Gatekeeper: I Am You

In which I argue that when bad work gets published you should be inspired.

A few weeks ago I got one of those phone calls we writers get now and again from our writer friends: “I’m giving up. There’s no point. I will never write again.” Happily I quickly found the words to perk up my friend, who then ranted about what had brought on this wave of self-doubt. (He knows I love a good rant.) He had failed to place in a contest that had looked really promising. Worse, when he read the work of the winners he was horrified to find one of the worst stories he’d ever read—and this includes workshopped stories—glorying in the spot he’d wanted to claim for himself. The winning story was so bad, he said, that he would never speak to me again if I didn’t agree. (He didn’t mean it.)

Oh, it was bad. And not just a little bad. In Project Runway language: The story was a hot mess and I have serious questions about the author’s taste level. I sent my friend a gleeful e-mail. “You should be thrilled that these people didn’t like your work!” But he was not thrilled nor has he managed to become thrilled since that day. My friend is angry and discouraged because what’s the point? What’s the point in trying if the gatekeepers are publishing CRAP?

Well… who are you writing for? And why are you writing?

This could be my departure point, right, for another sweet, encouraging piece reminding us all that we don’t write because we hear the siren call of editors and publishers (Ha!), we are compelled to write because of some mysterious, internal drive. We write because we MUST and ultimately we write for ourselves—meaning that we, not the gatekeepers, are the final arbiter of our work—and although we really, really want to get that piece published, we want to share our work, our talent, each of our polished sweeties with the world, well, that part is just not in our hands. I could write another version of that essay. Because there’s a reason why we trumpet some variation of that message so often, to ourselves and others. There are two reasons, actually. (1) It’s true, and (2) We forget it over and over and need to hear it again and again. But let’s agree that this paragraph has spent the requisite time on that particular truth. Because I’ve put in my share of reassurance for the week and what’s left I need for myself. I don’t want to talk about why we write. I want to talk about those gatekeepers, the ones who published such CRAP.

And the ones who publish show-stoppers like this and this and this, the ones who do us the service of kickstarting the careers of writers we cherish, and all the ones in between. I want to talk about why I really meant it when I said my friend should be glad that the magazine’s staff didn’t like his work and why, after getting over my own rant about how bad that winning story was, I felt light and excited and ready to send out a few of my finished stories and tackle one of my unfinished ones.

***

A few months ago I said a naïve thing. As is typical for me when I am wrong I spoke with great confidence and enthusiasm. I smiled and sat back in my chair and hugged myself a little, I was so proud. I was having dinner with another writer friend and one of my mentors from VCFA. The topic of submissions had come up (does the topic of submissions ever NOT come up?) and my mentor had commented that it is very, very difficult to get a place in a competitive journal. This was by way of reminding us that a writer should never rely on her batting average as a measurement of ability. “Oh” I said, “you know, I’ve come to a kind of peace with rejection and I just keep going.” That wasn’t the dumb thing, that was just the right thing, because my mentor nodded and grinned. Then I laid down my fork—so as to better hug myself—and added, “I believe there is a place for all of us and all our stories, every one.” My friend scowled and the grin dropped from my mentor’s face on his way to saying, “Well of course that isn’t true. There are very few places to publish when you think of the number of people who are submitting work. We are all fighting for those same places.”

Okay, so my mentor was right to swat the Tiny Tim in me. In the context of that conversation he was right to say that there is emphatically NOT room for all of us, all of our stories, every one. Of course. But there was a reason I was feeling so pleased and hugging myself in self-congratulation. Because there is a kind of truth in what I said and I’m always glad to remember it. If your goal is to be a celebrated, well-published author, that might not happen. But if your goal is to share your stories—and what writer doesn’t want to do that?—there is room for you and every one of your stories, every single one. That has been true for decades but never more so than now.

So this is where all this talk of gatekeeping leads me to an enthusiastic riff on the glories of the Web, right? I could talk about the ongoing democratization of publishing, the growing DIY subculture of writing and publishing, the ease of side-stepping gatekeepers altogether to put our own stories into print. For very little investment, we can all be published writers. Hell, if you have a library in your town, you need no investment. Grab a free blog and publish your piece. Then send the link to your friends and family and shazzam! you’re a published author. But let’s pretend this paragraph has said enough about the exciting, empowering projects going on in your back yard (but if you want to think about it some more right now, dig out this issue of Poets & Writers and check out my friend Amy Souza’s project SPARK, just as a start). Because I don’t want to talk about the Web and the future of publishing. Remember? I want to talk about these opinionated, elitist, controlling gatekeepers. Like me.

***

I became an official gatekeeper when I started reading and working for Hunger Mountain. At one time or another, wearing the hat of the moment, I have rejected stories or accepted them. I have given no feedback except a kind “this isn’t for us” and I have given detailed paragraphs of feedback. Open the gate, close the gate. Lock the gate. Break the lock and then push all my weight against the gate, keeping it open, as I argue the merits of a story with my fellow decision-makers. Catch myself when the gate flings me aside and slams shut. Then open it again, this time with the key. And so on.

If I had been judging the story that won the contest my friend entered, I would have swallowed the key. If someone else had forced open the gate I would have thrown my body across the gateway, I would have tripped the author on the way in, I would have stuffed the story down my throat, just behind the key, and refused to open my mouth. Because I never thought I would have anything to do with formal gatekeeping but now that I do I take it very seriously. As do, I’m sure, the editors who chose and published that prize-winning story that so discouraged my friend. Which is why I feel so good. Because not only did I not have to swallow any paper or keys in the making of this blog post, I also get to revel in how many gates there are, how differently their openings are shaped, how many hands and wills are hovering over them. I believed there was no gate that would open for that story. But I was wrong. So if there is a gate that will open for it then there is one that will open for mine and my friend’s and everyone else’s. Probably.

And failing that I can publish myself and share my work with a few friends.

And failing the energy to publish myself, I will reserve the energy to write anyway because I must.

And failing that—in the moments when my self-doubt crowds out my inspiration, when I spend a listless hour reading a hokey mystery or a bitter hour reading about all the bad news in the world, when, in short, I deny myself the joy of writing because right now, at this moment, I’m wondering, like my friend, what is the point, why should I bother—I will remind myself that I am not powerless. I am not just a writer I am a gatekeeper. I was a gatekeeper in spirit well before I formed a connection with Hunger Mountain. For my entire reading life I have participated in this grand project of deciding whose work is worthy of notice. There is great power in knowing that I am already part of the conversation.

This is what I want to get my friend to understand and you, if you need to hear it. We are not all “officially” gatekeepers. But we all contribute our strength and energy and talent to gatekeeping. The minute my friend judged that winning story to be dreck and the rejection of his story to be unjust he joined the ranks of gatekeepers. Because if he’d been guarding the city’s gate the day that awful story rode up, he would have swallowed the key, too. And if you had been in charge the day that poem you hate so much came to call, you would have slapped it on the side of its head and kicked it in the ass. Of course you would have been kind to the poet when you said no but you would be glad to see the back of her, just as glad to wipe your hands of her as the poem. You know you would.

When I’m reminded that we are all gatekeeping, all the time, and especially when editors or contest judges prove how wide the range of taste is, how many, many gates there are, how seriously we all take our role, how much passion is out there for every damn kind of writing there is, well… I feel excited. And I want to hustle, catch up, get more of my stuff out there so I can have a bigger share in the literary conversation.

I find it hard to hustle if I feel I have absolutely no control over what happens to me and my stories. But I am not a passive drifter, washing up with the current. As long as I have the energy to be disgusted by a published story (plus the nerve to discuss it with a friend) and the enthusiasm to make Tiny Tim-like pronouncements about all the unpublished ones, I am in the game. We are all, beginning writers, joining the conversation already. I may as well do my best to raise my voice. And so should my friend. Today I intend to ask him if he’s sent his story to any other contests or magazines. If he says no, I will ask him why he’s whispering.