Letter about a letter

Monday 11/24/25

I include something like this in the record because it's telling and says a lot. And I think the truth and being forthright and clear and putting words to what is happening and why and what I am and why what I'm doing is not what others are doing is crucial to whatever chance I have, if I have any chance. Addressing things, to get ahead of other things, and stopping the negating of a chance because someone who can't or hasn't thought isn't or won't be aware on their own. This letter from me to several people I know is in regards to a letter I received back from an editor at a journal that has existed since the time of the Great Depression and which will no longer be publishing fiction after the fall of 2026.

Response below if you wanted to see how this worked out. He's telling the truth, at least. I know when these people are lying. They ran four stories a year. Four is too many for the new plan. One is too many. But here's the real reason why, which isn't the same as why the decision was made: All of these stories are the same. More or less. People can't read. When they get a nonfiction piece, they're not reading--they're attaching themselves to whatever that piece is attached to. If it's about the Beatles, then the reader is attaching themselves to the Beatles. Attaching is different than reading and comprehending. Get it? The experience of that attachment is the experience, not the reading of words. This is just drain-circling. Deckchair rearranging. Trying to keep things going at a place like this--all of these places--for a bit longer. They're leaning into attachment, which, again, isn't reading. Where do you get this attachment? From the pieces that are about subjects that are proper nouns. Even when people click on them, or glance at them, they're bypassing the reading. Moving their eyes over the words is what they're (briefly) doing, so as to have the attachment to the proper noun subject. It's almost parasocial. The only thing I have going for me is what I do is unique. That, and that I'm the only writer who can't be replaced or approximated. When I take stock of what I have, that's all that I have, basically. I'm not suggesting it means anything or will. Also: These publishers/editors can't see an exception. Everything and everyone is in the same bucket to them and insofar as their sensibilities go. A writer can only be so good, etc. A writer can only be so different, etc. A work of fiction can only be so compelling, etc. Sure, they could see an exception if they actually came to the work by that person with a mindset that anything could be possible, that there wasn't this automatic ceiling and everyone fell somewhere below it. And obviously also read it. But they also think if someone is great they'll have the stupid awards and everything. They have little awareness and little self-awareness as to their own system, which has helped to grind reading out of the world because the system doesn't allow for great writers so no one goes through the arduous processes over the decades of becoming one if they had talent to begin with. The Beatles had these other bands with guitars ready to roll with them and fill a void/become a thing/have this very appealing thing for lots of people. With writing, there's just me. You know what I'd also say? What I do isn't even really writing. It's something else. Things are awful. I feel like I'm in a late stage of dying and just dotting i's and crossing t's, you know? I've composed 6000 words this morning, and that after a late start at four AM. None of it matters.