Okay, let’s talk about rejections.

War wounds and badges of dishonor. I’ll see your bruised pride and raise you a broken spirit.

One of my favorite rejections to date came from an editor who knocked back my submission but told me by way of consolation that one of my colleagues—an enviable Irish wunderkind—got in instead, and how proud I must be. The editor went on to say that my story (which has since been published elsewhere) was ‘a little too dry, a little airless.’

‘She talking about your story,’ said a supportive friend, ‘or her vag?’

But the strangest rejection experience I ever had was sitting at an editorial table like a ghost, anonymous and invisible, while the editors tore my story, and me, to shreds. And this isn’t really a story about that story, or the editors, or me. It’s about the fifth editor. A lone voice and a goddess, who, like the others, had no idea that the story was mine but who knew what she liked and who had the guts to champion it. This is her story.

I had applied to join the editorial team of a prestigious university anthology. I applied out of loneliness. Had  just returned to Australia, finished my degree, and knew no other writers. I had been downsized from the best job I had ever had, a staff writing gig at a big cable TV conglomerate where I had worked for seven years. Then the absentee corporate owners of our home had returned with soiled white collars and kicked us out. It was best place we ever lived in and we’d been there for seven years too. I had lost all hope, all faith in myself. I had no idea what to do now, where to turn. The unpaid editorial gig came up and I went for it. I was interviewed by two of the country’s better-known authors who teach in the writing department of one of the state’s best universities. The anthology has been going for several decades and is traditionally launched at a major writers’ festival and has kick-started several writing and editing careers.When the nod came I was over the moon. I had visions of late-night editorial sessions, drunken book chat, racing off to meetings in the winter wind, working with up-and-coming writers.

Apart from the last one, none of this was going to happen and it took roughly two meetings for me to know it. It took roughly two minutes to know that I was anything but among friends. Unlike the previous editorial team, this one was all women. And perhaps like many teams, the Alpha and her Acolyte anointed themselves thus in short shrift. This is how it’s going to be, they all but intoned. We don’t read science fiction and we hate horror. Or experimental. Cult, schmult. And as for that muscular American macho shite, forget it. Give us cancer stories, farm animals and abused kids. Any ideals I had about putting together a diverse collection of fiction representing the best emerging writers in the country shrivelled as I stumbled away from meetings in the winter wind.

In addition to myself and Alpha and Alpha-lyte, the editorial team consisted of a darling but heavily pregnant editor whose thoughts were elsewhere, a teenaged writing student who was the designated Excel jockey (my God, I hear her relentless key strokes in my dreams) and a blue-eyed goddess with a wicked sense of humor.

Goddess and I hit it off like naughty kids in the back of the class. But our joint bid for diversity, for thinking outside the Bermuda triangle of cancer-bushfires-motherless children, went unheard. Submissions to the anthology were anonymous. We got over three hundred submissions. Our job was to cull these down to sixty, then thirty five, then the final cut of thirty, with two spares just in case.

Editors were allowed to submit. Anonymously as per instructions. The story I had submitted was not about mastectomies, drought or Child Services. It was about a bunch of materialistic Xers not coping with the GFC and it was called Sex and Death. Yet for some reason it made the long list. Then the short list. The final cut meeting arrived and there it was sitting at number thirty-three on that damn spreadsheet and there was nothing I could do about it. One of the Alphas, or maybe it was Excel, had designed a flawed ranking system from 0 to 10. The flaw was in allowing both 0 and 10 as ranks, when in fact they worked as wild cards, to skew the results toward a single vision. You could, for instance rank all the stories you wanted in a 10, and all those you wanted out, a zero. And that’s exactly what happened. I brought a bottle of wine to the final meeting. Goddess and I slurped from it while Alpha and Alpha-lyte dispensed with submissions 35 and 34. Then mine came up.

It was the oddest feeling and one that I’ll remember for the rest of my life. It was out of body, hilarious in a nightmarish kind of way. Having to sit there and be asked my honest opinion on a story that I could not admit to having written but which apparently sucked asses. Alpha began with the pregnant editor. She said she’d read it but had forgotten what it was about. Abstain. Excel jockey was next. She said ‘eh’, got the stink-eye from Alpha and gave it a 3. ‘What about you,’ Alpha asked Lyte. Lyte said I’ll give it whatever you give it. Alpha gave it a 2. ‘What kind of hateful drivel is this?’ she said. ‘The characters are all so materialistic—(that’s the point, I wheedled). ‘I hate all the brand names,’ put in Lyte. ‘They really annoy me.’ (They’re meant to, I whimpered. By now I was sucking my thumb).

‘Goddess?’ They said. ‘What do you think?’

Goddess’s blue eyes blazed. Her porcelain skin flushed.

‘What do I think?’ She said. ‘What do I think? I think that this is the best fucking story of the whole lot. I fucking love it. It’s slick and professional and hilarious. I fucking cacked myself. I give it a ten.’

My vision had begun to tunnel; my pulse was all over the shop. I was having a full-blown panic attack. I was next.

‘What about you?’ They said.

If I gave my own story a 10, I’d be crucified when they found out. The system is fucked, I thought. How’d it get this far? At this stage I had grave misgivings about even being included in an anthology full of bleating lambs and tumors, yet if I panned my story, what kind of a self-sabotaging loser was I? And what kind of traitor to the Goddess, a lone voice in this wilderness of whining wimmin?

I gave it a seven. Goddess’s face fell. I hated myself.

Alpha shook her head. ‘No no no,’ she said. ‘I really don’t want this one to get in. I just don’t like it. You don’t either,’ she said to Lite, who vigorously shook her head and nodded at the same time. ‘You?’ she said to Jockey, who shrugged. We all looked at the Breeder, staring dreamily into space. ‘I’m going to have to give it a zero,’ said Alpha. ‘I want it out’.

‘Come on,’ said Goddess, looking beseechingly at me. Remember she had no idea it was mine. ‘It’s great. Anyone?’

‘Yeah,’ I said weakly, my skin burning with shame. ‘I like it too, but there’s something I should tell you—‘

‘How can you?’ said Alpha. ‘The characters are horrible. What’s its point? I don’t even know what’s happening half the time. And what’s with that masturbating scene at the end?’

Lyte tittered.

Crunch, went the numbers, and my story fell down dead at our feet.

That night I gave Goddess her usual lift home and she was ropable. Despairing. I tried to laugh it off, but between us lay the fact that I hadn’t come out swinging in support of the story she’d championed. I felt like a traitor, but how could I explain? She’d be embarrassed and I’d be humiliated and what kind of a basis is that for a friendship? Much better to found it on a lie. Mmmm. I was finding it difficult to concentrate on the road. I felt like a wreck waiting to happen. There was, or had been, a real if tenuous connection between us and I could feel it being strained to breaking point.

‘Doesn’t she get it?’ Goddess was saying. ‘It was the only decent story in the whole fucking lot. And what was that line about masturbation? Fuck me. If she thinks that’s masturbating, she’s doing it all wrong!’

That was it. She had me at that. I pulled over and we sat there in my car in the dark cracking up and then I came out with it. The truth. A stunned silence ensued. Then howls. Real-women howls. She-wolves in the night.

Goddess and I have been friends ever since. And I like to think we always will be.


***

 

Postscript 1: A cautionary note. Before the five of us took over, the outgoing editorial team briefed us on procedure. They warned us of the pitfalls in this kind of group decision-making. Blood will flow, they said. You’ll agree on one thing only, that most of the submissions stink. But when it comes to the shortlist you’ll be at each other’s bits. Just remember this. The more divisive a story is, the more consideration it deserves. The stories that divide the team, that cause the most heated debate, are the ones that are going to lift the collection. They’re the ones that need to get in. That’s what art is all about.

Postscript 2: I have not yet resubmitted Sex and Death. I will. One day.

Postscript 3: Calls for submissions to the anthology came out again last year. Goddess wrote and sent me a damn good story. I edited it. She submitted it to the new team. It made the cut.

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J.S. BREUKELAAR is the author of the novel, American Monster and the collection, Ink. You can find her work at Juked , Prick of the Spindle, Fantasy Magazine, Go(b)et Magazine, New Dead Famlies, Opium Magazine, and in anthologies such as Women Writing the Weird, among others. You can also find her at www.thelivingsuitcase.com

14 responses to “The Fifth Editor”

  1. This? Brilliant. Awesome. I love reading about cojones, passion, and fucking standing.

    I edited my college’s literary magazine for a year. It was a tough stint. We had a lot of difficulty. I submitted a lot that semester. Maybe too much. Who knows these things?

    I recused myself from selection when my stories came up. Looking back, I realize I should have left the room.

    Not because it hurt, but because . . . I remember, somebody actually apologized to me. Our submissions weren’t anonymous, and the associate editor said, dude, sorry, just don’t think it was ready. He shouldn’t have had to. I should have realized he should never have been in that position.

    I did a master’s at USC. My shining moments? The ones that made classmates cry. Kershner called my time-travel story “scientific gobbledygook,” and Syd Field said, literally, “With all due respect, it’s just bullshit.”

    That honesty? So fucking necessary. I’m lucky I’ve found an editrix who can say it. Who calls me on it. I get the sense she and your goddess have much in common; they get it. Getting doesn’t necessarily mean praise; it means honesty. It means knowing when it’s right and knowing how to make it better.

    That’s invaluable.

    All writers need goddesses. Some of us are lucky to find editors, too.

  2. You’re so right. Getting it means all that. A good getter is hard to find.

  3. Seb Doubinsky says:

    Great piece. I worked in a small literary mag once and saw my friends’ works torn to shreds – me being, of course, the collateral damage. That’s why I am the only one and only editor of the Zap. My opinion is as good (or as bad) as the five monkeys put together.

  4. Judy Prince says:

    Loved this ride, JS.

    I’d begun to think this, too, and am glad to see it here:

    “Just remember this. The more divisive a story is, the more consideration it deserves. The stories that divide the team, that cause the most heated debate, are the ones that are going to lift the collection. They’re the ones that need to get in. That’s what art is all about.”

    The scenes were priceless, the last one with you and Goddess sooooooo perfect.

  5. Thanks Judy. It was a wild ride, and one we’ll always remember. I guess that’s what it’s all about. The journey, not the destination, and all that jazz. 🙂

  6. Andrew Nonadetti says:

    This was great, J.S., though I wished you’d have gone for the Full Mortification Monty and announced, “I’m giving it a 10 because I wrote it and it’s damned good.” Not really to promote the book so much as to see if it would prompt some backtracking amongst the jackals. In my experience, Alphas that feel obliged to announce themselves as such are really just Omegas who’ve learned to play poker. Sometimes it’s fun to call them on it and watch them fold.

    Oh, and “If she thinks that’s masturbating, she’s doing it all wrong!” nearly had me howling :). Well done.

  7. Irene Zion says:

    J.S.

    Rejections are difficult enough to deal with.
    I can’t imagine listening to your story torn apart in front of you.
    Awful!

  8. Uche Ogbuji says:

    Good story. Well told.

  9. Richard says:

    Jen, I’m biased, but a great story well told.

  10. Thanks Richard. Your bias, and company on this road, means the world to me.

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