I drove to Miami yesterday – Bay Harbor Islands, to be exact – where I was interviewed about my life as a writer by a class of eighth graders studying journalism. I was a little apprehensive, having never worked at the most common job in journalism, reporter, but I had three other jobs in newsrooms that I could tell them about: feature writer, editorial writer, travel writer. Not surprisingly, most of the questions were about this last one, which – I had to tell them – no longer exists for the most part. At least not at newspapers.
As usual when I speak at schools here, the students were way ahead of me at the same age: most of them were bilingual and familiar with life outside the U.S. And their questions reflected their young worldliness. The first girl asked how the place I grew up influenced my writing. (She used the word “literature,” which I would have found flattering if I thought she had read me.) I don’t know if anyone had ever asked me that before, and I had to think about it for a while. I answered that growing up in a small town in the small state of New Jersey gave me a life-long affection for the underdog, one that’s often reflected in my choice of subjects (Poland, for instance). A boy asked if I ever experienced doubt as I was starting out, and I told him that I still do (like most writers). Another asked how I handle criticism.
The questions were thoughtful, the students attentive. I left feeling pretty good about the future.
I picked up The Best American Essays 2022 over the weekend and the first piece I turned to was about a woman’s relationship with her body. “At the end of fourth grade, my body mutinously exploded, flesh swelling from my chest and thighs before it happened to anyone else.” I turned to the next piece, which began “The semester prior to his suicide, my friend and I…” Then I flipped randomly to the preceding piece and read “My sister was diagnosed with Ewing sarcoma when I was in my freshmen year of high school…”
I understand the impetus for writers to write about their trauma – it can be cathartic, and help them deal with the pain. What I don’t get is the appetite of readers to read about it. Granted, for those suffering from the same or similar traumas, there’s a certain amount of consolation. But isn’t there any interest, particularly among the distraught, in being lifted up? Experiencing a more life-affirming vision? Escaping from the small island of the self into the wider, richer world?
Apparently not, as The Best American Travel Writing was discontinued this year.
Yesterday I queried a top editor at a major publishing house who responded quickly: “Yours is just not the type of work I acquire since I don't know how to put most memoirs forward.” It took great self-restraint not to reply: “Perhaps you should learn.”
I nailed the landing. (To mix my sports metaphors.) At least I think I did. But it took me about four tries. If this were the Olympics, I'd be out of the competition.
I didn’t sleep well last night thanks to a rejection that arrived at 8:10 and wasn't read until just before bed. What are editors thinking? Do they believe that ruining a good night’s sleep is preferable to ruining a good day’s work? But if I don’t sleep well during the night I won’t work well the next day.
I attended a luncheon this week with some other freelance travel writers, one of whom claimed that a recent video of his had garnered seven million views. He posts videos now, he said, because people are bored with photographs. As someone who works with the written word, I felt doubly out of touch. But prose, while less popular than visuals, still has the better shot at longevity.