Just *!&#ing Keep Writing

When I first met you, you were a graduate student with a two-part dream: 1) work at a literary magazine, and 2) date me. How did you go about accomplishing these goals? What were the circumstances leading up to your eventual rise to literary stardom and romantic glory?

Actually, at the time we met I had neither dream. I barely knew what a literary magazine was, and had no desire to work for one (or for anyone/anything else). And I think you're confusing "date" with another word that Becky probably wouldn't like us to use.

That said, I stumbled into an editorial role when an Emerson MFA friend of ours, Shuchi Saraswat, asked me to be her assistant fiction editor at Fringe Magazine. I had already quit the program and was just kinda bobbing around, so I said I'd do it. This was in December of aught eight. At the time it was just the two of us, so we both had to hit the slush pile hard. I decided pretty much immediately that working at a literary mag sucked.

As for the other thing, if memory serves I asked you on a date and you said no. Then I did it again and you said maybe. Satisfied with that, I didn't ask again. Then alcohol took matters into its own hands.

Three years later, we're still together and I'm now fiction ed at Fringe. Which very much doesn't suck.

What accounted for your change of heart in those three years (about the lit mag stuff, not the dating stuff)? Is there something innately suck-worthy about an assistant editorship that doesn't apply to a lead editorial role?

Nah, it was mostly the slush pile thing. Shuchi and I eventually hired a reader or two, which turned the ship around. Now I have five readers and an assistant editor of my own, so even though we get 100+ submissions a month, I only have to deal with a handful of stories, most of which are quality.

That said, there is certainly a difference between editor and assistant editor in the respect given to the title by strangers. To wit:

Example #1:
"What do you do?"
"I'm fiction editor at Fringe Magazine."
"Oh. Hey look at that, I've got a scuff on my shoe. Will you rub it smooth for me?"

Example #2:
"What do you do?"
"I'm assistant fiction editor at Fringe Magazine."
"Oh. Hey look at that, I've got a scuff on my shoe. Why don't you get down and lick it off, dickface."

See?

I do. But hyperbole aside, that can't be the universal reaction, can it? Has your newfound position at the Texas Observer done anything for your reputation and/or your ego? Let me make this easier on you. Do you consider yourself a writer, an editor, a literary professional, or do you struggle with the feeling that you're playing grown-up, as I often do, shuffling around in your parents' oversized shoes? Let me make this harder on you. When do you think it's okay for a writer to call him/herself a writer?

I wonder why you assume that my parents wear oversized shoes.

I suppose I feel like a writer/editor who is playing grown-up. I mean, I get paid to write and edit, so I guess that makes me a professional. On the other hand, I've made just enough money from it this year to buy a used VCR.As far as calling one's self a writer, that's a decision each writer has to make for him/herself. Some of the best writers I know don't identify themselves as writers; some of the worst do. What's much more important is, do you write? If the answer is yes, then don't worry about labels and just fucking keep writing.

I wonder why it wasn't okay to say "fuck" three questions ago but it's okay now. I wonder a lot of things about you, Duhr, among them how your role at the Observer differs from Fringe. Also among them why you feel the need to rob me of my pillow in the middle of the night. Every night.

You and I have a dysfunctional pillow situation. During the day we have anywhere from six to eight pillows on the bed, but at night I'm only allowed to sleep with one of them: one is for me, one is for you, and the other 4-6 are show pillows. I feel entitled to two pillows, and in the middle of the night yours is always the nearest second pillow. You might consider changing the way you view "your" pillow: If you think of it not as your pillow but as my second pillow, you won't get all bent out of shape when I reclaim it at night.

The two gigs are pretty different. Fringe is an online journal, and we take unsolicited submissions pretty much year-round. In July we got nearly 200 stories, so the staff I mentioned before really helps carry the load. And we publish 2-3 pieces of fiction per issue, so 8-12 a year.

The Texas Observer is a monthly print mag specializing in investigative journalism. We devote a great deal of space to the Texas political scene, but we have a growing Culture section, too. Fiction is a rather new feature, and it's still kinda taking shape. In fact, we've published only two short stories in print since I took the role in December. At present I solicit work and am not open for submissions, but earlier this year we held our first story contest and then published the winning piece.

Both are exciting publications to work for; they're very similar thematically, and those themes appeal to me greatly. But since you didn't ask me about similarities, I'll put a sock in it.

All right, I'll take the bait.

Oh, I don't really have anything grand to say. Giving voice to the voiceless, reporting on the underreported, trying to buck the status quo. That kinda thing. The Observer is a ... well, we officially use the word "progressive" magazine in a ridiculously conservative state, and Fringe leans toward the experimental and unconventional. Both mags are nonprofit. Etc.

So what's it like to live with a fellow writer (ahem, ahem)?

We mostly just sit around our apartment talking about how we rarely seem to have time to do the kind of writing we want to do. Eventually one will say to the other, "Instead of talking about how we don't have time to write, let's use this time to write." But by then it's dinnertime.

Do we read each other's work? Do you get angry when I don't like stuff?

You and I do read each other's work, but not often. We both do a fair amount of freelancing, so mostly we'll exchange pieces for quick proofing and thoughts. On those rare occasions one of us writes something he/she actually has strong feelings about, the other will spend more time providing feedback on it.

I don't get angry when you don't like my work, but it can create some tension; or at the very least, a more difficult transition back into boyfriend/girlfriend. "I really dislike what you just spent hours creating. Wanna go cuddle on the couch?"

You and I, in our literary travels, have come across several writer couples who don't read each other's works in progress. An extreme example is John Skoyles and Maria Flook—who we studied under in grad school—who never read each other's work, even after publication. I can't imagine withholding my writing from you, you who I've come to consider my sane brain. Still, I wonder if there's something to it. Should we rethink our professional arrangement in service of our romantic relationship? At the very least, there could be more cuddling.

Let's rethink it tomorrow, because tonight I have a deadline for a book review and want/need your thoughts on the piece.

Anyway, there's plenty of work we don't exchange. In fact, I'd say we read only about half of what the other publishes. Which means that when you want me to take a look at something, I know it's more important to you than the average piece of writing.

It's funny, our writing habits, or possibly only funny to me in which case feel free to tell me to shut it. I am a slow, slow writer, excruciatingly slow, while you write at a much more normal pace. Not gonna lie, I hate writing near you 'cause all I hear is click, click, clickety-click—i.e., the ferocious tapping of your keyboard. It elicits envy and makes a mockery of my (stupid, broken, uneconomical) process. Care to comment?

Kurt Vonnegut would say that I'm a swooper and you're a basher. But while I write a much quicker first draft than you, yours are always closer to completion; which means I have to spend more time editing than you do. Regardless of pace, in the end we each get to where we need to be.

Although I do sometimes find it torturous to watch you type a 3-line email.

That's not funny. So what's your process? Is it the same every time or does it vary from project to project? What's your secret to literary genius, and how can I learn it?

These days I mostly write book reviews, and my process goes like this: read the book, write a draft of the review, read the draft, hate it, rewrite it, reread it, hate myself, cry, manage to calm down a little, write a readable draft, send it off, wait eleven weeks for a $25 check, cash the check.

The perk is that the books I review are sent to me for free; if they weren't, I would use that $25 to buy the next book for review, and then I'd be in an Ouroboros situation.

Actually, that would be kind of awesome. Except not really.

And the secret?

You want the secret to literary output through self-loathing? I think you already know it. In fact, I think you could write the book on it. The process of which would lead to a ton of self-loathing. Which would lead to more literary output. Which would lead to more self-loathing.

Touché. What are you working on at the moment? Any exciting projects coming down the pipeline?

Not really anything exciting, I guess. Coupla reviews coming up due, and then after that I want to get back to doing some fiction writing. Fringe is open and I'm also publishing some finalists from the Observer story contest; it seems like I'm reading/editing/publishing all this exciting writing but not producing any of my own. Which sucks. And needs to change.

We've agreed in the past that discussing fiction in progress can lead to decreased enthusiasm for the piece. It's as if articulating the idea causes it to lose its luster. On that note, might you be willing to share one of the short stories you have in mind? C'mon David, live a little.

No, but I'm glad to sum up my entire story collection for you: man's inhumanity to man. How's that for unique and gripping?

The more honest answer is, I really don't have anything in mind yet. Except one scene where a fat kid is trapped in a car on a hot day at the beach; the parking spaces on both sides are occupied, the doors won't open wide enough for him to get out, and the people he came to the beach with have taken the keys and left him to rot.

Now that I've shared that scene, I'll never ever write it. Which is probably for the best.

I seem to remember some talk a while back of a man locked on his balcony on a blustery winter's eve in Boston. What is it with you and inescapable scenarios?

Oh man, I can hear your wheels spinning all the way from the other room.

For real. I don't like the sound of this, not one bit.

May I remind you that you find our own house inescapable. Maybe you're that fat kid in the car at the beach?

Just call me Chubby. FYI, readers, I have not left our home in nine days and counting. Perhaps a word or two, David, on the reason for my extreme homebody-ness ... Not the social anxiety thing. The other thing.

The other anxiety? In a word made by smushing three words, WriteByNight. In more words, together we run a writing center/writers' service in Austin, and we live on the second floor; so with work life and home life in the same unit, you find little reason to stray outside of your desk-to-bathroom-to-bedpath.

Let's have less Justine, more WriteByNight, shall we? What's WBN all about?

We hosted American Short Fiction's most recent launch party, and someone in attendance said that WriteByNight is like a clubhouse for writers. I like that. We make our money by editing, proofing, and critiquing manuscripts, as well as coaching people through writer's block or the publication process; but our favorite part of WBN is that we hold thrice-weekly open hours for writers.

It's like a lounge/loft for writers—we have two floors of sofas and tables, we put on some music, make coffee, put out snacks and writing prompts. It's like a coffee shop, but free. The idea is to help foster Austin's literary community. Lots of writers come here to get work done in peace and quiet, but just as many come to meet other local writers. Writers tend to be more introverted (AWP notwithstanding) than other people, so it's good to offer them a place where they can interact with like-minded people.

At the risk of turning this into a commercial, you can check us out at WriteByNight.net or facebook.com/WriteByNight.

We now return to our regularly-scheduled Q&A.

We do, but only briefly. It's late and The X-Files are calling my name. With the understanding that I am a flawless interviewer, is there anything I've missed? Anything you'd like to add?

No, not really. Now that we're done, maybe you'll consider going outside to take a walk? It's only 107 out there.

And thanks for your time; I know you're busy. Mostly because you walk around our office/home all day saying "Jesus, why am I so busy."

I am busy, but not too busy to waste time wondering why I’m so busy, or to articulate that thought, or to compose Jesus-why-am-I-so-busy ditties to the tune of “Old MacDonald,” or to demand that you close this Q&A with an insightful, compelling and/or memorable piece of commentary. We can’t end this way.

Yikes. I'm only good for 1-3 insightful pieces of commentary a year, and I like to save them up for December.

That said, I can make a request. Do something helpful for a fellow writer once a day. Even if it's as simple as Tweeting a link to someone's story or sending a quick email encouragement to a friend who's blocked or has just had work rejected. Lord knows we all need all the help we can get.

Justine Tal Goldberg is an award-winning writer and editor of both fiction and nonfiction. Her short stories have appeared in Anomalous Press, Whiskey Island, Fringe Magazine, and other publications. Her journalistic work has appeared in Austin Monthly, Publishing Perspectives, and the Texas Observer, among others. She owns and operates WriteByNight, a writing center and writers' service headquartered in Austin, Texas.