Pretend That Editor is Spelled G-o-d

This is a cautionary tale for young freelancers, especially those who are writing for the slush pile. A slush pile is the stack of stories or articles on an editor’s desk that come in unsolicited.

Generally, the slush pile is assigned to very junior editors and you have to get past them in order for the real editor to even see your submission. If you are lucky and/or gifted enough to hear from the real editor, do not antagonize her or him.

When I was a callow youth, convinced that I would be the next Harlan Ellison, who was at the top of science fiction pecking order at the time, I decided to win an argument with the then-editor of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine. Can you say, “Pyrrhic victory?” If you can’t, you need to look it up.

Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine was considered top flight in the field of science fiction. It was as impressive a publication as any that a young science fiction writer could put in an introductory letter. But the type of publication doesn’t matter, this warning applies to all of them.

One day you may be in a position to argue with editors when you have a solid track record and your name is worth something. Even then, diplomacy is good because editors have ways of making writers suffer that most writers have never contemplated. As a neophyte, however, you have no bargaining chips, the game is fixed.

As person who suffers — as many writers do, with obsessive-compulsive issues — when I made up my mind to publish science fiction, I went at it ferociously. I was knocking out a 1500 — 2000 word short story every day and scouring scientific journals for new ideas in my spare time.

One of the stories that went Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine was called “Is A Pig Pork and Do a Cat Have a Tail?” (We’ll talk about interesting titles another time.) The story was set in a post-apocalyptic area of the Appalachian Mountains, because an entire generation of science fiction writers thought a nuclear holocaust was inevitable.

A reporter ventures into the mountains after the Six Hour War (we thought the last war would be fast) to track down members of one of the Clans that have taken control and refuse to allow what’s left of the federal government into their mountainous stronghold. He finds them, of course and they take him on a night raid.

In a grisly surprise ending, the reporter discovers that he has been eating human flesh and that the necklaces worn by the clansmen are made of human teeth. Since I am a resident hillbilly of Appalachia, I threw in some good dialogue and made use of a religious practice that occurs today in remote areas of the Southern Appalachians — snake handling.

My story reached the boss editor and he wrote a nice critique, which went something like this: “For the sake of the story, I will acknowledge that ritual cannibalism might have evolved a generation after a nuclear holocaust, but the idea that civilized people would have degenerated into worshipping with poison vipers is ludicrous.”

I was stunned. Everyone knew about the snake-handling cults that sprang up in the early Twentieth Century out of the “Holiness” movement. How could a sophisticated New York editor have not have read about them?

A wise scribbler would have been happy with a critique but I was nowhere near wise at the time. I went out and found a copy of They Shall Take Up Serpents: Psychology of the Southern Snake-Handling Cult by Weston La Barre . Snake-handling literature wasn’t easy to find then, but today there are several books on the subject.

I mailed the book to the editor, along with my manuscript and waited for an apology. When the apology was not forthcoming, I became more determined to be published there. After every rejection, I dropped another story in the mail. Before the affair ended, I probably sent in twenty-five stories to Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine.

The last story I sent was “A Sliver of Bone.” It was a clone story, a new field for science fiction writers. I polished that story to a high gloss and mailed it in. A week later, it was back with another personal note from the boss editor. It said: “Dear Mr. Hunter, You have evolved into a fine writer. This story is first class and you should be able to place it anywhere — except here.”

It was enough, even for a thick-headed novice like me. I never sent another story to that magazine. In fact, I moved on to other things. His name? I’m not going to tell you because he is long gone and I was the one who screwed up. It was classic case of winning a battle and losing a war.

That editor was, in fact, very sophisticated in a New York way and nobody is a sophisticate in every setting. So young writer’s take heed. Pride will do you in every time. Take my advice and pretend that editor is spelled “God.”