The Anthology Curse

Before writers are published they think that publishing will solve all their problems. Once published they realize what a happy, but dim-witted, illusion that was. And, of course, there are all levels of publication–-local newspapers and magazines, national periodicals, inclusion in chap books and anthologies, and, the crème de la crème, a book of one’s own. I’m still pining for the last one.

Last year when my short story “Asa” was included in Level Best Books’ crime anthology, Riptide, I was just so darn happy to be included that everything else just seemed like more cream. Now that I have had a few weeks with their Windchill: Crime Stories by New England Writers, in which my short story “Homemade Pie & Sausage” is included I am being sucked into the Anthology Curse a.k.a. “Is Mine Better?” There are twenty-two short stories in the book. At this point I have read about half of them and, with each one I read, the old green-eyed monster sits on my shoulder making snide comments. Blyech.

When the books first arrived I gave copies to two of my most reliable readers. My neighbor Eleanor is one of my favorite people to show my writing to. She is bluntly honest but she always tells me how good my work is. What’s not to like? She read the entire book in a couple days and then said (oh, I do love her!), “Yours was the best one in there.” Thank you, thank you, thank you. That’s why she’s my friend.

Of course, I am smart enough to know that the appreciation of friends is a beautiful thing but don’t count too much on it. For one thing, the people who are your friends already have learned to accept you as you are and like you anyway. This is a thing I tell Mark all the time. After working on his book alone and then with just me for a couple years he finally passed out copies of the manuscript to eight friends for feedback. They were highly complimentary and appreciative. That is a wonderful, beautiful, encouraging thing–-but it’s not the same as the critiques of readers who are focused on craft and literary merit. Like all of us, he prefers to believe his friends are much more objective than they are actually capable of being and, like all of us, he hopes that all readers will enjoy and appreciate the book as much as his friends have. I hope that for him, too, but, being more experienced in this process, I am more jaded and less optimistic.

So as I am working my way through Windchill I am having to do battle with the standard author’s challenge of comparing my work to that of others. Brendan DuBois’ story “The Forever Reunion” is wonderful but, well, he’s been writing crime for a long time and he did win the Al Blanchard Award. Then there is Susan Oleksiw’s “What He Should Have Known”. Susan is just a fabulous writer, that’s all there is to it. She has lived in India, she knows more about that culture than I will ever know and she uses it brilliantly in her story writing, so I can’t compare there. Mark’s story “Imprisoned in Maine” is great but I’m the one who suggested he submit it so that doesn’t count. “The Spare” by Woody Hanstein and “Visions” by Leslie Woods had me enthralled but... well, we are very different sorts of writers. And on and on and on....

What is this need we all have to hold ourselves up for comparison with others? Why isn’t it sufficient to say, hey, I did this, and people like it? Why do I have to be better?

I am the oldest of eight children–-I blame that a lot. We live in an excessively competitive culture. I blame that, too. But more than anything, I suppose, it is that inborn desire to be special. To be the chosen one, the one that shines. My mature self tells me that I’m ready to let go of that but the third-grader in me is jumping up and down in her seat, frantically waving her hand, and mentally screaming, “Pick me, pick me, pick me.”

Oh well.

Thanks for reading.