BOOKISH: Accept the Facts

You know Clark is a writer. How do you know? He wears a cape. I’m not kidding.

Another way you know is he’s proud of rejection. There are a lot of people who sell a lot of stuff. Fine watches. Face lifts. Used Honda Civics. Only a writer is proud of failure.

So proud, he peppers the wall above his desk with rejections. These are printed out from emails. But a few are curling and yellowing slips that arrived the old-fashioned way, in self-addressed, stamped envelopes. Back when literary magazines took paper submissions, ages ago. Clark has been at this a long time. That’s another way you know he’s a writer.

“Look here,” he says. He’s got the laptop open, and points to an email. Dear Mr. Clark, the email reads. Thank you for your excellent submission. Although we read your work with great pleasure, at this time we are unable to publish. Please consider us in the future, as we will always be interested, etc. etc.

Clark turns to me. “Pretty good, huh?”  He hits Print.

“Clark,” I said. “Doesn’t something sound off about that?

“What do you mean?”

“Clark is your first name, not last.”

“That’s true.”

“And there is nothing here that identifies your work. This could be anybody.”

“But they specifically said they liked it.”

It’s hard to tell people the truth. Especially writers.

I was as gentle as possible. I told him this had all the hallmarks of a form rejection. Possibly machine-generated, getting his name wrong.

He was unconvinced. “They can’t like everyone. And look! They want another submission. What does that tell you?”

Clark is a poet, although he will write just about anything, which is admirable. He sends his work to literary magazines. These are funded by universities, if they are prestigious. The less-known are non-profits or foundations, and the least are simply fellow writers who decide to start lit mags themselves. Maybe they’ve had enough, and the lion becomes the lion tamer. Or something like that.

But there’s more going on. Nearly all charge a submission fee. With payments pouring in by the hundreds, if not thousands, this cycle of encourage-reject-repeat is a lucrative hustle.

And an unethical one. You do not pay to publish.

“It is getting a little expensive,” Clark sighed, trimming and taping the rejection to his wall. He is a heavy submitter. Three or five bucks might not sound like much. But multiply this by 365 days a year (his goal) and… Math is not my strong suit, but you get the picture. He also hits the contests, and a short story submission can be twenty or thirty bucks. Folks, we live in a frightening era. Up is down. War is peace. And submission fees, once unheard of, are commonplace.

Clark is proud of his rejections. But he’s much more proud, almost delirious, over his acceptances. A few six by nine, small time lit journals are turned face-forward on a bookshelf.

I told him to concentrate on these. Why, he asked? I replied with a question. Had any big name magazines, say, the New England Review, ever accepted his work?

There was his answer. I clapped him on the back. Or rather, his cape, and we headed for Starbucks. That’s five bucks, too. But at least you get something for it.