More on Editors and Editing
July 29, 2004
I’m interested in what editors do and how they do it because I might find myself serving in that capacity again… and the last time around I didn’t do the job properly. Unlike the work of the author– where I have some sympathy with the notion that “talking about it” is not only a waste of time, but also has the potential to frustrate the writing process– the work of the editor can only profit from regular self-scrutiny. I don’t mean to imply that there should be some kind of reductionist trend towards a scientific process of selection, or even a wholly logical and rational model of the job. But somewhere between the unreasonable demand for scientific criteria and the “I know it when I see it; don’t disturb me when I’m gettin’ my aesthetic groove on” position lies a lot of space to define the role of the editor.
When I did my time as an editor I over-emphasized the ‘intuitive’ approach and the aspect of bringing to others the kinds of poems I already liked. I paid scant attention to my own growth as a reader or the the continued evolution of my own taste and preference. I committed the single unpardonable sin– I didn’t keep my ears open. I was lucky that it resulted in nothing more insidious than a relatively impoverished body of work. It didn’t result in nepotism or the creation of a coterie. I wasn’t guilty of giving it away to friends and family. Most of the poems I chose to publish were good poems and I still like them.
But a good editor should be like a chef. He should be putting together meals that are pleasing but with elements that are unexpected. He should include, but not work solely with, the reliable standbys. If he doesn’t include the basics, his readers will be unhappy. If he doesn’t evolve as a chef, his readers– if not outright bored– certainly never have a chance to experience something new. There are plenty of restaurants serving standard fare. I want an establishment that is somewhere between the Mom and Pop Cafe with its unchanging menu of meatloaf and green beans and the ultra-trendy establishment that serves up novelties without addressing the hunger, the ostrich tapenade on ginger crostini and so on.
As Gene pointed out, there are many workaday realities to consider. It’s really all about “quality” and most editors are not fortunate enough to receive an over-abundance of good work over the transom. But this is another good reason to undertake the good, hard work I am talking about. It comes down to a simple expectation, but one I don’t see much evidence of in most publications: that an editor will do the work of learning and growing as a reader, try to meet and then (or at the same time) thwart expectations, and avoid the provinciality of adhering to a small band of school or movement… in other words, seek the “third way” as a commentator recently put it.
Tags:
Publishing
All me-stream all the time.
content rss
July 29th, 2004 at 9:58 am
I know what you mean, Chris, about veering toward work that is immediately attractive–it’s a danger when reading and especially tricky when one is put in an editorial role.
The benefit of an art journal or lit mag hinges on the discourse that is consciously or unconscoiusly established. By placing poems in certain proximity to one another, an editor fabricates a sort of context for the journal as a whole, and as an editor, I hoped that readers would approach the journal on those terms, reading between the gutters and plumbing that same discussion the work was participating in. For that reason, many poems I would have otherwise been reluctant to include became intriguing for their value in the overall schema, for their collaborative worth in forging something from the disparate pieces one receives during a reading period. And as I’d read through submissions and solicited work–which I avoided for a score of reasons–leitmotifs would surface, and I’d find myself culling, often regretfully, what may have been very good, but just didn’t resonate with the pitch of other things. I let the poems do the talking, and I did my best to listen.
I guess I view the journal format in a Gestalt light, and figure that one-hit wonders belong in anthologies. In a journal, each poem provides some utility ( I hate to put it in such sterile and Marxist terms) and helps pace or patrol the discussion. What you wind up with is a thing in itself, memorable for its thrust and not just its machinery.
July 29th, 2004 at 3:41 pm
Hope Keegan and Bales don’t find this…
July 29th, 2004 at 11:13 pm
‘Schools’ of Poetic Thought…yeah, they’re interesting to explore, but nothing to base a journal (or even a zine) on, I think. Perhaps the reason I tend to shy away from manifestos (though I can’t claim not to have my own specific aesthetic…). I think there are a couple of ways one can approach this, and I’m fortunate enough to be working with someone who both shares some central aesthetic concerns with me and is willing to call me when my own vision gets too narrow. Big thing, though, is the question of quality: I guess I approach a lot of this in the same way a teacher might–that is, there are, I think, certain intangibles to effective poetry or prose (meaning: poetry that is compelling in some emotional sense), but it’s difficult to teach those intangibles. If there’s such a thing as inspiration, then that’s something that cannot be taught, though it can perhaps be nurtured, or the proper environment provided for it. In terms of judging a piece, the focus is much more likely to land on questions of ‘craft’ and ’sensibility’–both of which can be taught, though the latter is perhaps a little greyer an area than the former. I suppose this is part of the reason many editors are so quick to toss out something that has glaring typos and poor grammar and no clear reason for these things. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t pick up on a poem that made use of these things, just that the poem needs to provide some case for so doing. That in itself culls the field considerably. And I suppose the ’sensibility’ question is why many editors prefer to get submissions of a few poems, hopefully demonstrating some range, rather than one, even if it’s good.
I am fortunate in that, as I conceive my own work, the audience is primarily made up of people who have an interest in similar questions–that if we can provide a venue where they can read writers who are engaging these questions, of craft and sensibility, they’re going to walk away satisfied. I suppose, without veering into manifesto-land, that the whole thing is grounded in the senses, and has a firm grounding in empirical thought. Any emotional effect one is going to have in a poem needs to be reproduceable–with the physical elements surrounding that emotion clearly enough stated that a member of the audience can either relate already, or go out there and experience the same thing through their own efforts. I know there are difficulties with so likening the whole thing to a ’statement of methods,’ but I do think, generally, that if the writer is successful in grounding a specific work in what can clearly be experienced through the senses, the reader is more likely to relate, on an emotional level, to the piece.
I suppose there is a manifesto, or two, in all that, but it’s all in such tension: clear, but not overly-obvious, links between the images used in the work and the desired emotional effect of the piece (to whatever extent the latter can even be determined). Something that does provide reference points that are accessible through the body, but doesn’t approach it from such a matter-of-fact vantage point as to render the whole thing bland. I’ve yet to see any poetic ‘movement’ that hasn’t, at some point, achieved this connection–and I’ve yet to see one that hasn’t failed to achieve it, either. So they’re of limited use, even for an editor–though it is certainly helpful for an editor to be aware of the various movements at any given point in time. Have to say, my own knowledge base, on this front, is more limited than I’d like it to be–but then, that’s why I do this sort of work in the first place.
And that’s the real grounding, for me, anyway: that I am learning, that I always will be learning, that I’m much more a student of words and a student of poetry than I am a ‘poet’ or ‘editor,’ no matter how many times I may adopt those titles. From that perspective, I’m allowed to make mistakes…though of course I’m uptight enough to not want to.
Good points, as always…I’ve been wandering the streets recently thinking over the whole use of the metaphor of evolution for learning or cultural growth recently, veering off into a more genetic basis for the whole thing, the role of mutations, questions surrounding ‘fitness,’ all applied to cultural questions…kinda cool, so…thanks for the thoughts.
–g
July 31st, 2004 at 1:36 am
I’m in no way suggesting that schools should be used as the informing aesthetic of a publication. Quite the opposite– I think that limiting oneself that way (as an editor) is distinctly counter-productive, whatever political/po-biz ends it might serve.
The manifesto thing is just me thinking out loud that it can be very revealing (to oneself) to explicitly think about our aesthetic and what principles guide it to help us escape our own self-constructed boundaries. This happens naturally, to some degree, but we can fall into repetition without knowing it.
As I think about my own approach and apprehension, I find myself constantly surprised. This may not speak well of my jellied brain, but there you have it.
The effect of a publication as a whole– how real the gestalt might be (or not) and how that should also inform an editor’s process is an interesting and important aspect that I will have to think about in another post sometime.
The bottom line is: I am not a fan of just “letting it happen” when it comes to the job of being an editor. I think it demands diligence and attention to the process itself. But neither am I trying to find a scientific process (as I’ve heard some people suggest). The former is easy, but I’ve never seen it work well for very long. The latter is, in my opinion, an impossibility (and who’d want it if it weren’t)?