Next time it's number ten. It’s a big year for our little independent journal.
As it stands, the fiction crew has completed two phone conferences this reading period as part of the selection process for Versal.
To repeat the caveat I’ve specified ad nauseam to every blog post I’ve written on this dear blog, this is my first go as an editor for the journal. Knowing the quality of the fiction selected for inclusion in previous issues, I figured rightly that the curating process would be a vigorous exercise.
What I couldn’t anticipate was the dynamics of the fiction team.
••••••••••••••••
First, let me explain how we choose the pieces that are debated at the roundtable.
Each editor is given a batch of ten stories to read. Editors usually do one of two things: reject the piece outright or send the piece to another editor if they like it, but want another opinion. If the second reader likes the piece they send it back to the original reader suggesting that everyone gets a chance to read the work. The third option, if a story completely blows the wool socks off the first reader, is to escalate the story to the entire fiction team for consideration.
Like the first reads, we work in batches of ten stories for the escalation roundtable. Since we are spread across the United States and Europe, we meet via phone conference on Skype.
The first phone conference for issue ten, and the first I ever participated in, was intimidating. I felt a certain amount of pressure to perform grandly. I wanted to be confident, stick to my guns, and sound intelligent; and all my fears were at odds with the need to be confident.
What I learned quickly was that there is no room at the Versal editing table for a solitary ego.
••••••••••••••••
During the Skype conversation the fiction team carefully combed over each piece discussing meaning, intentions of the author, characters and setting (if necessary). Etc. I was surprised to find that no one was dominating the conversation, nor was anyone particularly harsh about glaring errors in a piece. Weaknesses were even weighed against a piece's strengths, although, every editor desired a certain amount of perfection. There were times where a piece that was put to the roundtable wasn't suitable, even for the editor who sent it to the escalation in the first place. These pieces had merits that we discussed–it wouldn’t have made it to the roundtable if there wasn’t something that worked–but were ultimately dismissed. After three hours of discussing we had chosen, if I remember correctly, one piece for inclusion in the journal and several others we would read again at the next roundtable.
This wasn’t a mark of an indecisive team. We had strong pieces up for consideration and this made the selection process strenuous. The quality of the pieces we are receiving are extremely high. We feel extremely proud to be able to read such compelling work.
••••••••••••••••
In regards to the selections I was for or against, I usually had a rather strong opinion that I brought to the table, but on occasion, I was swayed during the discussion. If the piece was well argued, I sometimes found myself agreeing with the opposite camp, no matter how much it hurt my pride.
Again, pride and ego have no place in Versal.
Robert mentioned during our meeting something that I found incredibly compelling; no editor's opinion was completely ignored. At least one story that an editor chose for inclusion in the magazine was selected. So, whether or not the story I really wanted was selected for the journal (one in particular, which I felt I was defending alone, did not) at least one story I said yes to would be fit to see print.
The democratic selection process creates a sort of tension within the team which prevents us from getting comfortable. We have to be on our toes, ready to defend our position, and be equally ready to let some of the fights go if. If we were to all get along and become comfortable, we might also find ourselves getting lazy. This would most likely result in us producing a boring, unpalatable journal.
Knowing that I could influence the position by being myself was a satisfying and welcoming release.
Showing posts with label daniel cecil. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daniel cecil. Show all posts
December 27, 2011
October 31, 2011
Impressionist
In earlier posts I made one, simple statement: I am not, in any way, an experienced editor.
And being a novice, I worried; what can I expect from the Versal submission and reading process?
I waited–as one waits for a message to appear from the looking glass of a magic eight-ball–for the submission manager to show me a sign.
Finally, it did, and when it did, it was sudden. The submissions poured into my inbox in a flood. It all came as a bit of a surprise, in fact. I was excited, of course, and opened the first story sitting patiently at the top of the reading list, and dove in with considerable aplomb (and a large cup of coffee).
Maybe it was the cavalier attitude I was employing–I don’t know–but halfway through reading the first story, the gravity of the whole ordeal stuck me. Here it was in my document editor: a piece of work someone sweated over. A piece of work that is, in a way, pleading for acceptance. A story that, maybe, deserves the drop of an ax. Work, in any case, that deserves all of my attention.
I sat back from my computer and stopped reading. It wasn’t that I hadn’t considered these notions: but it was reading the work that made all these what-if scenarios into a paralyzing reality.
––––––––––––––––––
In my own way, I am a lot like the writers who submit to our journal. We, the writers, trust an editor with our work. We submit, and we hope for the best. We rewrite when the rejections become too monumental to ignore.
This feeling of camaraderie I felt towards my fellow writer seemed to be the origin of the first problem I faced as an editor; I simply felt guilty sitting in front of my computer judging someone else’s writing.
How can I choose what is acceptable work to pass on to my fellow editors? What makes me an expert? How can I be a judge when I so often receive rejection after rejection? What if I made a mistake? What if the stories I rejected were the right ones?
–––––––––––––––––––
I read the 10 stories waiting in my inbox in one long sitting on the back porch of my friends house in Auburn NY.
Coffee was replaced by beer.
Lunch was replaced with dinner.
After the first reading, I was not able to reject a story. Not even one. I couldn’t convince myself that was the right thing to do.
In the beginning, I felt most comfortable reading; nothing more.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Editing for Versal isn’t about polishing a story. It is about curating.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
I took the easy way out by rejecting the weakest stories up front–the ones needing hours of work, or when it was obvious that the author had not read the journal, and submitted work that was completely inappropriate. Soon I would have to make real decisions.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Yet, there are a lot of stories that seem, at first to fit with the journals aesthetic. The work seems challenging, uses language in a new way. But maybe it doesn’t fit. That is where choosing gets difficult: a gray area, where something in a story brings something new to the editors table and throws a monkey wrench into the works.
At some point in time, no matter what has happened with the journal historically, the pieces I will help choose are the future. There is a choice: a decision relying on taste.
The question, having confronted my initial reluctance to reject or accept, had evolved: What do I want to bring to the editors table?
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
I read the stories again. Twice. Three times.
Versal, being the journal that it is, receives some challenging work.
I understood the stories in a way. But not all of them.
And this was a bit of a struggle. I was frustrated that some of the stories seemed too difficult for me.
We have a second reader for this very reason, but due to reasons of pride, I hesitated sending the hardest stories on.
Robert, the head fiction editor for Versal, told me early on that, to be a good editor, I would have to to use my gut reaction, and embrace my lack of understanding sometimes. Send the story onto another editor if there were still lagging doubts–he said. In essence, swallow pride for the greater good of the journal.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Good work is in the details.
And many of the stories submitted to Versal are good.
When a final decision needs to be made, however, the piece with the most work put into it, where every piece falls into place, that’s the the story I’m going to choose.
In the first 20 odd submission I’ve read, I’ve found myself faltering over a twitchy piece of dialogue, a cliche or a poorly written sentence. That is when the decision is easy.
These little mistakes, more often than not, are enough to reject a piece.
A writer submitting to Versal, or any journal–and I include myself in this–needs to consider whether the story they’ve created has had enough work put into it, is a precious stone that should be put on display.
There are too many great writers who do put in the extra time and work. They proof read. They read the journal before submitting.
If we, as writers, are not doing this, are not taking this extra time when competing with the thousands of others out there submitting everyday, we’re competing with ourselves.
And being a novice, I worried; what can I expect from the Versal submission and reading process?
I waited–as one waits for a message to appear from the looking glass of a magic eight-ball–for the submission manager to show me a sign.
Finally, it did, and when it did, it was sudden. The submissions poured into my inbox in a flood. It all came as a bit of a surprise, in fact. I was excited, of course, and opened the first story sitting patiently at the top of the reading list, and dove in with considerable aplomb (and a large cup of coffee).
Maybe it was the cavalier attitude I was employing–I don’t know–but halfway through reading the first story, the gravity of the whole ordeal stuck me. Here it was in my document editor: a piece of work someone sweated over. A piece of work that is, in a way, pleading for acceptance. A story that, maybe, deserves the drop of an ax. Work, in any case, that deserves all of my attention.
I sat back from my computer and stopped reading. It wasn’t that I hadn’t considered these notions: but it was reading the work that made all these what-if scenarios into a paralyzing reality.
––––––––––––––––––
In my own way, I am a lot like the writers who submit to our journal. We, the writers, trust an editor with our work. We submit, and we hope for the best. We rewrite when the rejections become too monumental to ignore.
This feeling of camaraderie I felt towards my fellow writer seemed to be the origin of the first problem I faced as an editor; I simply felt guilty sitting in front of my computer judging someone else’s writing.
How can I choose what is acceptable work to pass on to my fellow editors? What makes me an expert? How can I be a judge when I so often receive rejection after rejection? What if I made a mistake? What if the stories I rejected were the right ones?
–––––––––––––––––––
I read the 10 stories waiting in my inbox in one long sitting on the back porch of my friends house in Auburn NY.
Coffee was replaced by beer.
Lunch was replaced with dinner.
After the first reading, I was not able to reject a story. Not even one. I couldn’t convince myself that was the right thing to do.
In the beginning, I felt most comfortable reading; nothing more.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Editing for Versal isn’t about polishing a story. It is about curating.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
I took the easy way out by rejecting the weakest stories up front–the ones needing hours of work, or when it was obvious that the author had not read the journal, and submitted work that was completely inappropriate. Soon I would have to make real decisions.
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Yet, there are a lot of stories that seem, at first to fit with the journals aesthetic. The work seems challenging, uses language in a new way. But maybe it doesn’t fit. That is where choosing gets difficult: a gray area, where something in a story brings something new to the editors table and throws a monkey wrench into the works.
At some point in time, no matter what has happened with the journal historically, the pieces I will help choose are the future. There is a choice: a decision relying on taste.
The question, having confronted my initial reluctance to reject or accept, had evolved: What do I want to bring to the editors table?
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
I read the stories again. Twice. Three times.
Versal, being the journal that it is, receives some challenging work.
I understood the stories in a way. But not all of them.
And this was a bit of a struggle. I was frustrated that some of the stories seemed too difficult for me.
We have a second reader for this very reason, but due to reasons of pride, I hesitated sending the hardest stories on.
Robert, the head fiction editor for Versal, told me early on that, to be a good editor, I would have to to use my gut reaction, and embrace my lack of understanding sometimes. Send the story onto another editor if there were still lagging doubts–he said. In essence, swallow pride for the greater good of the journal.
–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Good work is in the details.
And many of the stories submitted to Versal are good.
When a final decision needs to be made, however, the piece with the most work put into it, where every piece falls into place, that’s the the story I’m going to choose.
In the first 20 odd submission I’ve read, I’ve found myself faltering over a twitchy piece of dialogue, a cliche or a poorly written sentence. That is when the decision is easy.
These little mistakes, more often than not, are enough to reject a piece.
A writer submitting to Versal, or any journal–and I include myself in this–needs to consider whether the story they’ve created has had enough work put into it, is a precious stone that should be put on display.
There are too many great writers who do put in the extra time and work. They proof read. They read the journal before submitting.
If we, as writers, are not doing this, are not taking this extra time when competing with the thousands of others out there submitting everyday, we’re competing with ourselves.
October 11, 2011
Literary Journal Contest
Writer's Relief is running a contest to help support literary journals. If you buy a year long subscription to two journals (of your choice) and post the name of those journals in the comments sections of the blog post announcing the contest, you can earn a free subscription to another lit mag of your choice. Other have gotten in on the action and offered their own journals up for grabs, or gracious discounts if you are buying the journal to enter the contest. Check out the Writers Relief contest here and consider buying a subscription to our journal here.
October 10, 2011
NYC
Bumming around NYC, looking for literary journals, and what did I find?
I found it at the wonderful McNally Jackson on Prince Street in Soho, NYC. Obviously I moved it to the front so everyone would scramble to buy it.
Love,
Daniel
September 10, 2011
Faking it.
I expressed last week during a dinner party that -although excited about editing for the first time- I was extremely nervous I would be faking it all the way through.
Megan, Versal head honcho, smiled at me and said that 'we all did' at some point. She assured me that I would feel better once I got a chance to speak with Robert, the head fiction editor.
I had spoken to Robert once before through Skype about the editing process. During that chat we set a date to talk about 'literature' (quotes my own) some weeks ahead. That was meant to be about a month ago. The follow up meeting was postponed several times, Robert being in the midst of PhD exams and my needing to postpone our chat due to work overload.
Although I knew we'd get to it at some point, this did little to change the overwhelming feeling that I felt stuck in some strange limbo: I knew I was to be an editor, but I did not know what was expected of me or how I would accomplish the job. So, this anxiety led me to mention my potential fake-ness to Megan.
Robert got in touch on Monday, once his exams were complete. Since Robert did not know my experience or analytical 'skills' (again, those quotes are my own) he chose two pieces from Versal 9 to look over: A Year and Demonstrum.
I have to admit, I was a bit nervous.
We chatted a bit about my current travels in the states before moving on to business.
Robert asked several provacative and open ended questions to determine how I approached a piece. If you haven't read A Year or Demonstrum, the pieces do a good job of negating anything that is put forward. They leave the reader unhinged, caught in the grips of vertigo. Some times I felt I knew the answer, or a good enough interpretation and answered quickly. Sometimes I was left without an answer. Either way I felt excited, like I might be doing OK.
Then Robert asked me whether I would choose the two pieces for a second read. With confidence I said yes. He asked why. I said meekly, I don't know.
I was caught. There it was. A fake. A FAKE!
But Robert smiled (we had video chat on). He went on to explain that –sometimes–a certain amount of ambiguity exists in the choosing process. And that's OK. Sometimes the fiction we appreciate most around here at Versal are the ambiguous fictions, the ones that tranverse borders. The mysterious ones that use tropes as tools, that negate our notions of what fiction should be, that shoots all we know about writing out of a cannon into a million different pieces and puts it together with a TA-DA. The ones that you get a gut feeling about.
At the moment I'm reading a book called complications by Atul Gawande, given to me by a friend. You might know it: one of those New York Times Bestseller works that end up on the coffee table as a talking point. But this one is different. It is a short book about the trials and tribulations of being a modern surgean; essentially about the complications arising from being a human performing duties in a profession where robot like precision and miracles are expected.
A large portion of the book talks about learning on the job. That surgeons who go through years and years of training are eventually untethered and have to learn a great deal about cutting into live human beings. A scary thought.
Surgeons faking on the job. Learning as they go. Cutting up things that were never meant to be cut.
Megan, Versal head honcho, smiled at me and said that 'we all did' at some point. She assured me that I would feel better once I got a chance to speak with Robert, the head fiction editor.
I had spoken to Robert once before through Skype about the editing process. During that chat we set a date to talk about 'literature' (quotes my own) some weeks ahead. That was meant to be about a month ago. The follow up meeting was postponed several times, Robert being in the midst of PhD exams and my needing to postpone our chat due to work overload.
Although I knew we'd get to it at some point, this did little to change the overwhelming feeling that I felt stuck in some strange limbo: I knew I was to be an editor, but I did not know what was expected of me or how I would accomplish the job. So, this anxiety led me to mention my potential fake-ness to Megan.
Robert got in touch on Monday, once his exams were complete. Since Robert did not know my experience or analytical 'skills' (again, those quotes are my own) he chose two pieces from Versal 9 to look over: A Year and Demonstrum.
I have to admit, I was a bit nervous.
We chatted a bit about my current travels in the states before moving on to business.
Robert asked several provacative and open ended questions to determine how I approached a piece. If you haven't read A Year or Demonstrum, the pieces do a good job of negating anything that is put forward. They leave the reader unhinged, caught in the grips of vertigo. Some times I felt I knew the answer, or a good enough interpretation and answered quickly. Sometimes I was left without an answer. Either way I felt excited, like I might be doing OK.
Then Robert asked me whether I would choose the two pieces for a second read. With confidence I said yes. He asked why. I said meekly, I don't know.
I was caught. There it was. A fake. A FAKE!
But Robert smiled (we had video chat on). He went on to explain that –sometimes–a certain amount of ambiguity exists in the choosing process. And that's OK. Sometimes the fiction we appreciate most around here at Versal are the ambiguous fictions, the ones that tranverse borders. The mysterious ones that use tropes as tools, that negate our notions of what fiction should be, that shoots all we know about writing out of a cannon into a million different pieces and puts it together with a TA-DA. The ones that you get a gut feeling about.
At the moment I'm reading a book called complications by Atul Gawande, given to me by a friend. You might know it: one of those New York Times Bestseller works that end up on the coffee table as a talking point. But this one is different. It is a short book about the trials and tribulations of being a modern surgean; essentially about the complications arising from being a human performing duties in a profession where robot like precision and miracles are expected.
A large portion of the book talks about learning on the job. That surgeons who go through years and years of training are eventually untethered and have to learn a great deal about cutting into live human beings. A scary thought.
Surgeons faking on the job. Learning as they go. Cutting up things that were never meant to be cut.
July 14, 2011
An Introduction
Faithful Versal readers,
I’m the new fiction editor for the journal.
I am also new to editing.
So, the trust put into me by the welcoming editorial personnel of Versal is immense.
I'm learning as I go. Faking it till I'm making it.
And maybe that is what you are doing.
I assume, as a reader of a fine literary journal such as ours, you may be a writer or an editor, chugging along, learning the tricks and mechanisms behind the world of publishing as you go.
This can be hard. Lonely. There seems to be a mystical aura surrounding publishing and the -rather cliquey- literary journal landscape; impenetrable without some sort of incantation or relic. It doesn't have to be that way. If only there were a way to make the publishing of a journal more transparent.
Well, I’ve been asked to write a series of posts that introduce to you devoted who read this very small patch of cyber space how it works behind the scenes of Versal. From here you will follow the step-by-step process; gearing up for the submission avalanche, the nail biting decisions, the putting together of the actual pages of the journal -all of it.
I find myself intimidated, but it makes sense.
Who better to narrate one year of the journal’s life cycle than an outsider suddenly allowed access?
So here I am. Editing this little introduction to death. Grinding my heels into the ground with the hope that the longer I wait, the less daunting the task will seem.
So let's get on with it.
There will be regular updates here outlining the work we’re doing on the journal, my feelings on the process and some of the work out there that inspires me.
In the spirit of collaboaration, feel free to comment or ask me questions through Twitter:
http://twitter.com/#!/versaljournal
Or on our Facebook Page:
http://www.facebook.com/versaljournal
My next post will be a bit about my history and how I’ve stumbled upon being a Versal fiction editor.
Sincerely,
Daniel Cecil
I’m the new fiction editor for the journal.
I am also new to editing.
So, the trust put into me by the welcoming editorial personnel of Versal is immense.
I'm learning as I go. Faking it till I'm making it.
And maybe that is what you are doing.
I assume, as a reader of a fine literary journal such as ours, you may be a writer or an editor, chugging along, learning the tricks and mechanisms behind the world of publishing as you go.
This can be hard. Lonely. There seems to be a mystical aura surrounding publishing and the -rather cliquey- literary journal landscape; impenetrable without some sort of incantation or relic. It doesn't have to be that way. If only there were a way to make the publishing of a journal more transparent.
Well, I’ve been asked to write a series of posts that introduce to you devoted who read this very small patch of cyber space how it works behind the scenes of Versal. From here you will follow the step-by-step process; gearing up for the submission avalanche, the nail biting decisions, the putting together of the actual pages of the journal -all of it.
I find myself intimidated, but it makes sense.
Who better to narrate one year of the journal’s life cycle than an outsider suddenly allowed access?
So here I am. Editing this little introduction to death. Grinding my heels into the ground with the hope that the longer I wait, the less daunting the task will seem.
So let's get on with it.
There will be regular updates here outlining the work we’re doing on the journal, my feelings on the process and some of the work out there that inspires me.
In the spirit of collaboaration, feel free to comment or ask me questions through Twitter:
http://twitter.com/#!/versaljournal
Or on our Facebook Page:
http://www.facebook.com/versaljournal
My next post will be a bit about my history and how I’ve stumbled upon being a Versal fiction editor.
Sincerely,
Daniel Cecil
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