I
recently submitted an article to a writers
magazine for consideration and they in turn forwarded
an electronic copy of their latest issue as a teaser for my possible
subscription. I had read bits and pieces of prior submissions and
browsed through reviews of their material, but had never seen a full
issue of the magazine. I had hopes my writing would meet their criteria but by the
time I finished reading, I had changed
my mind. It appeared to me the
entire collection had been cleansed with an sterilizer.
The
stories were without a hint of blood or sweat, ugh, sweat, but evenly
saturated with contrived, saline adjusted tears. Apparently tears
lead to book sales. I
wondered how many passes through a computer
it took to find the specific
words used to create the carefully engineered,
structured product that
superficially appeared as
ingenuous writing. Every piece in the collection could
easily have been written by the same author, one who spoke precise,
articulate English, rooted in Shakespearean grammar, with access to a
large, unlimited - and ingenious - thesaurus.
There
were seven separate articles written by seven supposedly different
writers in the anthology that sparked my epiphany. I had never read
any of the seven writers beforehand so I had no idea what to expect
from any of them, except one thing: I expected them to all be
different. The subjects and styles were all different and even the genres were a
cross section of any good readers magazine, but by the time the
articles got to me, they had been homogenized and cleansed of any
personality. They were all quite sanitary and boringly bland.
Elevator music. Musicians
restricted to only one tempo or rhythm, regardless of how many notes
they played. I write this
knowing full well there are people who listen to
Baroque endlessly, but they know they like Baroque and don’t
pretend to be listening to something else.
What
were the stories like before they were force-fed through the
corporate/academic process that produced the anthology? At least
several stories had
great premises and interesting plots.
Only one, however, had any characters I’d turn the page to know
more about. I knew all I wanted to know about most of the
non-dimensional protagonists in the first paragraph or two. The
dialog used by the characters in each of the stories was as
interesting as reading the end-user agreement that comes with your
computer’s software programs.
There
are ten thousand ways… No, wait, is it a myriad of ways? No, I’m
using the word myriad as a adjective, not a noun. Right? My muse is
getting an upset stomach.
How
about, “there are many” ways to spend my time that are more
exciting than reading contrived, improbable but somehow remarkably
familiar stories that all fit the mold of salable material delivered
with the empathy of a robot.
Sorry,
my Internet is down right now, so I’m out of literary antiseptic.
:)
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