Four Eyes (Non-Derogatory)
Editors are cool!
At a semi-recent gathering in my apartment, some writers and literary minds began expressing their disdain for Substack’s form and ethos. Writers need editors, they said; And you can tell nobody has one, they followed up. Substack markets itself as a platform for self-starting, creative autonomy, and access, but the writing is often weak. My first instinct was defense: I have a Substack. I don’t have an editor. Please love me!
Me, knowing I was likely right: Substack is a means, not an end. It is a place to write in order to flex the muscle of writing.
Me, knowing I was likely wrong: And while I should be able to flex the muscle of writing in private, if a public platform motivates me to write more, why not use it? Substack isn’t the New Yorker or the NYRB… it’s Instagram. It’s the cauldron we stir these days, wherein politics are culture, culture is personal, and the personal is public. Where am I going with this?
It was at this point that I started to doubt the validity of my Substack defense. Do I need an editor? But also: If Substack is a sort of public diary (regardless of whether the writing is personal or academic[yes I think academic writing can be diaristic{yes I can use a million parenthesis(oh my god I need an editor)}]), wherein a writer can write whatever they want, does an editor diminish the authenticity of the thing?
What a dumb thought. But such is the time we live in, where authenticity—hyperindividualism in a different dress— is sacrosanct. It’s so brave to be vulnerable! That’s why I’m partnering with Gushers. When my eyes gush, I grab my Gushers.
In theory, I wag my finger at the contemporary instinct to catapult each and every thought and feeling into public view while it’s still being experienced. No matter how much self-reflection precedes such projection, it’s generally considered healthy to sit alone with your thoughts and feelings, or to share them with people in this thing called real life. To some degree, your friends and contemporaries are the editors of your life, aiding in the investigation, cutting out what’s bad, highlighting what’s good.
***
I take an acting class on Fridays in a basement with red walls and no mirrors. My teacher recently posed us a question: When was the last time you were seen? Who saw you? Was it a friend or stranger? Was it at a bar or in the check-out line?
Being seen, and I mean really being seen, is at once electric and intrusive. Unlike being understood, which I would argue comes from a combination of unspoken and spoken connection, all preestablished, being seen is celestial and bizarre. A stranger on the street suddenly sees you more truly than you could ever see yourself? What’s that about? It’s a gut punch, a hug, a momentary and fleeting testament to the power of eureka (aka getting it). Many of us are the same. Ironically enough, only in maintaining our distance can this remain true.
In our attempt to be seen through unchecked self-publication, we are left underanalyzed and overlooked by ourselves, failed by our own impatience. We play out the feeling (rather than feel it) so as to be rid of it. The hard truth is that we don’t get to choose who sees us; it comes when it comes, often when we least expect it.
As a result of my teacher’s question, I have now been wondering if I have ever felt seen on the internet. I mean, have you?
While we might be understood by the meme that invites a slew of:
Diamondsaremybestfriend: I have never had an original experience.
MommyMilkersz: SAME!
JohnSmith85: I thought I was the only one who did this.
We are not seen. Don’t even try me.
In many cases, the internet serves as a replacement for in person confession as such cannot be so frequent. Even if someone isn’t posting themselves, the algorithm provides them with those who would post as they would. By some transitive property, we feel (or imagine ourselves to be feeling) by liking something that just gets us.
Interjector: Kyra, what does this have to do with editors? Irony! YOU NEED ONE RIGHT NOW IN THIS VERY MOMENT!
Me: Rude. I’m getting there.
Despite the catharsis that a crying selfie and the subsequent comment section undoubtedly provides, such an exhale of emotion is not nearly as delicious as screaming into the void (or to your friend). It’s easier, I know, but it’s just like hitting PUBLISH on a Substack article without having anyone else read it over. It’s lazy. It’s like breaking news, where the reporting is messy because the information needs to be disseminated ASAP, except it’s literally a crying selfie, or a post about walking (go read my post about walking). The hyperindividual self thinks that their own feelings are breaking news, exempt from editing due to urgency. That feeling of urgency is lazy self-preservation, and in some cases, a counter to the fear that emotion (proof of life) is fleeting in this bizarre brainrot world where we stuff our senses with media. We take crying photos to remind us that we do indeed generate feelings. We are not just consumers! Moving from A to B, from thought to publication, is so easy now that we forget the most important thing, articulation.
My brother Skyler gave me a diary when I was fourteen with an inscription. The longest distance comprehensible is from thought to articulation. I used to think the diary was the articulation. But it’s THE DISTANCE. That’s why this notion of a public diary is so strange. What we think is articulation is actually long distance thinking in place.
I really am talking about editing. We are circumnavigating refinement (and thus, to some degree, collaboration) everywhere. Because of the internet, anyone with a phone can be a food critic, rating cinnamon rolls around their city with the only descriptor being good, bad, or x/10. And this is relatable because, to the average person, a publication-backed food review is full of descriptors that don’t translate. If it’s good, it’s good. Nothing is “rustic” or “theatrical.” My thought is that this phenomenon of amateur success mirrors the contemporaneous reaction to modern art like Piet Mondrian’s Composition II.
Museum-goer: I could do that!
It would seem that we have taken this cliché to heart. Everybody is writing through independent “publications” (Instagram, twitter, Substack, etc), and making money while they do it. Writing has become another form of social media, and thus, anyone can do it, alone. An editor acts as an intermediary, a tweaker, a boss, a roadblock. Perhaps our online culture has circumnavigated editors because editor-free writing seems like a form of liberation from an elite literary culture that has all too many barriers to entry. But the thing is, I have no evidence for this theory, and such theorizing is akin to amateur investigation. Where’s my editor? My detective mentor that calls me “rookie” with a dry, puffy laugh?
In short, I don’t know what to make of this (Shocker! Cop out!). An increase of access to any artistic medium is, to my mind, an inherent good. But it feels as though the media born today is just not as filling as it used to be. Correlation does not equal causation (my disappointment could easily be nostalgia or the much-bemoaned angst of one’s early-twenties) but I think that in cutting out our middle-men (editors), we have indeed lost something. It is much easier to lose discipline in one’s writing (or one’s “creating” more broadly) when our culture’s general ethos seems to be:
Lovelivewithme: Get anything out there, girl! Post your content! Make your money!
For me in particular, Substack helps me feel useful when my other writing is uninspired or unfinished. If I’m just writing with nobody to see, did I write at all? The answer often feels like no. I want to be seen and I am impatient.
But, as I said before,
One cannot beg to be seen. It happens when it does.
(This post was edited by my very beautiful and uniquely charming friend Ellie. She wrote something longer here, but I thought I’d edit it.)
