Submission
art for art's sake
It’s shocking to believe that I started PDW in August of 2017. For the last 6(ish) years I’ve maintained a space to put out thoughts and words. I’ve carved out this little nook in the world to make stuff. Over the years I’ve had varying levels of consistency on this platform. There have been dormant months and active months. Over time, though, the words have piled up.
Apparently I was in this same reflective space back in February of 2020 when I first published this essay. I had just submitted some writing to The New York Times (update: they did not publish my work) (also update: they did not respond to me) and I was feeling some feelings.
It’s satisfying (and a little cringey) to look back at my early writing. For those who’ve been with me since day 1 - I’m so sorry I used to write such long winded piece. Apparently no one taught me editing.
In any case, here’s a little trip down memory lane.
Earlier this week I submitted an Op-Ed to The New York Times. I rarely submit my work for publication. Generally, I’m content to write my essays and post them here – though my readership be small, it be mighty! However, last week an idea struck me, and I had to get the words down on the page. They poured out of me. It was as personal as anything I write for PatDoesWords. Actually I’d describe it as startlingly personal. As I sat there, staring at a small piece of my beinghood splattered onto a word doc, I thought, “Am I really going to ship this off to the submission slush pile from hell known as The New York Times’ Op-Ed inbox?” It seemed like a cruel thing to do.
A submission to a big publication is altogether scary and ludicrous. A submission to a small publication is altogether scary and ludicrous. All of it is altogether scary and ludicrous. Every piece of writing – fiction, nonfiction, screenplays, essays, book proposals, academic journals, short stories, poems – is personal. It is the byproduct of work and vulnerability. I even image the woman who writes the directions on the back of aspirin bottles feels the tiniest bit exposed when the label goes to print. To hand over your work to anyone is nerve wracking. To hand over your work to someone for evaluation is almost incomprehensible.
Emailing a submission to a behemoth such as The New York Times is something akin to buying a lotto ticket. In fact, I would say you have a better chance of winning a few bucks on a scratch-off than of getting published by the editorial board of NYT. Nevertheless, you hope against hope that it’s your lucky moment, finally your time. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll catch the eye of whatever poor intern is assigned to filter through an inbox that probably sees thousands of submissions a day. After that, a lower-level editor will like your work and decide to pass it on. Person by person, your words make their way up the literary hierarchy. Then you get an email saying that you’re a genius wordsmith and they would like to publish you immediately. Also, they pay $20,000 a word.
The whole thing is an internal battle for me. On one hand I know that publishing something in The New York Times could be a career game changer. There are lots of eyes on that newspaper. It’s a 170-year-old institution (quite literally). It’s the standard for journalism, the bar against which everything else is measured. As far as newspapers go, it is the most influential. It has been able to dethrone powerful leaders and guide cultural narrative. It can make or break careers.
On the other hand, I know that writing, and all art for that matter, is subjective. Someone overlooking your work doesn’t mean it’s bad. Someone saying your work is bad doesn’t even mean it’s bad. It’s barely quantifiable, if at all. So why subject myself to the torture of scrutiny? It seems antithetical to some of my beliefs about writing and creativity.
It’s all a part of the Validation Tug-o-War. I want to hold my head up high and stand by my work, as is, no qualifications. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter if 6 people read an essay or 60,000. The words are the same. The thoughts behind the words are the same. And the joy in creating those words is the same. Writing is its own validation. The product would be no different if it landed on my blog or landed in a giant newspaper.
But…
I still want some kind of outside validation. Perhaps I can blame my reptilian brain but I’m seeking something. I’m hoping to get an email that says, “we’d like to publish your work,” because the interpretation would be “you’re good and you matter.” At the end of the day, isn’t that what we all want to hear? Isn’t that what we’re craving on some level? No person, however evolved or balanced or self-aware, is completely above wanting that. It is truly part of the nature of being human.
So how do I find equilibrium while involuntarily playing Validation Tug-o-War? I’m sure there are lots of ways. One thing that helps me is to create my own definition of success. If I measure success in a way that doesn’t require the participation of another human, if I’m the sole author of my own terms, then I have the power to validate my own work. If my success looks like something I have complete agency over, then a submission to The New York Times can just be a fun little bonus. All the extras are just ornamentation.
For instance, early on in creating this blog, I set my own terms of success. All I wanted was a space to put my writing. Originally, I set out to publish a 1,000-word piece once a week. That was it. At the time, I thought that was a low enough bar, something attainable, but also something that would be fulfilling and required no one else. I didn’t set out to financially support myself with it. I didn’t set out to be invited to conferences and build a massive readership. PatDoesWords was designed as a creativity playground. It’s my gallery.
I can say, with only mild reluctance, that I’ve been able to achieve that. I claim this endeavor to be a success. Do I always hit my once-a-week goal? Absolutely not. Do I always hit a once-a-month goal? Sure don’t. However, I’ve kept PatDoesWords running for two and half years. I’ve had wildly productive periods and tragically stagnant periods. Some essays have been great, some have been okay, and a few have been bombs. After two and a half years, though, I am just now able to look back and say that I have a body of work. I’ve built something. I’ve created something. I have written a ton of words for this blog. That alone is something to be proud of and I required the participation of not a soul other than myself.
So what’s my point, exactly?
Not entirely sure.
So often we (read: I) look to things such as awards and diplomas, publications and reviews, to give us a stamp of approval. With that stamp of approval, we somehow have earned the right to look Geppetto in the eye and say, “Yes, I’m a real boy.” But what if, instead of needing Geppetto to pat us on the back, we look him in the eye and say, “Hey dude, look at this cool thing I made!” Then we turn around, not waiting for a response, and begin making the next thing. What if the doing of our work is all the validation we need? Geppetto be damned.
That being said, if anyone knows an editor at The New York Times, could you help a guy out? Tell them to look for my submission. Thanks. I appreciate you.