Author Archives: Theryn

Memory Hole

It seems to me if you can’t remem­ber your child­hood, your life will feel arti­fi­cial. Your first encoun­ters with the real­ity of being in a human body, and all that that means, and the state of shock that comes from try­ing to exist in this world — those are moments that rarely repeat them­selves later. And maybe that’s why those early mem­o­ries are so frag­ile. Because chil­dren are also frag­ile.

Life has taught me that wher­ever there is a sense of “noth­ing hap­pen­ing,” or a blank space, a mem­ory hole, usu­ally some­thing is being hid­den. There is a kind of silence that is really closer to gag­ging on some­thing unspeak­able.

Ann Diamond

Blame Writers

So there’s this article titled “The Death of Fiction?” in which Ted Genoways laments the demise of various print journals, etc. The gist: writers are writing self-absorbed crap so no one wants to read it. (Not addressed: why he’s—I guess—publishing said crap.)

Anyhow. Genoways is the editor of The Virginia Quarterly Review, a university-sponsored print journal. Apparently he makes $134,000/year for editing VQR, a figure I am gobsmacked by. I had no idea any literary journal editor made that much (solely from their position as editor).

In light of that tidbit, I wanted to comment on the accompanying blog post:

Here at VQR we currently have more than ten times as many submitters each year as we have subscribers. And there’s very, very little overlap. We know—we’ve checked. So there’s an ever-growing number of people writing and submitting fiction, but there’s an ever-dwindling number of people reading the best journals that publish it.

We dare say that half of the top fiction venues of the last decade—and indeed some of the great American fiction venues of all time—are in danger of folding or have already folded for lack of readership. And yet the number of fiction writers grows and grows. Fiction writers, we’re asking you directly: Why don’t you subscribe to just one or two magazines? Is $50 too high a price for the future of literary fiction?

Unfortunately, yes, there are people who write (not well) but don’t read. It’s been a peeve of mine since forever. But that crowd aside, it’s fallacious to assume that just because writers don’t subscribe to your publication, they aren’t reading it (and it’s a huge leap from there to assume that they aren’t reading at all).

So why aren’t writers (the ones who do read) subscribing to “the best journals that publish it” at the same rate they’re submitting? Well, it’s not hard to figure out. Let me unpack it for you.

First, it’s pretty much guaranteed that any writer submitting to VQR via the slush pile makes far less than $134,000/year given that the median income in the US (where presumably most of his unsolicited subs come from) is $32,140.

For some of those submitting, the best way to spend $50 may be on food (or some other necessity of life). A library card is free and gives one access to an array of journals. It’s still ok to go to the library, right?

But assuming I have $50 to spend on lit journals, I have to decide whether a subscription to a single literary journal is the best use of my money. As a writer, I’m not just reading to read, I’m reading to see where my work will fit. It follows that, as a writer, it’s more prudent for me to go to a bookstore and spend my $50 on individual copies of four different literary journals, which gives me insight into four potential venues for my work. (“Best of” anthologies appeal to writers for similar reasons.) A subscription, as nice as that would be, only gives me insight into one (and, ack, maybe it’s not the right one for me).

On the other hand, for a reader (who doesn’t write), a subscription is a good idea. Assuming you like the editorial direction, it makes sense to subscribe—you know you’ll get more of the same quality/aesthetic every issue. This is, I think, the main reason more non-writers than writers commit to a subscription.

One more thing to keep in mind is, everything else being equal, it makes sense that non-writer readers would have more subscriptions. Assuming writers-with-day jobs  have the same amount of free time to spend writing and/or reading as readers-with-day jobs, the readers have more time to read. Because they’re only reading. Writers have to read and write.

I mean, if what you really want is for writers to produce good work, you have to allow they need time to write, right?

Oh, but that’s not really what you’re saying at all, is it? Really what you’re saying is: Great unwashed masses who think you are writers? You’re not. Stop submitting to us, already. In fact, just stop writing. Go away. Oh, but, hey? Before you go, please buy a subscription. Pretty please? You owe it to Fiction! All paid up? Good. Now fuck off out of my lit journal’s slush pile.*

Seriously? If you don’t want to read slush, close your journal to unsolicited subs. Otherwise, keep reading and just say no to the stuff that doesn’t cut it. It’s not that hard: “No, thanks.” (Wait, do you even send out rejections?) Whining about how many subs you get when you probably don’t even read them until they’ve been through a few rounds of vetting by unpaid undergrad interns is just annoying. Talk about navel-gazing.

/long-winded answer

My question is, would Genoways still edit VQR if the position were unpaid?

*Apologies to Gordon Ramsay.

Eyes Open

Not long after submitting the manuscript for Super Natural Cooking, I started setting aside photos I loved, and continued to keep notebooks of my favorite recipes, ideas, and inspirations. I wasn’t sure what I would do with them, or what would emerge over time, but I had a hunch something might. Or not. Either way, I don’t like the idea of rushing these sorts of things. I’ve come to believe you can’t really rush inspiration, it comes on its own schedule, emerging and intersecting my life when it sees fit. I just try to keep my eyes open.

Heidi Swanson

Keep Writing Anyway

[I]n my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway.

Junot Díaz


Something that has shifted, profoundly

[C]onfessional memoirs have been irresistible to both writers and readers for a very long time, and, pretty much from the beginning, people have been complaining about the shallowness, the opportunism, the lying, the betrayals, the narcissism. This raises the question of just why the current spate of autobiography feels somehow different, somehow “worse” than ever before—more narcissistic and more disturbing in its implications. And it may well be that the answer lies not with the genre—which has, in fact, remained fairly consistent in its aims and its structure for the past millennium and a half or so—but with something that has shifted, profoundly, in the way we think about our selves and our relation to the world around us.

Daniel Mendelsohn

A wave of ill-informed goodwill

In “Formal Theories of Mass Behaviour”, William McPhee noted that a disproportionate share of the audience for a hit was made up of people who consumed few products of that type. (Many other studies have since reached the same conclusion.) A lot of the people who read a bestselling novel, for example, do not read much other fiction. By contrast, the audience for an obscure novel is largely composed of people who read a lot. That means the least popular books are judged by people who have the highest standards, while the most popular are judged by people who literally do not know any better. An American who read just one book this year was disproportionately likely to have read “The Lost Symbol”, by Dan Brown. He almost certainly liked it.

This explains why bestselling books, or blockbuster films, occasionally seem to grow not just more quickly than products which are merely very popular, but also in a wholly different way. As a media product moves from the pool of frequent consumers into the ocean of occasional consumers, the prevailing attitude to it—what Hollywood folk call word of mouth—can become less critical. The hit is carried along by a wave of ill-informed goodwill.

The Economist

[It also explains why the fact people who haven’t  read a book since high school are enthusiastic about your manuscript isn’t persuasive to editors.]

No one really cares about your beaten-down, introspective, whiney, sensitive … little guy with a problem

The start of a story requires three elements which begin with the letter “P.” Give me a Person in a Place with an intriguing Problem, as soon as you can, and I’m in.  Until these three elements are clearly in place, your story will stumble around going nowhere.  Though even then, you don’t really have a story.  Only when you add the fourth “P”—a Plan—does your story begin to take shape.

Why?  Because no one really cares about your beaten-down, introspective, whiney, sensitive—albeit fully drawn, provocative, nuanced, and eccentric—little guy with a problem until we find out what the guy plans to do about it.

Still, even at this point—often three or four chapters into the book—you have no story.  Not yet.  What we, as readers, need now is to see the character put the Plan into action, i.e., to launch the Quest. Then, and only then, do you have the primordial stew of a story.

John H. Ritter

Sleep, eat, procrastinate, and write

A friend who just finished writing a(n excellent) book in a short period of time says you have to ignore your brain when it tells you it’s done for the day. You may think you can’t keep going, but if you push on, what comes out will be even better. The next day, do the same. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Also, no socializing. Apart from whatever job pays the bills, do nothing but sleep, eat, procrastinate, and write.

Maud Newton

The Best Part

I love that part; that’s the best part, revision. I do it even after the books are bound! Thinking about it before you write it is delicious. Writing it all out for the first time is painful because so much of the writing isn’t very good. I didn’t know in the beginning that I could go back and make it better; so I minded very much writing badly. But now I don’t mind at all because there’s that wonderful time in the future when I will make it better, when I can see better what I should have said and how to change it. I love that part!

Toni Morrison