August 14th, 2023 - The True Margaret

Dear TNY,

Today would have been Ben’s 42nd birthday, Douglas Adams again phasing into view, and you give us “The True Margaret”.

I learned something last week while at a writing conference.  It’s something I already knew; I just haven’t had a refresh of evidence in some time.  I learned that, mostly, writers are impressed by your magazine as a whole. It’s a monolith in the industry.  But I also learned that people think your fiction is middling, at best.  That it doesn’t take risks.  That it’s not advancing the artform.  That it’s pretty much a waste of time if one wants to be amazed or learn anything useful about writing or empathizing.

I also learned that this type of story, today’s, is one that some people like to read.  This voice, these plots, this whole feel.  It’s enjoyed by others.  To a degree (see previous statements about your weak-ass fiction).  But enjoyed nonetheless.  And stories that I think are nearly impossible to connect to (stories like this) are stories that others just slip into and see and feel in ways I cannot.  So, what I think is a complete waste of time and energy has a wide audience that enjoys it (the opposite of FTNY, likely, in that you guys probably think this is a complete waste of time and energy but it does NOT have a wide audience that enjoys it).  I am definitely not saying anything negative about that audience that enjoys these stories when I say these things.  It’s just a matter of taste.  You don’t publish my taste.  And that’s fine.  It’s your prerogative to do what you’re going to do with your capitalist business, and it seems you’re publishing what sells to your audience.  But, sadly, that’s like every movie being a Marvel movie.  Which I’m sure you detest.  But you’re doing the same thing.  Because what I also learned in the writing conference is that there is room and a desire for a more dynamic, risk-taking, vulnerable, experimental voice in literature.  That while the readers might enjoy reading this material that you publish, they are actively looking for something different (and let’s look at the steady decline in ticket sales for superhero movies over the last five years).  What I would implore you to do is to change.  Stop listening to the echo chamber and try new shit.  What do you have to lose? 

Anyway, I couldn’t connect to anyone in this story.  I couldn’t connect to the narrative.  The details.  Really, any of it.  I was skimming by the end.  I even found the briefest passage about lady diddling to be mundane.  But again, I understand that this is a matter of taste.  And I don’t have a taste for this.  It takes no risks, has no vulnerability, the language is dusty, the subject matter is tired, and it just doesn’t pop. 

Oh, another thing I learned is that there is consensus about one person being the gatekeeper of short fiction for 20 years at the top magazine publishing it.  That consensus?  It shouldn’t happen.  So, consider the opportunity to actually serve the artform and create a program much like we need for Senators and Congressmen/women:  Impose term limits on the editorial position to ensure that other voices, other ears, other mouths can step up to the plate and hold up the art they see fit to grace the pages.  Maybe we can see some new angles, see through other portholes, hear a new tune, touch some different textures.  Or we can stay in this stuffy-ass closet that has gotten perpetually worse as the years have rolled on.  Remember, the brain’s plasticity degrades over the life of a human, so not only does one’s ability to change behaviors lessen, one’s ability to see the need for change lessens.  So, maybe take that necessary step back and see what others can do?

I know you won’t take that advice.

And so we are clear, I’m not even offering myself up as some kind of expert for the job.  I’m saying just choose someone else.  Anyone else.  Christ on a cracker, any breathing human other than the same thing, over and over again, until we get turned to dust from the dryness of this shit.  Or, go ahead Marvel.  Keep cranking them out.  Another magazine will come along and make the changes you can’t and take your fucking money.  Then you’ll be scrambling to find new shit, just like everyone else.

Also. I finished the obituary.  I’m back in Hawai’i.  The boys are gone.  And I need to move (to where and when, I have no idea).  My life has had a small detonation in it that has blown all the pieces up into the air and what I’m trying to do each day is be grateful to look up at all those pieces and watch how they fly in slow motion, spinning and tumbling away from each other, and I’m trying not to worry about how all of it is going to land.  Because it will land.  Gravity will take care of that.  It’s just so wonderful sometimes while it’s up in the air and, for a second or two, anything can happen.  Anything at all.

Nick