lit mag love
I am reading/interning for a lit mag now, a nice one, which makes me unbelievably happy/excited. I actually try not to think about it too much, because it's heaven. Friday I got to take out their recycling (yeeah! ;)) and process/ready that day's submissions for reading. I am so hooked. I got to sit at a desk behind a glassed-in window and use the computer; slice open manila envelopes with a mail opener, which I will get better at wielding; and gander at all the free issues of other lit mags that come in the mail, which, when they're old, I can take home for free.
Most interesting of all, though, is getting a sense of who these people are that mail in these bits of poetry or fiction (or a "memoir," as one poor person chose to dub their piece of nonfiction). Some tried too hard to sell themselves in their cover letter. Some had no cover letter. One person used a standard form letter ("I am submitting ____ ( ) pieces of ____ to ______" with the appropriate answers scrawled in in pencil. Ouch. Honey, didn't your mama ever tell you that even in thank you notes, form letters are rude?!). Other people, however, were delightfully brief and professional, and, unlike yet another clueless person, made sure there was plenty of ink in their printer cartridge.
I remember this old essay from Poets & Writers Magazine about this very thing:
"Presentation matters. I know we editors should be above such material, superficial concerns. We're not. At least, I'm not. I prefer a neat, businesslike approach, something to assure me that, though the heart of a savage beats swiftly on the poetic page, the person who slid said page into its envelope is orderly, hygienic, and deeply concerned with my comfort and well-being. Thus she will not blind me with a story printed in ten- or eleven-point type" (Peter Selgin, P&W, May/June 2006).
Ha! In the supply room, our editor made a special point of showing me where the glue sticks are located. "Never - never - lick envelopes," he said seriously, explaining that some of their submitters may very well be crazy and we have no idea where their envelopes come from. "You do not want your tongue anywhere near it."
Point made.
At some point I may graduate from processing mail to doing some light, initial readings. Bring it on, baby, germ-infested envelopes and all.
Most interesting of all, though, is getting a sense of who these people are that mail in these bits of poetry or fiction (or a "memoir," as one poor person chose to dub their piece of nonfiction). Some tried too hard to sell themselves in their cover letter. Some had no cover letter. One person used a standard form letter ("I am submitting ____ ( ) pieces of ____ to ______" with the appropriate answers scrawled in in pencil. Ouch. Honey, didn't your mama ever tell you that even in thank you notes, form letters are rude?!). Other people, however, were delightfully brief and professional, and, unlike yet another clueless person, made sure there was plenty of ink in their printer cartridge.
I remember this old essay from Poets & Writers Magazine about this very thing:
"Presentation matters. I know we editors should be above such material, superficial concerns. We're not. At least, I'm not. I prefer a neat, businesslike approach, something to assure me that, though the heart of a savage beats swiftly on the poetic page, the person who slid said page into its envelope is orderly, hygienic, and deeply concerned with my comfort and well-being. Thus she will not blind me with a story printed in ten- or eleven-point type" (Peter Selgin, P&W, May/June 2006).
Ha! In the supply room, our editor made a special point of showing me where the glue sticks are located. "Never - never - lick envelopes," he said seriously, explaining that some of their submitters may very well be crazy and we have no idea where their envelopes come from. "You do not want your tongue anywhere near it."
Point made.
At some point I may graduate from processing mail to doing some light, initial readings. Bring it on, baby, germ-infested envelopes and all.