anthology together, I decided early on, to find a niche for it. But it seems I may have thought too narrowly. For Barrelhouse, when it comes to non-fiction and poetry they absolutely want the pop-fiction element, but when it comes to fiction, they just want to publish the best fiction they can find. When most publications start out, this includes Barrelhouse and No Tell Motel, their editors solicited submissions. They explained that it’s hard to get people to submit their work when can’t see a sample of the finished product. As far as soliciting submission, Dave Housely explained how he had to bug a writer friend of him for three years to submit an essay on “Thin Lizzy.” The editors of Phoebe said that the journal exists to help up-and-coming writers, they publish the writer’s whose work they beleive in.

Reb, the editor of No Tell Publishing explained that she publishes a handful of books a year; her budget consists of around $1000 for each. This includes lay out, design, and short run for sample and author copies. Everything else goes through a print-on-demand company. Dave Housely also mentioned how he writes the check to print Barrelhouse and how his wife doesn’t appreciate the boxes of unsold issues he has in his basement. Small Press is a labor of love. Even Glimmer train, which last year featured ten stories short-listed for the Best American Short Stories, cannot break even. Some of the absolute best literary art — specially the short story form — is published out of love. This doesn’t depress me anymore. At a reception for my first undergrad publication, the Dean of the English Department told the entire audience not to worry about the business world. There are hundreds of people with nothing else to do, but go into business. They’ll keep the new products coming. They’ll keep the cash registers ringing. They’ll keep the world spinning. But he also told us that we shouldn’t, under any circumstance, stop making art. In a society where even someone like Faulkner could not make a living with his art, why are we to expect any better? Even Sherman Alexie admitted he shifted from writing to shooting films because he made more money. That’s why most writers teach, though that’s a different topic. From nine-to-five, I’m an A/R Rep, a revenue cycle specialist. I worry about money for a living. So, if I can take some money and share someone’s art, why is that crazy?

The best thing about the panel, was that in only one hour of listening, I was able to conjure up a much more concrete plan about putting together my anthology. After looking around, I decided I will use Lulu as the POD service. The price is right and the product looks great. JMWW uses it and their magazine looks very spiffy. As a side note, JWMM latest issue features Madison Smartt Bell! As far as paper, binding, and cover, I have ideas, but I won’t worry about them until I have submissions. I hope some of my more artsy friends will help me on that. I also have established a tentative schedule. The budget will include contributor copies, a few copies to handout to friends, and the rest will go thru print-on-demand. I’ll use this blog to document the process. In the end, if this venture turns out to be a failure, it will be a well documented failure. Which will eventually help someone out down the road. So, here’s the first update:

Since this thing will be called an “anthology” I will accept previously published work as long as the rights have been reversed to the author.

I’m in the process to find a poetry editor.

I’m in the process of soliciting stories from writers I know.

I’m going to take the Barrelhouse approach, and keep the non-fiction “related to the Winter Festival Frog Mythology” but open up the poetry and fiction to include any immorality during the holidays.

I don’t have any solid plans to do this again next year, but if it somehow takes off, I don’t see why not. If enough people are willing to get involved we can turn this into a periodical publication.

I’m drawing a list of people to call on for help, as the people who help with the podcast know; I can only pay you in beer

On Becoming an Editor

There’s an issue with small-press journals no one wants to talk about. About a year ago, when I decided to start submitting my work to the small-presses, just to get my feet wet, I began ordering literary journals from around the east coast. I really wanted to take a look at the regional press to see what I was up against. I know my stories wouldn’t get in The New Yorker or Tin House, so I was perfectly fine with rejections from the small press. I had gotten a list of journals that publish fiction from my first creative writing teacher, and I began to go thru it. This was all in all, fine and dandy, I didn’t really expect my stories to get anywhere, but I knew I had to start submitting at some point–and get used to rejections and what not–so the fall of 2008 seemed as good time as any.

It didn’t cake long for me to notice something. The editors of Journal-X were getting published in Journal-Y and vice-versa. This was not the case with every journal, but it was common enough to see it right away. This isn’t exactly a bad thing; for example, a group of struggling writers meets in bar and after a few beers they decide to start and literary journal. I’ve sat in a bar at some point of my life and had that conversation myself. We’ll start online and then move onto printing and binding later, etc, etc, etc. If I did start a new lit journal, who would I tell to submit, my friends of course.

     This is a double edge sword. On one hand, publishing all your friends is kind of lame literary venture, isn’t it? On the other hand, new journals not only struggle with finding readership, having a short shelf-life, but also struggle to find submissions. The fact is, everyone wants to get published in the glossies. 

     When I ask a few people I know with MFAs, they told me they had heard or been to such meetings, where editors of Journal-X hang out with the editors of Journal-Y and take turns deciding who will publish who and when. This doesn’t always mean that the material sucks. In the end, publishing is a business and a part of a business is one’s connections. Still, I can’t help to think there’s something dishonest about it. But there’s only one way to find out. I’d have to edit a journal myself.

     I recently published a story in a journal edited by grad students. This was all find and dandy, except that the journal was not edited and formatted very well. No offense, really. If you’re on your final year, working on your thesis, and doing an editing internship, I understand you’re very busy. But it got me thinking, I could do a good job editing an anthology. So it hit me, why not put together an anthology or a literary journal.

     After all, I’m that jerk in workshop who always thinks a story could be better. I’d be a decent editor. I also know how to use section breaks on MS Word. Hint. Hint, editor of unnamed journal. So, simply as an editing gig, I decided to fund it and publish this thing myself. It seems like a worthwhile experience. Having met the very nice folks who ran Peaks and Valleys (they were professionals who also ran a small lit journal which they supported with their own money). Because of circumstance beyond their control they had to close their journal. The beauty of creative writing programs is that they can support a literary magazine with their never-ending supply of students (never mind revenue) and not only provide the experience of editing for their students, but a venue for writers to publish their work. I know that I may not want to do this again next year, but this year, this project is a GO.

      I’ll be editing a chapbook this year, which will resemble more of a literary journal than a chapbook (which usually makes people think: poetry). It’ll include fiction, non-fiction, poetry and visual art, as well as comics and recipes. It will be themed around the Winter Festival Frog, a character of a loosely organized parody belief system. If you’re familiar with the Flying Spaghetti Monster or the Invisible Pink Unicorn, the Winter Festival Frog is a similar type of character, except he isn’t the deity of a religion, exactly. Where Flying Spaghetti Monster is a parody of a biblical God, The Winter Festival Frog is a type of Santa Claus character. More information on the Winter Festival Frog.

     Despite the tongue-in-cheek and humorous theme, I intend for this chapbook to be quiet serious in terms of quality of content. Writing humor is hard, and often a niche market, especially satirical and parody writing, but I look forward to every submission. I think everyone has something to say about the holidays and humor can also be meaningful. So, without further ado, here’s the call to for submission for the first ever: Winter Festival Frog Anthology (working title).

DEADLINE IS SATURDAY NOVEMBER 6th 2009

Please email your submissions as an attachment to: wfanthology@gmail.com

Written Submissions should be in RTF or DOC format (not Docx)
Visual Art and Comics should be sent in JPEG or PNG format
Do not send your submission in the body of the email!

Click here for complete Guidelines

Contributors will receive a free copy of the anthology. Additional copies will be available to purchase online So, pass the word and send in your work.