26 February 2009
The library here used to carry a score of literary journals. Today on my lunch hour I found only five. Where did they go? I hadnâ€™t time to ask a librarian because I had to go buy an envelope. But thereby I found out where the journals went. Theyâ€™re sold single-copy in the bookstore: Boulevard, New Letters, Tin House, Pleiades, Southern Poetry Review â€“ about 10 titles in all.
The library chucked its subscriptions because it knows no one reads these things, except maybe for Poetry and Creative Nonfiction, and those just as bellwethers. Last time I read through the latest issues of literary journals at the library â€“ noting on index cards their names and contents, and what percentage was fiction, what percentage nonfiction, etc. (so I can discuss them in classes) -- in THREE litmags I found poems about Persephone. Whoa. To be fair, about 10 to 20 percent of the published material took my breath. But on the same round I noted two essays, in separate journals, beginning with the words â€œMy father,â€ and acres of bad fiction â€“ full of neon signs, breasts, tragic foreigners, and petty quarrels.
Some journals make impressive publishing credits if you want to rub shoulders with laureates and academics â€“ who wonâ€™t actually read what you published. So beyond impressing each other with our publication credits, what are these journals for? I had never seriously questioned their value. Do they serve as some sort of â€“ standard? For us? Me? Time for self-examination. And figuring out that if they're not important anymore, what is?