Why I Should Never Write Drunk
by Jonathan Penton

The second of March, 2:36am. Eastern Standard Time, which is to say in the US, when Daylight Savings Time is not in effect. I'm rapidly drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and typing as quickly as I can into my well-aged P2 laptop, with the "E" key worn down to blankness. (The I, L, and N keys are starting to suffer, too.) I have so much to talk about, and so little to say.

But that, in fact, is the life of an editor: one who chooses to promote other's works over their own. I am swamped with the literary works of others, and while there is obviously a huge range in quality of the submissions I receive, I really never need to read elsewhere: I get enough submissions now to satisfy anyone's reading appetites, without ever cracking open a book. The only things I read outside of submissions, besides an occasional Stephen King novel, are works of such historical import that I feel uneducated for having never read them before. I get all the contemporary literature I could possibly want from submissions.

This isn't the first time I've tried to explain what it's like to edit a web-zine in this space. Previously, I was sensibly sober while trying to explain myself, and thus did so less confessionally and much more coherently. But hey, if you don't like the way I'm doing it this month, why don't you commit 35 hours of your own leisure time every week to editing a web-zine? Screw you; that's the point. The screwing, that is.

And the people I'd most like to read this article won't. If you're reading this article, you care to at least some degree what this magazine has to say. I hope that you're here with the expectation of being entertained, but in any case, you do read web-stuff. This month, at least a dozen people will send submissions into Unlikely Stories with no conception of what this magazine is about. They will not have read this or any other articles, nor the novel serialization, nor any of the regular fiction or poetry. At least one of them will be selling Jesus. Another will be selling their own lecturing abilities. Another will be selling some philosophy previously unknown to me, and may or may not be coherent. I've stopped being nice to these people; I've begun to send terse little replies: "It will save both your time and the time of editors if you read a prospective magazine before sending submissions." This, of course, is rather rude of me, and that rudeness is part of what I'd like to address with this article. I think.

Really, I should sober up and not try to address anything until I can think of something timely and relevant to say. But I do try to put out this magazine reasonably close to on time.

I've seen many editors use their magazine as an occasional forum to bitch about the lack of respect they get. It's a valid bitch. Not only do writers often see us as the enemy, but so do readers: we are viewed as combination censors and copy editors, who serve only to whitewash gutsy literature until it is palatable to the uncreative and uninspired. In reality, the relationship between author and editor is one of longest-standing business practices since the Middle Ages. This is because the relationship works. Writers typically know what they want to say, and they are often able to come up with a finished product, but they often have trouble connecting these two concepts. When they don't, it's often because they haven't gotten as far as a finished product. It's amazing how many people send to me what appear to be rough drafts.

If you need evidence that an editor is a necessary part of the literary process, consider what happens when you get a bad one. Emily Dickenson died in obscurity, and then was finally revealed by that bastard Higgenson in a watered-down form of perfect, prose-like punctuation, smothering her power and stunting her influence. It was a century before her works were released in a mature form, and although many writers would point to her as an example of bad editing, few seem to understand her as an example of why good editors are important.

But I am whining now. This fact will be no great surprise to regular readers of my column, but I'd like to stop now anyway, and try to explain what it is I experience in this odd, voluntary line of work.

So you know about the people who send me work without having read any part of Unlikely Stories. Each month, a couple of them will, by sheer chance, send me what I'm looking for. I'll get three pieces from them, because they will for the most part have read the submission guidelines far enough to realize I want at least three pieces. (There are certainly those who don't, however.) I'll let them know I find their works acceptable. They'll send me a bio revealing that they've had hundreds of pieces published in small-press journals. I'll publish their three works, I'll become a notch in their proverbial belt, and I'll never hear from them again.

This, of course, is highly dissatisfying. And considering that I do all this shit for fun, dissatisfaction with what I do is a serious issue to me.

Each month, I'll get several submissions from people, mostly teenagers, who haven't learned to write yet. I have two choices: I can send them yet another generic rejection slip, or I can try to gently tell them that they aren't there yet. Either can cause depression. Believe it or not, depression isn't something an editor enjoys inflicting. Either response will definitely cause them to blame me.

Each month, I'll hear from someone who doesn't feel I'm working fast enough. They might be upset that I haven't read their submission yet, or they might be upset that I haven't written a review or critique for them yet.

Each month, I'll hear from some people who send me a number of submissions, just like I like. I'll accept some, and reject others. OK, that's the good part. Sometimes, I'll hear back from those authors over the months and years, and that's the part that makes it all worthwhile.

Sometimes, however, these people will ask me to critique the pieces I reject. I do so; I offer this free service with no remuneration. (Are you getting this point yet?) I tell them why I didn't like certain of their pieces; a process which is by its nature negative. (Obviously.) Usually, once people see me criticize their work, no matter how tactfully, I can count on never hearing from them again.

This is not, by the way, an appropriate response to someone who does you a favor. If this were any other sort of affair, you'd all know this. But because it's writing, and because all writers have massive egos, they'll do nothing but go into their corner and sulk as soon as I offer them free advice.

Hey, man, this job sucks. We editors are some underappreciated motherfuckers. And given the number of submissions I receive each month to "Poetry Editor:," the signs suggest that no one knows who we even are.

I do it the way that I do it because of a simple commitment to excellence. I hold everything I do up to certain standards, and although those standards don't require me to do anything while sober, they do require me to pour my energy into my projects wholeheartedly. So I publish almost every month, and I answer every letter within six weeks.

That doesn't address why I bother at all.

I don't edit this magazine for writers. Writers are assholes. I edit it for readers. When I started Unlikely Stories, there was a void: there was a certain type of literature that was not being consistently edited in a professional manner and offered free on the web. Voices, exciting and vital voices, were going unheard. And that actually matters to me. I want people to be able to fire up their computers, any time, and read weird, kinky, offbeat literature that stretches perceptions and warp the mind. I think the world is, however marginally, a better place because people can do this.

Since 1998, other sites have risen which attempt to offer this to people. I suppose I could pull out, and did once take a sabbatical, but this site still fulfills a need. If it left, there wouldn't leave the same gaping hole in web-zines that there was four years ago, but I would still leave the web-zine scene a little less rich.

It's an arrogant belief. But if I didn't believe this, I'd quit so fast your heads would pull a Linda Blair.

Jonathan Penton is the overworked editor and publisher of Unlikely Stories. Check out his literary works at this site.