The State of the Art

        In an effort to find where things stand in the realm of literary fiction, I checked out from my local library a copy of Best American Short Stories. The 2016 edition. Yeah, I know, that’s seven years ago, but it was the only one they had. The library no longer purchases the Best series (probably because, as I found, I was the first person to take this book out). Anyway, now, in 2023, I think it still has relevance.

I didn’t read any of the stories. I did read the introduction by that year’s editor, Junot Diaz (born in Dominican Republic, attended Rutgers, teaches at MIT, editor of Boston Review). Why am I supplying a bio? Well, that’s the other thing I read — the Contributors’ Notes, in which we get bios of the authors in this edition of Best.

Here are the names and country of origin of eleven of the twenty writers whose work Diaz included (along with the titles of the magazines that their stories first appeared in): 

Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche (Nigeria) Appolo

Mohammed Naseehu Ali (Ghana) Bomb

Tahima Anan (Bangladesh) Freeman’s

Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum (China) Glimmer Tain

Ted Chiang (parents immigrated from China) eflux journal

Yalitza Ferreras (raised partly in Dominican Republic) Colorado Review

Meron Hadero (Ethiopia) Missouri Review

Lisa Ko (parents immigrated from China) Copper Nickel

Daniel J. O’Malley (Australian) Alaska Quarterly Review

Yuko Sakata (Japanese) Iowa Review

Hector Tobar (parents immigrated from Guatemala) ZYZZYVA

So: these writers have roots outside the United States. Diaz may be congratulated for his inclusiveness. Though, one must ask, in their stories are we getting lessons on the experiences of people from other cultures? (Who wants lessons?) And how inclusive is he being, really? All these authors attended creative writing programs at top U.S. universities, and many (maybe all) teach writing at the university level. This, in today’s literary world, is where contacts are made; these people had their feet in the door. Their exotic backgrounds only added to their appeal. (A white heterosexual born and raised in the USA, with no MFA and no connections, should take note.)

But what about the other nine writers? Diaz had to include some established names. So we have Andrea Barrett (National Book Award winner), Ben Marcus (his stories have appeared in The New Yorker, Harpers, Paris Review, etc.), Sharon Solwitz (recipient of many awards and prizes for her stories), John Edgar Wideman (elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters). It should be noted that Wideman is a “person of color,” as is another contributor, the unknown Caille Millner, and the race issue is the basis for much of their work. The last of the established authors is Louise Erdrich, winner of the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize. She is of American Indian descent (Chippewa) and the setting and characters in her work come from that culture. More examples of diversity.

All these well-known authors have also attended university creative writing programs, and, with the exception of Erdrich, have spent most of their life teaching.

Of the three left, lesser known and American born — Lauren Groff, Karen Russell, Smith Henderson — we again find university roots.

A dentist has to get a degree from a recognized university; there are facts and techniques that must be mastered. But creating a piece of fiction is a purely personal endeavor, and the facts of proper grammar are inconsequential. What exactly is learned in a university creative writing class? In his introduction Diaz tells about the response to the first story he submitted to a workshop at Rutgers (a story which he felt confident was “good”): “I watched my story get gutted. I’d caught beatdowns before, but this one was a graduate workshop beatdown, and I felt those lumps for days.” One student gave him three pages (in little type) detailing the story’s deficiencies. His second submission also didn’t go over well, which caused Diaz to try harder — to become dedicated (his word) to the craft of the short story.

What struck me was Diaz’s compliant attitude. If he felt something was good, why abandon that belief? To get as far as a Rutgers’ MFA program he must have read extensively, formed mature opinions as to worth. Why passively accept the judgment of others (who seem to have a competitive/negative attitude rather than one of open-mindedness)? When getting advice, the source must be considered. Does it come from someone whose work and sensibilities you respect and who is on the same wave length as you? A bunch of twentysomethings in attack mode are not a constructive audience. I wonder if the experience of a beatdown can have a constricting effect. Is one, at least in the back of their mind, always producing workshop approved writing? 

As for Diaz’s compliance, it is, I believe, partly strategic. In an MFA program you must play the game. To reject criticism is against the rules. Make friends, for god’s sake, not enemies. Take your initiation beating with a bowed head.

Of course, the presiding god is the professor running the program. He’s the god because he has stature in the literary world. Don’t get on his (or, of course, her) bad side. Become, if possible, his favorite — and favored — student. He knows people, he may be able to help you along. More compliance is called for (also known as toadying). More strategizing. 

And how good is this professor? I’ve read enough crummy novels by men and women who teach others how to write to be suspicious of their judgement. And why are they teaching? The role of god must have its appeal, but, really, doesn’t reading student manuscripts get mighty old after a few years? The reason is obvious: literary fiction doesn’t sell. (Have you paid money to read anything by any of the five established authors appearing in the 2016 Best?) Authors need the steady income, the health insurance. They’re not Stephen King or Elmore Leonard, and they have no movie offers. So they teach.

Now that Diaz teaches, I’ll refer you to my 2009 review of The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. (My opinion of its worth differed from that of  his contemporaries in the literary world – including, surely, those former MFA students who had “gutted” his story; it was awarded a Pulitzer Prize.) It seems, as editor of this Best American, that Diaz was determined to show that he’s not prim and proper (like previous editors). Some fragments culled from his intro: “ain’t all” “bullshit” “kick massive ass” “shit” “cover my ass” “fuck” “shitting.” What a street savvy renegade! But, of course, the standards regarding what is and isn’t appropriate have changed, and once taboo words are now acceptable. Maybe even valued. Which leads me to a slight detour. In a recent issue of The New Yorker (I check the weekly magazine out from the library), I scanned an article about a female standup comedian. Her act is full of “fucks” and “shits” and other in-your-face vulgarities. As is to be expected. But a very brief article about Joan Baez disturbed me. She’s quoted several times, and it seems that “fuck” is an essential part of her vocabulary. Joan Baez! At age eighty-two! Breaks my heart.

Yes, I check out The New Yorker from the library (as apposed to buying it). The magazine has gone way downhill from its glory years (back when the “words” above would never be seen on its pages). I do the crossword puzzle, read one, maybe two articles. The stories I glance at, though I never get far. But, since the magazine has the long-standing reputation of being the leading bastion of literary fiction, while writing this essay I did read two stories. Both — by writers who have big reputations — were a waste of my time. Which brings up the question of what, really, qualifies as “literary” fiction (beyond being a label signifying quality). I think Philip Larkin summed up quite well what components are necessary in good (or great) fiction. He asked three questions: Could I read it? Did I believe it? Did it move me? The easiest of these criteria to meet is the first. But I don’t believe Larkin was referring to content — in subject matter people differ as to what they want to read. He was referring to the readability of the prose. In much of the writing today (which is coming out of MFA programs) there’s a choice to turn away from clarity and toward obscurity. Denseness and complexity are valued. There’s an abandonment of conventional plotting. Even topographical tomfoolery is sometimes thrown in the mix, or footnotes that go on for pages. Usually these works are extremely long. And this stuff is being lauded, it receives prestigious awards. If a self-centered genius makes unfair demands on me, I soon abandon ship. Could I read it? No.

The two stories I did read in The New Yorker met Larkin’s first criteria, but failed to meet the other two. I didn’t believe in the characters or events, and the only feeling they elicited was cynicism: as I mentioned, both authors had big reputations, so their work got accepted for publication. Merit was not involved in the choice. Simple as that. I want to believe that, back when William Maxwell and Katharine White were fiction editors at the magazine, these stories would be rejected.

Time is passing as I work on this essay(and, yes, it is work). This morning I learned that one of the top literary magazines in the nation is shutting down publication. The university that funds The Gettysburg Review decided that the money can be used in more meaningful ways. These small literary magazines stay in business (if it can be called a business) through university funding — or by grants, donations, fees charged to writers to submit their manuscripts. There are not enough subscribers who pay money for the magazine to keep the lights on. (Do you subscribe to any of the magazines listed in the beginning of this piece — are you even aware of the existence of eflux journal?) The staff is mainly made up of unpaid university students. Very few offer any financial compensation for a novice writer whose work they publish. But that writer is accruing another credential that will move them up another step on the ladder of success (such as it is).

This shutting down of the market for literary fiction began its decline with the advent of TVs in every home. Prior to that there was a wide audience for stories — an audience outside a academia. Many writers, like F. Scott Fitzgerald and John O’Hara, made a good living off the money mainstream magazines paid them. Hemingway first published The Old Man and the Sea in Life because it was a lucrative choice. The New Yorker used to publish two or three stories every week (and in 1948 Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” created a sensation); now they publish one, and The Atlantic (another respected venue) only rarely includes a story in their monthly issues.

The state of the art? — not good. Nowadays addictive devices — the proliferating screens — have played a major role in the turning away of the man and woman in the street, but the product is partly to blame. Even those who still want to read fiction that is readable, believable and moving have difficulty finding new work that delivers. A few decade ago, when stories by people such as Alice Munro and William Trevor were appearing in The New Yorker, readers (including me) found gratifying substance.

I still — unlike 95% of the population — read fiction every night. But I’ve turned to work done in the past, when values as to quality matched mine. That said, I must close this essay (which may seem like a diatribe by an obsessed individual) by recommending a story that appeared in the September 2016 issue of The Atlantic. It’s called the “The Comebacker” (a baseball term) and is by Dave Eggers. The clear, clean prose pulled me in, and I came to care about the character of Nathan. He’s unique but believable, and his cheerful take on life — even when adversity strikes — is moving. And worth thinking about. The word that comes to mind about the story is “sweet.” Not in a cloying sense, but sweet in a loving way.