In the Margins: Editing Life's Tragedies
In my brief tenure as an editorial assistant, stemming from an intern stint at a literary journal during graduate school, I was an integral part of an editorial team at San Diego State University's Department of English. The objective of our group was straightforward: to sift through short stories, essays, and occasional poems submitted by writers globally and propose potential candidates for publication to The Editor of a literary journal. This tenured professor was our definitive and vague guide, bestowed with the supreme authority of the final decision on what would make its way into the journal.
As editorial assistants, we held the absolute power to judge submissions objectively. However, objectivity is challenging for humans who are not equations waiting for a solution, resulting in a complex evaluative process for works of art. Nevertheless, the general guideline was straightforward: if a piece struck us as "unique and clever," we'd propose it for another reading. Generally, recommended pieces would circulate amongst us until a select few were passed to The Editor for the final verdict.
I found several such pieces, and I distinctly remember advocating for a story penned by a New York state prisoner. It was a first-person narrative chapter from a memoir, carrying the authentic ring of truth that a memoir implies. It depicted a man – the prisoner himself – recounting when he lost his sanity for a few fleeting seconds, irrevocably altering his and his family's life. This impending crime had no discernible rationale. I grappled with a complex and human psychological struggle as I delved further into the piece.
The writer admitted to a momentary lapse in sanity during a baseball game years prior, where he horrifically attacked the catcher's head with a baseball bat. Even the protective helmet and face mask were futile against his visceral rage. The writer, now a life inmate, recounted the gruesome details of his attack without understanding the cause.
The victim's skull was struck twice and fractured with a third major-league intended blow. On impact, the head first emits a dull sound. After the second hit, it cracks, causing the contents to scatter across the side fence line, showering spectators and their popcorn. The inmate doesn't specify the inning during which this tragedy unfolded or provide any context for the brutal altercation, suggesting it "just happened" and that this explanation should be adequate.
Individuals like this New York man hold profound insights into the fallibility of us all. He couldn't explain what led to his actions, nor did he resort to outlandish reasons like the blazing sun was the cause. Yet, once a successful family man and writer, he was now sentenced to life imprisonment with nothing but time to write, repent, and reflect on the complexities of his mind and the elusive 'why.'
His voice resonated in his story. His contribution to world literature was his unique perspective on the human tragedy, reminiscent of an ancient Greek tragedy by Sophocles or, more directly, the absurdity of life expressed in Albert Camus' novels, particularly The Stranger. The protagonist, Monsieur Mersault, irrationally murders an Arab man, attributing his action to the sun's relentless glare. This powerful imagery led Mersault to fire and kill, unknowingly echoing the paradoxical concept of free will prevalent in both The Stranger and the inmate's narrative.
I was intrigued by the prisoner's expressive writing style, his use of philosophical undertones in an environment confined within prison walls, and the mind of a flawed human. Despite trying to understand, I found no explanation for the gruesome incident. His passionate, compassionate portrayal of the victim's family struck me, showing a deep recognition and acceptance of his guilt and remorse. At times, our actions defy explanation.
Many fellow editorial assistants, pursuing their M.F.A. degrees at the journal and working under the professor, were entrenched in an unusual academic interplay. It was not the conventional type between siblings but between the professor and his students. Seemingly, everyone was attempting to win the professor's favor. They sought his attention by flaunting their familiarity with authors like Alan Watts, Carlos Castaneda, Richard Brautigan, and Charles Bukowski, all of whom the professor admired and likely aspired to emulate.
As for myself, I'd drop by the professor's office every Thursday, collect 20 submissions, exchange a few words with my peers, and retreat to my Pacific Beach apartment. Sometimes, a handful of us would enjoy chicken burritos at a quaint campus eatery, sharing stories and life musings. I fondly remember animated debates about Terry Eagleton and his book, Literary Theory: An Introduction, which we scrutinized for a class.
Despite my efforts, none of the pieces I recommended to The Almighty Professor and my fellow graduate assistants advanced to the next reading round. This aspect of the experience was puzzling and slightly irksome, and the absence of an explanation gradually led to my disillusionment. I felt like a stranger amid alleged mutual interests. Although the burritos were satisfactory, they lacked a certain zest. Hence, I decided to quit.