Like many of you readers I received an e-mail the other day in response to a submission I made to flashquake. Unlike many of you, I knew it was coming and I knew what it would say. You see I had an inside scoop on the selection process. I knew the reviewers, In fact I've workshopped with each of them at one time or another and known them through association in the flash fiction world for a few years now. I also knew who said what, and what they had to say about every other piece they reviewed. I even got my feedback in real time. This was my privilege as the guest editor.
The process of selection is blind, only one editor knows the names of the authors. Each submission is given a number and the author's name is stripped. The editors are grouped in teams of two and given work to critique based on a simple mathematical formula. Nobody, except myself and one other person, knew one of the stories was mine and which one it was.
To be honest, this all started out as a joke because last reading period I had a work that I was quite proud of that survived the first round with one yes and one no, to be completely and thoroughly dismissed as a no by everyone else. I received the invitation to be a guest editor a day or so before I received my rejection notice! I figured I could get a lot of good-natured teasing in if it happened twice in a row.
I also figured that if I'm going to talk the talk and pass judgment on the work of others I should walk the walk and be judged in like kind. I wanted to get the most of this gracious invitation and privilege. I'm not one to pass up an opportunity to learn.
When I first submitted this work there was some concern that it might cause a raised eyebrow or two from longtime readers and several of the three hundred writers who didn't make the cut. So I agreed that if the work were accepted it would not be eligible for any monetary compensation and rather than taking up a fiction slot, it would be published as a companion to my editorial piece.
The work I selected happens to relate thematically to my editorial piece on writer's block. It was an experiment in style. I wrote it a couple years ago because I wanted to see how over-the-top lush and full of texture I could get and still maintain a flash fiction style. This is different from my typical Spartan style and the departure was naughty and fun. I found it in a drawer, dusted it off and sent it in.
After reading so many stories and writing so many comments, I now wish I would have pressed it through a couple more edits before submitting. But isn't that always the case? The second you seal an envelope or press send on an e-mail you think of one more thing you should have fixed.
Here are my results:
Thank you for your interest in flashquake. Our choices were difficult this time, but we have decided not to use the work we referenced below (along with our editors' comments).
We received many outstanding submissions during this reading period, and the selection of our finalists was a difficult process.
We are closed to submissions until September 1. I hope you will continue to consider flashquake when seeking markets for your work.
Our Editors' Comments:
All the Right Muse
Editor 1 Vote: Maybe
Ed. 1 Comments: I enjoyed the oddball feel of this story. I'm not quite
sure about the narrator — he describes the room with the knowledgeable eye of
a decorator, then appears to bite Angela like a vampire. I'm wondering
whether the events really happened or whether they're all in the narrator's imagination.
Editor 2 Vote: Maybe
Ed. 2 Comments: There is something elusive about this story that I find
very compelling. I don't know if I believe the narrator, which is part of
the draw, kept going back to re-read.
Editor 3 Vote: Maybe
Ed. 3 Comments" Clever piece, but it asks for the suspension of a little
too much disbelief.
Editor 4 Vote: Maybe
Ed. 4 Comments: This is engaging but leaves out some important details —
how is the narrator apprehended and where is Angela at that point? How did
they part?
Editor 6 Vote: No
Ed. 6 Comments: The story's wonderful, but the prose is very rough.
Sincerely,
Debi Orton, Publisher"
So much for my credibility as a writer worthy of being a guest editor. Y'all can ignore my comments on your stories, it won't be hard to figure out which are mine, I'm the long-winded one.
(Author places back of hand on forehead and rolls eyes on the verge of fainting...)
Okay, pity party over.
flashquake is a rare breed of publication where the editors are also authors and their comments are available for the author to read. I'm thankful for that. Do I agree with their decision? Hell no. And the editor who said my prose was rough has been stricken from my Christmas card list (just kidding, number six.) But I'm a wee bit biased. I wrote the story and I'm convinced it's the greatest thing since Chicken Soup for the Soul. I should be nominated for a Pushcart Prize. I should be a featured author (hey... wait a second.. I AM a featured author... but never mind that).
Ultimately an author's goal is to communicate their story, their ideas, their theme to a broader audience than Mom and Aunt Lulu. If a story fails to resonate with an editor there must be a failure to communicate. Since the communication is one-sided that failure is probably the author's. Of course every editor is entitled to their own opinion and subject to their own bias (and in this case I think drugs and alcohol.. I mean when you read this story you will see how beautiful it is and literally weep at the injustice.)
But if more than one editor has a similar opinion, then perhaps there is something to what they are saying. Even a tiny glimpse into their psyche is helpful in improving the work. Even scattered bits of commentary are helpful in teaching me to approach my work with more objectivity. If it seems as if the story they read wasn't the story I intended to write then in what way does it differ? Armed with that little bit of information I can go back to the story and make it more clear to my audience. I know that sounds like a lot of work but — duh — writing is hard work!
The reality is that I'm not the least bit upset with the results. Nor do I take it personally. I hope that being rejected from flashquake is the worst thing that happens to me all month. Having said that, I knew I wasn't eligible for any do-ray-me so I didn't go out and spend my 15 bucks anticipating a windfall and I kept my day job. Here is a lesson for new writers. The critiques are about the work, not the writer. Good editors don't critique authors, they only critique the words on the page and GREAT editors take the time to share their opinions to help writers improve. Good writers know how to take criticism with a grain of salt and even if they don't agree with an editor at least struggle a bit to understand their perspective (sometimes an editor is so far off though you just have to throw your hands into the air and say... 'whatever' then move on).
So now it's YOUR turn... Put yourself in the guest editor's shoes. You are tired, you have family obligations and full-time work, there are 522 e-mails total in your flashquake inbox (no kidding I just checked) not including the 41 replies you made to the same. You have written 166 reviews and read many more stories that didn't make it to your desk. You've also written and edited the editorial piece. All this work and they have the audacity to call you a GUEST! Imagine what it must be like to also have the responsibility of processing all the entries, collecting the data, distributing it to the editors, deciding on the format of the publication, layout, color, art, etc.; answering stupid questions and all the other daily bits of flotsam that go along with being a full-time editor.
This is not reading for enjoyment!
So now an e-mail arrives asking you to make one final decision: fiction submission number 302, All the Right Muse. You may say yea, nay or maybe but you need to back up your decision with at least a brief explanation of what brought you to that point. "It's cute" or "this sucks" isn't good enough for the authors, your fellow editors or the publication. In order for flashquake to maintain its quality standard, increase its readership, become financially successful and pay its authors you must remember your obligation is to the READERS. So what do you have to say about this story knowing that out of over 300 submissions only a handful can make it?
The pressure is on...
Submission No. 302 - All the Right Muse
The words flow freely now and I have plenty of time on my hands to write. Four years in fact for armed robbery, fleeing the scene of a crime, and vandalizing a talking hamburger outside a fast food joint. The last bit I still don't remember. My defense attorney argued that there were traces of some date-rape drug in my system so I shouldn't be held accountable but the video evidence of me whaling on it with a tire iron was hard to repudiate.
That was a month ago, its only recently that I've been able to reconstruct that day. I met Angela at the library, she helped me find a volume on comparative mythology. She told me she had a degree in art history and was fascinated when I explained that I was researching a novel. Of course I didn't tell her that I hadn't been able to write a damn thing for 18 months. One thing lead to another and conversation led to coffee over lunch and an invitation for that fateful evening. At the time, I couldn't believe my luck. I still can't.
The motel was her idea, seriously. Illuminated by red neon filtered through Venetian blinds the color of cigarette smoke, it looked as if it materialized from the pages of a pulp fiction novel. The bed was the dominant feature; colossal, with shaker-style heavy oak head and footboards. The sheets were mismatched but clean. The wall behind the headboard was stippled and scuffed and the bedposts showed signs of wear, accustom as they were to being used as hitching posts. A few bits of accent furniture lay about as if on display at a garage sale. Bedside tables boasted faux walnut veneer seasoned by cigarette burns and rings from sweaty beer cans. A battered brass reading lamp sulked in a corner behind an overstuffed naugahide chair and a well-thumbed Gideon bible shored up one leg of a dresser that at one time belonged in a child's room.
I watched Angela crawl across the bed like a cat in heat, black garter elastic pressed into the firm white flesh of her haunches. A tiny she-devil tattoo stood out on the otherwise pristine canvas of her smooth white buttocks. She sat back on her heels and then unfolded her shapely legs like a jackknife. "Take off my boots." Her tone both begged and demanded, punctuated by that luscious Greek accent of hers. I sat on the bed and she placed the knee-length black stilettos across my lap. As my hands searched for the zipper hidden within the seam of the supple calfskin, her other foot explored my crotch and made its way up my stomach coming to rest under my chin. I nuzzled her foot and savored the deep earthy tone of polished leather as the boot in my hands slid over silk stockings.
After I removed her footwear she pushed me backwards and pinned my arms on either side of my head. "You like it a little rough. I hope," she said. I flipped her over, rolled on top, and sunk my teeth into her neck. She gasped, arched her back. and laughed. I lifted my head to look into her jade green eyes and smiled. The special blend of aromatic aphrodisiacs, musk, jasmine, sage and sandalwood, she had burning in the brass dish by the bed, mingled with the smell of leather and the scent of her arousal.
"My god, you are beautiful."
"Of course, Darling. I, am a daughter of Zeus." She said it with such conviction that I almost believed it.
Angela wrapped her legs around me and surrendered her neck for another bite. At that moment she became every fantasy my twisted imagination could summon. Her jet-black pageboy hair, shone like patent leather, her skin was as soft and white as lotus petals, her lips full and red with a fixed bratty pout. I hadn't had a drop of alcohol but I was intoxicated. The unstable neon competed with the flickering candle light casting us half in red, half in sepia tones. It was as if we stepped into the reels of an eight millimeter blue movie. How in the hell did I get so lucky?
Three hours later I coasted to a stop in front of the motel office while Angela paid the bill. I took a long slow drag of my first post coital cigarette in months. Two puffs into one of Angela's extra wide Camels I found myself copping a slight buzz. The gentle euphoria quickly turned into a major rush as Angela burst from the office brandishing a nickel plated .45 in one hand and a fist full of bills in the other. She slid through the open passenger window and pointed the gun at my head.
"Go!"
The rear window of my Chevy Nova disintegrated as the proprietor of the Sleepytyme motel fired the first round from his shotgun and chambered a second. The next thing I remember was Angela's spiked heel jamming my foot on the accelerator. As we peeled down the road my car was peppered with buckshot twice more. The sound of the gunshots mingled with Angela's laughter as she tossed her head back in anticipation of even more pleasure.
That is where my memory begins to fail me. The library has no record of Angela her and of course nobody has seen her since. My guess she bought a one way ticket back to Mount Olympus. I swear, at night, I can hear the echo of her laughter.
So now it's your turn. Send an e-mail with your vote (yes, no, maybe) and a 2-3 sentence review of the story's strengths/weaknesses to muse-at-flashquake.org. As long as your review is respectful and doesn't use any of George Carlin's seven magic words, you'll see it posted right here.