A Few Words for Fellow Elders

"I remain a denizen, in fact probably the king of, the slush pile..."

Welcome to our weekly column offering perspectives on lit mag publishing, with contributions from readers, writers and editors around the world.

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After 35 years of it I remain a denizen, in fact probably the king of, the slush pile. And like everybody else I really don’t know what the hell editors want and am just as sure they don’t either.

You hear editors talk or you read their requirements or listen to them on a podcast and they want stuff that moves them, is different, has its own language, makes them fall in love with writing all over again, sends them into literary orgasms, changes the world once and for all, moves the sky, digs their grave, alters the very stars in their courses, or something, and you look at what they publish compared to what they’ve just said and there is no way you would have been able to ever discern what they would accept no matter how deep and long you tried to listen to the wistful meanderings of their conflicted, over-educated souls.

And I say this as a guy who also edited a lit mag for 11 years. I’d sit there reading 100 submissions a month, solo, and despite everything I ever said I wanted, I only took stuff that woke me out of the usual stupor brought on after reading page after page of the same old crap, forgetting all the noble words I said when asked what I’m looking for and latching onto the first written thing that felt like something akin to fresh air. And if editors were honest about it, instead of all the gasbags they float into the air, when it comes right down to it they’d probably say the same thing. Which proves my point; nobody who writes really knows what is wanted and neither do editors. It’s all just a lot of hopeful babbling.

Don’t get me wrong. In that 35-year period I have been blessed with editors who have supported and even touted my stuff. A few even asked for more. A respectable number of flash fictions, fictive whatchamacallits, short stories, and stand-alone titles have resulted in a “career” that is, at this point in my life, as fulfilling as it is obscure. And this, strangely to some, is good enough for me.

To demonstrate I here relate a story where, in a fit of pique - as the journalists would say, a fellow writer dismissed my stuff as something that won’t be read for 50 years. It wasn’t the way she meant to say it. It was meant as an insult relative to something about being not of the times. She probably meant 50 years AGO. But I heard what I heard and my sorry soul was just happy to think that someone would actually read the stuff… eventually. Not ever being the one looking for fame and never being mainstream enough to support myself through writing, the concept of “being discovered” after I’ve been dead for thirty years seemed like a marvelous idea. I’ll take it. Ever since that conversation, such as it was, I knew I could die happy. I’m going to be something in 2074.

In the meantime I’ve just passed my 71st birthday and I am a threat to no one. And I feel as though I am enough of a veteran of this way of life to pass on what small bits of insight I have gained to anyone patient or bored enough by now to want to know. Just to help along any fellow travelers in the same situation, struggling mightily to get that last thing in print before we croak. After all, I am convinced I have more rejections from Gargoyle in the history of the world than anyone alive or dead. And if that doesn’t make me the voice of experience I don’t know what would.

So here goes.

First, for the guys, never wear your pants up to your navel. Let’s get that out of the way from the start. This doesn’t sound like writing advice but it is. It’s a matter of self-awareness that, if followed, will keep a lot of other problems from happening.

Then, more on point but not any more seriously, realize that you have now entered that part of your life where you can be an actual mentor to young people without them thinking you are up to something or harboring some ulterior motive because you are, by all appearances, now harmless. Embrace mentorship. Just don’t be creepy.

Akin to the above, and maybe this is a life lesson; praise people without needing praise or reward in return. Writers can be perfect assholes when they want to be, especially to each other. I have had many “meet-ups” with writers over coffee or drinks or dinner and of all I was a part of only one ended up being a positive where a lasting friendship took hold. One. The rest of the time people walked out on each other, got drunk enough to turn the meeting into a pauper’s stew of veiled insults, or it all just turned out to be a contest about whose breadstick was biggest. You’re old enough to be kind to those that are trying, to spot those who genuinely are, and to stay classy when confronted by living shit stains trying to project a writer’s persona too big for the room.

Speaking of acting your age it occurred to me the other day that nobody asks for my ID whenever I ask for a senior discount at the hardware store. They just click the button and whatever the percent is goes away. And though I’m certain there are punk morons out there who consciously or unconsciously avoid taking work for their mags by anyone over 50, I’m just as certain that the majority of editors really are looking for something to rally behind. (Still, just in case, my cover letters only go back so far when mentioning past accomplishments. One can’t always be the first berserker through the wall.)

And while we’re at it, don’t be a reverse ageist. Don’t dismiss younger writers’ crazy ideas. Remember how yours were treated or ignored once upon a time. If your first inclination when hearing a crazy idea is to laugh because experience has taught you it isn’t going to work and will - once again - fall by the wayside, practice your knowing smile and keep quiet instead. If there’s anything really inside of them for them to mine, they’ll figure it out.

Relatedly, the best way for you to be taken seriously by younger writers is to take them seriously in turn. They’ll stand by you if they see you as the one old crone who passed a positive word their way. I consider the 70-something-year-old workshop leader I had once a hundred years ago to be my mentor, and I’m sure she had no clue that was ever so. You just don’t know the effect you’re having. You can never tell. Test this by putting yourself in their shoes and recall how it felt when someone older appreciated what you were trying to do. After all, when you look at them you’re looking at yourself. Be honest, but don’t be the elder you’ve hated all this time. Take them into your society. You’ll be better for it. Come on. Nose rings really aren’t that bad.

As a corollary to the above I have come to believe that we must study other people our own age to isolate what would be considered the stereotypical behaviors of old people. Then, once catalogued, don’t do them.

More specifically, at this point in your life you should have been able to marshal your thoughts when feeling down or especially depressed after a series of rejections (that is if, like me, you are still a slush pile jockey). I’ve heard it said that older writers have a better chance at channeling emotion into simpler words, or something like that. And I believe it is true because of perspective gained with time. Admittedly there are older writers who are too cranky to ever appear to have learned anything, ever, but I think it’s largely true that there is an extra ounce of perspective younger people have yet to earn that is only possible after you’ve been around for a while. Anyway that would seem intuitive, don’t you think? I mean that may seem blatantly obvious but it feels as though it needs to be said anyway.

If you have reached the age of the over-ripe, feeling yourself more related to the falling leaves or last year’s seasons than the sweet birds of youth, then you should also know the difference between the people who say “I want to be a writer” from those who say “I want to write.” If this is too nuanced for you how on Earth have you survived this long?

Oh and the filter - ah the filter. That social accoutrement. Yeah. It doesn’t apply to you as much as it once did. But, again, there’s no purpose in administering cruelty to the ones who are in earnest, however naive. I used to hate the guys who thought either I wasn’t serious or would never be astute enough (read: ready to be with the cool kids) when I was fussing around with my early efforts (and may I say it is a matter of justice that they all ended up accomplishing nothing of their own. There is no such thing as karma. There is only irony).

And here’s a big one. One I have found out will probably never change as long as I keep kicking. There are going to be times when you’ve put something out there that gets a fast acceptance and praise from the editor. You know it’s some of your best stuff. Like the thing you were meant to write all along. And you post about it everywhere and everybody congratulates you and the world is a wonderful dream and after it has been out there a while not one person says one lousy damn thing about it, good or bad, and there you are at another blank page wondering where the ideas went. Don’t worry about it. This happens to everyone on a daily basis. Somewhere in the world, right now, is a writer who is sure that thing that just got published was the best thing they ever did and - so what? Apparently nobody read it. Oh well. The writing is the thing, pilgrim. Repeat after me.

And need I say this? Hopefully by now you should know what everybody seems to have had to learn the hard way. Don’t send stuff to venues that don’t use that kind of material. It was true in the 19th century and it is still true today. Nobody is going to change their whole magazine because your thing was so awesome.

Understanding that we grew up in a different time, and that younger people didn’t seem to be as coddled back then (that may just be an illusion, but we ate dirt, remember?) we need to consider that the writing world with all its charms, its angels and its assholes, hasn’t really changed all that much over time. It still hurts to get a reject. It still feels great to get an acceptance. Allies, when they appear, are precious. And people who criticize everything will always show up when you least expect them. We know we can count on that, if nothing else.

Resist the urge to clutch your pearls when something hits you as inappropriate. The culture is always in flux. It always has been. Wait for the rest of the story. It may be more important than you, at first, consider.

Finally? There is one thing you should know. I didn’t get my first novel published until I was 65. Now I work like a fiend because I don’t have to punch a clock. So it isn’t the chronology that matters, but the table of contents

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