The Bishop Prizes: An Editors’ Roundtable

Following the 2008 Bishop Prizes, four Senior Editors sat down together
to compare their experiences as judges. Herewith, some of their findings …

This roundtable, under the title “Different Angles,” appeared in the 2008 issue of The Blue Pencil.

Phoebe Schlesinger: This year’s submissions were the best yet. I think the pool of submissions keeps improving.

Jayne Warren: It’s possible that because we’re publishing better material each year, we’re receiving better pieces the next year. As the standard rises, the material rises to meet it.

I definitely saw improvements in the fiction submissions this year. There was more of a focus on character development. Instead of pushing a flat, stock protagonist through a plot, writers seemed to be concerned with really inhabiting the personality. I remember a fiction exercise aimed at developing a sense of a character’s background—writing pages from the character’s point of view, about his or her dreams and aspirations, and even about what he or she would think about a particular event or situation. Even though many of the submissions we received lacked a substantial plot or narrative, I saw writers in the process of creating credible people. Even if a submission consisted of just pages and pages of observation, I saw enormous potential because the point of view was interesting. Of course, there were other pieces that were mostly plot with little to no character development. A plot is not much without an interesting character, just as an interesting character is not much without plot.

PS: For me, one of the frustrating parts of judging the fiction was to read pieces that had an interesting plot and strong character development, and were clearly well-written, but would cop-out at the end; suddenly the narrative would get turned upside-down—“it was all a dream.” When everything turns out to be a dream, the writer is “safe,” because he or she isn’t held accountable for any implausibility. Sometimes it was clear that the writer had the capacity to carry the story through, but not the confidence. It’s as if some writers don’t completely trust themselves when they hit a crucial moment—the moment two people fall in love, or the moment when a husband finds his wife dead. Instead, the moment is avoided entirely.

Amanda Picardi: I know what you mean. Some fiction submissions skipped over the important part of the story: the development, the conflict. There was a “before picture” and an “after picture,” but no portrayal of how the change came about. When the moment for the actual conflict arrived, the writer went AWOL. There would be a blank space on the page, and then: “Two hours later …” We were told the aftermath of the conflict but were deprived of witnessing it. And then we were still expected to believe in the characters, in the narrative, which, of course, was difficult.

JW: I wonder if writers are avoiding those scenes because they doubt their own abilities to steer clear of clichés. We saw a lot of stories about falling in love. That’s not easy—to make a tired, used storyline original. The writer has to think about what makes these characters’ story of falling in love different from the next, what sets it apart.

Annie Doran: Unfortunately, a lot of writers were unable to make these situations original, although they certainly tried. I saw a lot of stories that used outlandish settings or plots to distract, it seemed, from the fact that the heart of the story was a cliché scenario. Writers need to address the basic plots of their stories instead of adding unnecessary scenes and details to try to make them more interesting.

AP: A lot of poets, too, seem to rely on the situation of the poem instead of the actual writing to evoke emotion: just because a poem is about cancer doesn’t necessarily mean it’s worth reading.

AD: I agree. Or there were poems that were full of agendas, like saving the environment.

JW: And poems that seemed to want to shock the reader, by talking about taboo subjects or using graphic imagery.

AD: And in most cases the sonics and language fell to the wayside.

PS: That’s true. For example, well-crafted rhyme was pretty rare. In my view the majority of attempts fell into one of two categories: either syntax was contorted and sense was sacrificed in order to reach a rhyme, or the lines and rhythms were as simple as nursery rhymes. And sometimes a writer would establish a rhyme scheme, but it would grow inconsistent and be abandoned by the end.

AP: Often poems relied on stock rhymes and abstractions, and a desperate need to say (not show) some huge emotion, instead of demonstrating individual human moments and experiences. People seem to believe that poetry relies on two basic ideas: rhyme and sentimentality (unearned emotion). I think it’s a real problem when poetry is understood as a genre in which you’re allowed—perhaps even expected—to be wildly abstract, all in an effort
toward some sort of maturity or profundity.

PS: I saw many attempts in the submissions at being “deep.” One common tool was the use of a single word as its own line, repeated over and over again to try to emphasize the point or theme of the poem. Isolating that one word doesn’t give it any more meaning.

JW: That might not be because people misunderstand poetry, but because they’re following contemporary poets who use these devices.

AD: Instead of following contemporary poets, I think a better direction for writing, especially for young writers, would be a return to the past. If writers studied intensely where writing has gone in the past, they’d have a better idea of where they want it to go.

AP: True, but if young writers are following the lead of contemporary poets, it seems strange that we’re discrediting them for it in the judging process.

JW: That’s exactly why we made the effort this year to define more clearly what we mean by “verse.” In past years we received so many submissions that were unstructured, or not written with attention to the line, and were disqualified.

AD: I think that has to do with the idea that we don’t need to edit what we write. I don’t agree with writers who think that a piece is “less organic” or “less creative” if they edit it—as if they’re censoring themselves by fixing their mistakes. I think this might be why we have stories without clear plots, and poems full of clichés and strange line breaks.

JW: I’m not sure I’d attribute the lack of editing to some sort of stylistic choice. Sure, some writers probably do think it lends their work an “organic” flavor, but others might simply not know how to edit or where to begin. There are so many aspects to a good poem. Even if writers are exposed to good models, how do they learn what to cut and what to keep in their own
work?

AP: A great way is to read your work aloud. After a while you’ll start to notice what feels out of place.

PS: A problem I’ve encountered with my own writing is becoming so close to the piece, so used to every word, that nothing sounds clunky. I’ve had to teach myself that if my piece as a whole would do better without a line I love, I have to be willing to cut it. Nobody but me will feel the gaping hole at the end of stanza four.

JW: I think what editing comes down to is value and purpose. We need to think about what we want our individual pieces to accomplish, and how we want our readers to react, but this thinking needs to come from different angles. A writer can consider manipulating hard and soft syllables to give a piece a certain emotional tone, or creating lines that resonate with multiple
meanings.

AD: And sometimes it helps to have an outside perspective.

PS: Personally, I used to be very shy about showing my work to other people, but I’ve learned that a second pair of eyes can point out weaknesses I might not catch on my own. I sometimes hear writers say that having their work edited by someone else is ludicrous because “they don’t know my piece.” Art might be personal, but to make it accessible, artists need to put some distance between themselves and their work.