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current Monday
Report below!
This week's report by G. D. McFetridge
Show Us, Mr. Faulkner
I picked William Faulkner because of his unique style and voice, and
because many pundits and critics still laud him as one of the past century’s
great literary geniuses. From his novel, The Long Hot Summer, I extracted a
4,000-word excerpt. After making adjustments in the opening and ending
pages, I re-titled the story, submitting it under my own name to a gaggle of
respected literary magazines. I was curious to find out how the interns and
editors of these publications would react. What criticisms might they have,
and would they catch on that they were reading almost verbatim Faulkner?
What drove this curiosity? Over the last seven years, literary journals across
the country have declined to publish my short stories. In the beginning, this
persistent rejection made me doubt my abilities as a writer; however, as my
experience and expertise grew, and as I examined the situation more
closely, I saw things in a somewhat different light. I noticed that the
selection process seemed corrupt, that the standards applied by these
organizations were wide-ranging and inconsistent, and I was also bothered
by the generic attitudes and wavering literary philosophies purportedly
driving the decision making process.
This led me to ask whether there is a code of intellectual ethics in place,
a set of fundamental rules or ascetic values governing the selection
procedure. Or is it little more than a system of literary good ol’ boy-ism,
academic insider trading, and arbitrary rulings handed down by pedagogical
editors who fancy themselves the stewards of American Literature? This
being the case, the difficulty facing aspiring writers—beyond the challenge
of producing high quality work—is the biased if not inept judgments
rendered by the institutions controlling the proving grounds of American
Literature, i.e., the major literary journals.
In addition, other disturbing issues have bothered me. For example, the
lexicon of grammatical rules, literary regulations and taboos that are harshly
held over the heads of unknown writers seem to magically vanish when it
comes to established authors. From among the many comments I’ve
received included with my hefty stack of rejections, no two editors or
interns have ever agreed regarding technical criticism of a specific work. In
some cases remarks have been contradictory, and they are often tinged
with a degree of arrogance in the offhanded manner in which they are
handed out. “This piece is a bit trivial … too glib … too cliché … excessively
expositional … not really a short story … overly pleased with itself …”
Ouch! Those comments hurt—but rather than dwelling on my bruised ego,
let us, just for a laugh and a poke in the literary ribs, find out what some of
America’s leading literary magazine editors and interns had to say about Mr.
Faulkner’s most recent short story.
The first magazine to respond to my fraudulent submission was The
Chariton Review, of Truman State University in Missouri. The editor was
kindhearted. He actually took time to make written comments on the first
three pages; and he also had a very good ear, for he mentioned that my
style was reminiscent of Faulkner. Interesting enough, he cited the opening
paragraph as being “very Faulkneresque,” but then pointed out that by the
third paragraph I had changed voice. The tone was no longer consistent with
the opening, although I had written most of the first paragraph myself,
imitating Faulkner’s voice in order to give the pirated excerpt the semblance
of a real short story. By the third paragraph, it was Faulkner’s own writing,
almost word for word.
The editor of this magazine is a decent fellow, and I mean that sincerely and
praise him for having taken time to check over a submitted story—very few
editors bother making such an effort. But surprisingly, the phony
submission tricked him and he didn’t realize he was reading a reworked
excerpt from The Long Hot Summer.
Next, the award winning The Missouri Review offered the following:
“I enjoyed your writing style a great deal, but this piece is a little under-
dramatized.” The intern failed to realize she was reading William Faulkner,
but at least she enjoyed it! Mississippi’s Jabberwock Review proclaimed:
“This reads more like a summary of this character’s life, rather than a story
with tension and connections.” The Arkansas Review had this mixed
review: “The language at times is quite lovely, but the story seemed
insufficiently dramatized—a lot of summary and very few scenes. But
that’s just one opinion.”
Francis Ford Coppola’s [very chic] San Francisco based lit-mag Zoetrope
sent their rejection. Penning in azure blue ink, the intern generously cited a
musty workshop mantra for my benefit: “Dear G. D. McFetridge, with
regards to your submission, more showing and less telling. Good luck.”
Only recently, to see if the old magic was still there, I sent my Faulkner
piece to one last editor (Sulphur River Literary Review), a particularly
arrogant fellow who had boxed my ears over a previous submission, telling
me it was theoretical gobbledy gook—“the kind of thing that finally drove
me out of grad school before I had finished my thesis.”
Gobbledy gook? In any case, here’s his proclamation concerning Faulkner’s
storyteller: “How in the world did the narrator become so erudite and
eloquent without, apparently, any formal education? The voice didn’t seem
to fit the man.”
I guess we’d better ask Faulkner. But beyond that, this editor has
accidentally tipped his own hand—you see, he’s operating under the general
assumption that only formal education allows someone to be erudite and
eloquent, while at the same time complaining that theoretical gobbledy gook
drove him out of grad school. Make up your mind mister!
Five or six other literary magazines, which for brevity’s sake I won’t mention
by name, also rejected this piece. A few comments were included, such as:
“Too much description … lack of character development … too slow.” But
strangely enough, not a single intern or editor realized that he or she was
reading a William Faulkner rip-off.
Aside from the obvious fact that I am aglow with self-satisfaction over my
little prank, what do we make of all this? I think it’s indicative of a problem
that exists in the American literary scene. If these highly educated editors
and their aspiring interns, who are allegedly experts, don’t recognize a
blatant con job when they read it, then what sort of credential and mentality
governs the process? And if they dismiss a luminary such as Faulkner with
inane buzzwords and sophomoric jargon, and attack his narrative style, what
credence should any aspiring writer attach to comments included with a
rejection?
The American Dream declares that if you work hard and are dedicated and
persistent, you’ll eventually achieve your goal. As it should be, otherwise
what’s the point of having dreams and aspirations? Unfortunately, too many
literary magazines have become, in large part, a forum dedicated to
advancing an exclusive club of literary pretty people and insiders, many of
whom are university professors, editors of other magazines, academic
golden boys and girls, or already established authors for whom agents and
publishers are busily pulling strings. Don’t believe me? Check the Notes on
Contributors section of any celebrated literary journal.
To extend this investigation a step farther, and as an exercise in futility, I
submitted one of my own short stories to The New Yorker, and included a
cover letter wherein I candidly asked the “reader/editor” to inform me
whether a non-persona such as myself (a working-class person sans MFA or
literary résumé) had a prayer of getting published. I received the following
sage advice: “Re: Your note—perhaps you might try building up your
publication history with some literary journals, etc. We do publish new
writers, but it is indeed a rare occurance (sic). Best of luck to you!”
That the irony inherent to this proffered wisdom has escaped you, I cannot
imagine—although if it has, I say without reservation that you are neither an
aspiring author nor have you ever heard the phrase Catch-22.
Next I telephoned one of America’s leading literary magazines and chatted
with the office manager. After gaining her confidence, I mentioned that I had
heard it rumored that established writers, particularly famous ones, didn’t
have to submit stories through normal channels. Either they or their agents
could, via a telephone call to the managing editor, get a manuscript fast-
tracked past the interns and the much feared slush pile.
“Is this really true?” I asked. She said yes and that it happens all the time.
Then I asked her if manuscripts were ever accompanied by large donations,
in an effort to promote a mutually back-scratching transaction. After a long
pause she took a breath and said in a loud whisper, “I can’t say that that
doesn’t happen.”
We’ll leave it at that.
In an absolute last hurrah, I decided to put this business of submission to
another grueling test. I took a short story from one of the leading best-of-the-
year anthologies, a work that had not only won this prestigious selection but
that had also appeared in a highly esteemed magazine, and I copied it word
for word, submitting it under my own name to a literary magazine whose
name I’ll omit (it’s not my intention to humiliate editors). Here’s what he had
to say:
“Stylishly done, but needs more substance. Vignettes like this one are hard
to elevate to a satisfactory level of story.”
Oh, my! How can anyone succeed as a writer when these people reject the
cream of the crop with such smug authority? Or is it that the cream of the
crop is unsatisfactory? Either way, one thing shines through with glaring
certainty. The literary selection process in our great country is as shaky as
the political process, i.e., a presidential election wherein the loser of the
popular vote becomes president because the Supreme Court appoints him.
I want somebody to appoint me to a literary post, and the coronation speech
should go something like this:
G. D. McFetridge is a writer of immense proportions, an unparalleled marvel,
more than a stunning storyteller and brilliant stylist, and worthy of
celebration and deserving of our enthusiastic praise for monumental
achievement. A giant, a genius, a writer for all seasons and then some—a
king of the bestseller list! Kudos, kudos, accolades and more kudos!
And why the hell not—who’s going to dispute me? A bunch of editors who
epitomize the Peter Principle, who reject Faulkner and a prize-winning story,
and who are too busy scratching each other’s backs and exchanging favors
with literary agents and publishers?
In conclusion, as to the rest of you frequently frustrated and fervent fiction
writers out there, particularly if you happen to be a commoner like myself or
have tried building your publishing history in the illustrious literary journals
of America, all I can say is this: Get your rich uncle to donate a new building
to the university or make sure you’re well ensconced among Ivy League
insiders and literary blue bloods. Because if you’re not, it’s welcome to the
slush pile, pal.
And like the man said, William, “Show us, don’t tell us!” Too much
description, not suitable for us, Mr. Faulkner, but it was a good effort. Try us
again in the fall. And, oh, by the way, pump-up the drama a little, would you.
Good luck with your writing!
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