The Case for Anthologists

Discussion has cropped up on the Internet regarding anthologies and the editors who curate them and the writers who contribute stories to them. An open letter to the varies bodies that administer speculative fiction awards has been circulating that calls for Best Anthology awards to be awarded to each contributor of the anthology, as well as the editor(s). The proposal calls for an “equal share of the award” for each contributor. Part of the justification for this is that the editors “have not contributed a single story” to the anthology.

First, and foremost, I appreciate the discussion and the civility that has ensued despite differing opinions. I did not immediately weigh in on the issue, preferring instead to sit back and listen to the opinions of others—of those on both sides of this discussion—for a bit on various social media sites. But in some of the responses, loaded words like “injustice” and “inequity” and “unfair” have been introduced into the discourse.

Speaking specifically from the horror-side of the equation, as a point of clarification, the Shirley Jackson Awards have 6 categories—five are exclusively for writers, one for editors (the Edited Anthology category). The Bram Stoker Awards have 13 categories—eleven are exclusively for writers with one solely for editors (Superior Achievement in an Anthology) and a second (Superior Achievement in Non-Fiction) that could be won by either a writer or an editor. Are 2 to 3 editor-eligible awards out of 19 really an "injustice" or constitute "inequity" as has been characterized elsewhere? Neither one of these award bodies have a "Best Editor" award. So, at least in the cases of these two genre awards, an 85/15 split for writers and editors seems more than equitable.

I have both edited anthologies and contributed original works to others. When the editors of anthologies to which I've contributed have been nominated for an award, I celebrate them. I understand that my role was to write a story (or submit something already finished) and cash the check for said story. On occasion, that may include a few hours of research. Even after this business transaction, I still try to be a good cheerleader for the anthology's success. As a contributor, those were my obligations. As an editor, I'm responsible for developing the concept/theme, developing the pitch that sells the anthology to a publisher or convinces an agent of its potential to sell, negotiating an advance that ensures I can pay contributors at or above the prevailing professional rate (or bankrolling that portion myself in advance), reading through hundreds of slush pile submissions, notifying each author who submits of their story's acceptance or rejection, preparing author contracts/agreements, sending them out, and tracking their return. As the editor, I'm editing each one of the stories and working with the contributors on revisions, deciding on the TOC order, proofreading each story in the manuscript at least twice (usually more), pulling the manuscript together into one document, writing the introduction, working with the publisher on the cover concept and art, and proofreading the manuscript after it's been formatted. As the editor, I'm engaged in the pre-release marketing—email interviews, virtual interviews and podcasts, social media boosts—keeping the contributors updated on reviews and award nominations. For Other Terrors, my co-editor purchased and mailed each contributor a t-shirt with the anthology's cover on it at her own expense in celebration of the anthology and everyone who contributed to it.

So, respectfully, no, I do not believe that an award nomination or win for an edited anthology should be equally shared, as has been proposed. Each one of contributing writers has opportunities to be recognized for their work as a contributor to an anthology in one of several short fiction categories in those same awards. So why the call to dilute the anthologist’s single opportunity to be recognized within either of these awards bodies? Using Other Terrors, as an example, one of our contributors—the magnificent Tananarive Due—was recognized for her contribution to the anthology with a Locus Award nomination for her superb closer “Incident at Bear Creek Lodge” in the Novelette category. The anthology itself was not nominated. Should Rena and I—as editors of that story in our anthology—also been recognized as Locus nominees because (under the proposal’s logic) anthologies are a group effort? Of course not—that’s ludicrous. Likewise, it’s ludicrous to equate the amount of labor, time, and creativity that an anthologist pours into curating a 100k-word collection with the writer’s (inarguably valuable) single story contribution for which they have ample opportunity for awards recognition on their own. Again, with an 85/15 split between writers and editors in terms of awards eligibility in both the Shirley Jackson and Bram Stoker Awards, there is hardly a case that can be made for inequity.

Using an analogy from another art form, let’s take movies to illustrate the point here. Like an anthology, it takes numerous artists of various kinds to create a film. There is the film’s director, the actors, the producers, the screenwriter, the costume and set designers, the cameraman, the publicists, and countless others—many individuals who contribute to the success of a film. When a film is nominated for and wins an Academy Award for Best Picture, the producers win the actual award. The actors and everyone else involved in the film get bragging rights to having been featured in/worked on an Oscar-winning film, but the honor is bestowed upon the producer(s) (i.e., the person(s) who oversees the film’s production, the person(s) who plans and coordinates various aspects of the film’s creation, such as selecting the script, coordinating writing, directing, editing, and arranging financing).

As someone who strives to be a good and professional anthologist, I think the contributors should always be acknowledged and thanked in public forums; when I won the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in an Anthology in 2009, I named each contributor in my acceptance speech. If OTHER TERRORS was to win the SJA, the same would occur. Throughout the process for OTHER TERRORS and my latest anthology, contributors were repeatedly tagged in each and every social media post highlighting a starred review or notable mention. I even asked the art department at Harper Collins to design a graphic celebrating the anthology's SJA nomination (which they happily did) and I immediately emailed every contributor to thank them for being a part of the anthology and to offer them the graphic to share. I think only 4 out of 20+ contributors actually did.

That all said, while I still hold to the idea that it's the editor(s) who is credited with the nomination or award for an edited anthology, I see absolutely no harm in a certificate being bestowed upon the contributors acknowledging that their story was included in an anthology that was nominated and/or won the <insert award name here> award. As was said elsewhere, contributors still get bragging rights for being included in said anthology, on top of being paid for their work (hopefully at or above the prevailing per word rate, as they should).

Speak Not On All Matters

I’ve tried to be more disciplined in what I respond and react to—especially on social media. I find that when I resist the impulse to jump into the fray on every topic or respond to every incendiary headline, I find greater peace of mind. My opinion is just that—mine. It’s not imperative to my well-being to share it. I’ve tried to recognize that doing so in the past only served to feed my egotism. Today’s virtual public square is a cacophony of inflammatory rhetoric and ideological disharmony; I’ve found that sometimes the easiest way to decrease the noise is not to add to it. Looking back, I’ve found that, at times, it was more important to jam my point into a discussion than it was to consider the broader implications for those involved in said discussion. Does my need to hammer home my point have to steamroll over someone who may have a greater emotional investment in the topic at hand? The short answer: No.

In resisting the self-serving need to hastily weigh in on every topic, I find that I’m able to strengthen my sense of self-control, avoiding unnecessary online altercations and vexations in which—undoubtedly—one or more parties walks away feeling wronged or, worse, persecuted. The world around us is cause enough for anxiety; why add to the collective tension and temperature of the pot through an egocentric compulsion to force opinions and the need to be “right?” In the last of Freud's major theoretical works, 1923’s The Ego and the Id, he made the analogy of the id being a horse while the ego is the rider. The ego is “like a man on horseback, who has to hold in check the superior strength of the horse.” That’s largely what this exercise has been for me—trying to keep my instinctual desire to opinionate in check by taking tighter reins of my ego and engaging in secondary process thinking. Do I succeed at controlling the impulse every single time? Hell, no. Do I still succumb to my ego-demon on occasion, the one who feels the need to be snarky or clever or right? Hell, yes.

But this work in progress keeps trying to get it right, to find the balance, to hurt and demean people less with my words. I take inspiration in this quest from the essayist Joan Didion, from her award-winning 2007 memoir on grief, The Year of Magical Thinking: “Why do you always have to be right? Why do you always have to have the last word? For once in your life just let it go.”

Bentley Little Was Right (Or, a Swan Song)

Bentley Little may be the smartest modern-day horror writer. When I interviewed him back in the early days of Dark Scribe Magazine, I was struck during my research that the guy had no official website, no social media presence, and did very little to no publicity or book signings when a new title was released. He’s written one book per year—on rough average—since his debut in 1990 with The Revelation. His latest, The Bank, releases in 2020 from Cemetery Dance.

One book per year over 30 years—give or take a year or two here and there.

No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. No official author website. Hell, not even an email address.

Think about that for a minute: A working writer who maintains a substantial enough fan base to publish consistently for three decades (and counting). Anomaly? Most would argue yes. Yet Little’s conscious decision to eschew the conventional wisdom espoused by agents and publicists and publishers that a social media presence is necessary to peddle one’s wares warrants examination. And some degree of envy.

Imagine it: No emails to read and respond to. No time-wasting distractions on social media. No online persona to cultivate and maintain. No chance for misstep in the current era of cultural overcorrection. Imagine the hours given back to write. Or read. Or whatever creative endeavor eludes you because of the giant, time-sucking black hole of the Internet.  

Now some would argue—and they’d be correct in doing so—that life doesn’t have to be about extremes, that there are enough hours in the day to seek out and enjoy all that we desire, and that it’s really all about striking a balance. Finding one’s equilibrium sweet spot. Yin and yang.

True enough.

But I’d argue that the Internet—social media, in particular—isn’t like all the other boys and girls on the playground. No, its time-wasting properties are unique; it’s real-time, continuous and never-ending, with characters dropping in and out, and information flashing by at light speed. Miss a little, miss a lot. And therein lies its distinctively addictive appeal. I should know—I’ve been a social media addict for more than a decade now.

Like a functioning alcoholic, I’m a functioning social media addict. To the naked eye, I function just fine—I work, I socialize, I create, I eat and sleep. But over the years, I’ve noticed subtle changes as my social media presence and activity increased—from that first Myspace page in 2004 to joining Facebook in 2007, followed by Twitter and Instagram in the ensuing years. I’ve noticed that I live with a nagging sense of urgency to check social media, that I feel compelled to post about all manner of things that I do and opinions I hold. I’ve watched entire live concerts through my iPhone camera, obsessively needing to capture the experience instead of just living it. I realize, with a sickening sense that I’ve allowed myself to be swept up and away, that I’m often subconsciously trying to “keep up” with the Joneses, that I’m comparing myself (often unfavorably) with the social media personas of others. It’s brought a persistent rhythm of unease to my mind and spirit—unease that I’m a fraud, unease that I’m living life “wrong” or “not enough.” I feel like an imposter, that although I try to present myself and my accomplishments in a certain light that I know, deep down, that I’ve fallen short of my potential. Social media has become for me like a virtual game of fake it until you make it.

Mindless fun can be useful, therapeutic even. There is something restorative about letting go and indulging in something pointless and undemanding—the silliness of a slapstick comedy, revisiting an old cartoon or sitcom from childhood, flipping through home improvement magazines for inspiration, or rummaging through an old yearbook. But, truth be told, social media isn’t even fun anymore. Social media is full of extremes and extremists—people arguing with themselves and each other over everything from politics to social and cultural issues. There is very little in the way of substantive discussion to be found, with each party usually entering the fray with a predetermined and fixed mindset. Social media presents two choices in 2019: divisive and toxic or nonsensical and inane.  I’m guilty of contributing to both to varying degrees.

A steady diet of foolishness is not fun, and idiocy rules on social media. Yes, by all means, re-post that news story from six years ago and watch everyone else jump in with fury and righteous indignation until some poor sap actually opens the link and points out the date. Yes, please post about that celebrity’s death—you know, the one who died a decade ago. Yes, if you re-post this pretty picture of fuzzy bunnies frolicking beneath the American flag, Jesus himself will bless you with a lottery win. You bet me that the little girl with the cleft palette can’t get 100 likes on Facebook? Well, then, by all means—let’s share it even though your own page is private and that little girl (if she or anyone associated with her in real-life actually started the damn campaign) will never see your share, like, or comment. And despite the proliferation of information about fake news and clickbait and bad foreign actors infiltrating social media to sow discord, many continue to share this crap and engage with bots. Critical thinking is your friend, people—have it over for dinner sometime and get to know it.

Reflecting, I realize that I don’t even enjoy my own participation on social media much anymore. Post about a TV show or film you enjoyed and, within seconds, some armchair quarterback shows up to offer their unsolicited expertise as to why the opposite is true. When people aren’t giving in to their compulsion to crap on the parades of others, they’re posting graphic photos of animal abuse (you know, to bring attention to it) or taking a victory lap for their “brave” stand against this social evil or that from behind their keyboards and the comfort of their suburban sofas. The social justice warriors of social media have deluded themselves into thinking that they make an actual difference because they had the “courage” to pile-on in a thread already 300 comments long with people largely agreeing anyway. Social justice in an echo chamber; yeah, that’s effective. Social media has been permeated by a vitriolic hivemind that demands nothing but complete submission to the will of the masses, with swift and total annihilation to anyone who dares question, suggest, or temper such contentious debate with anything resembling nuance, a sense of pragmatism, or (the unholiest of crimes) the application of critical thinking skills. Motives will be ascribed, malfeasance charged. Those accused (of anything) are guilty until proven innocent on the words of the accuser alone, with the idea of supporting someone now conflated with a mandatory belief in what they’ve alleged. Proof? Proof is for pussies in the age of social media. Personal evolution? Nope—not allowed. You’re either “woke” or you’re not. Personal growth would just detract from the moral wrath —and then what would we be angry about?   

As many of you know, I’ve had something similar happen to me recently. It was an eye-opener, the proverbial slap to the face this social media addict needed to begin his recovery. I wouldn’t have wished the experience on my worst enemy. It was sobering—to see those “friends” who immediately bailed before I even issued the first rebuttal. There were those friends who offered words of support privately, less who went on the record publicly or defended me outright. There were those who stayed silent the entire time. I noticed and made mental note of who spoke up, who spoke out, who said nothing, and who jumped ship. Lesson learned, painful as it was.

Honestly, it’s all too tiring. I’m worn out, drained, and weary of it all.

To circle back, Bentley Little has now inspired me to rip a page out of his playbook and to log off. Time to drown out the buzzing rancor of social media. Instagram is gone, to be followed shortly by Twitter. Deactivating Facebook is in the cards, too—with the jury still out on it being a permanent versus temporary move. I may keep it after an extended break through the holidays to cross-post reviews from Dark Scribe Magazine and op-eds from my blog, which I’ll fire up again in earnest, old-school style. If I return to the land of Zuckerberg, it’ll be after a sharp culling of friends and followers. What Facebook was, it will never be again. At least not for me after recent events. I’ve given too much of my time and energy and attention to the white noise of social media—primarily to the detriment of my creative pursuits. Time to focus on getting back to my real life—viewing it through my own eyes instead of through an iPhone lens—and rediscovering my authentic self.