An Apology to Editors Everywhere

A writer friend of mine, trying his hand at editing for an online fiction magazine for the first time, dropped me a note. It's written as an open letter to editors everywhere, but I think it might be better reading for new writers everywhere.

I'm sure he assumed only I would see it, but it was too good to keep to myself.

Dear Editors,

I've got no shame admitting I didn't really take Standard Manuscript Format all that seriously. Indenting every paragraph? How silly! Page numbers? Utter fancy! My job is to write an amazing story, not worry about inches and margins and page breaks. Let the editor squint at the screen and dope out the minutia.

I felt this way until I read a story that didn't simply ignore Standard Manuscript Format, but left it clear out in the cold. Let it stand there holding a wilted posey watching the story breeze by it on the way to the big school dance with the varsity quarterback and not even getting a glance back.

No page numbers to guide me through the maze, no indication of when the story changed scenes until I was a dozen words into the next sentence and thoroughly confused. Page after nonsensical page that challenged my comprehension and, to the pain of the author, my interest.

Sisyphus never nudged such a burden as I while reading this story.

So to you, editors who suffered and labored to grasp what I aimed for without making myself clear, leaving you no footholds to scale the mountain, making no effort to be plain and precise so you may read the story rather than grapple fruitlessly with the way it was written, I am sorry.

I didn't know, and it's a pitiful excuse to make, but I really didn't. I get it now, maybe too late but I get it. I finally understand the importance of following, nay, championing Standard Manuscript Format. It couldn't be taught or explained to me. I had to suffer to reach the realization. And suffer I did.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph with a cherry on top of each, I'm sorry.

-- Prodigal Guest Editor

Some references for those new to the game:

• Manuscript Format - SFWA
• Shunn's Proper Manuscript Format : Short Story Format
• Wikipedia's take on the subject

Today We Remain

Death is awfully present in my life these days. A dear friend is dying. He's got stunningly good grace about it, but that's cold comfort. For him, for us. Frankly, the whole thing sucks. The dying, that is. His writing on the subject is impressive stuff.

It occurs to me, and this is probably obvious to you, that if you live long enough, everyone around you dies.  Beloved companion animals. Humans you can't live without. One day they're there, sensible and solid, saying things you couldn't make up if you tried, and then the next -- gone. Gone and done. Why is this so mystifying to me?

The math is clear: either you die, or you live on and those around you die. If you die, you (probably) don't have to face them dying, but otherwise, well, you do. Short of somehow managing to, say, drop an asteroid on yourself and everyone you know all at once (and if you have that kind of power let's talk--I promise to be very polite) either you go or they do.

Someone has to leave first. It can't happen any other way.

I don't know why this equation befuddles me. I feel like a child who can't understand simple single-digit arithmetic.

From what I can tell, most people don't face Death with much awareness. Whether because we're surprised, mentally altered, on meds, in pain, or in denial, most of us aren't very conscious of impending demise. Across the spectrum of human experience, we are primarily aware of others dying.

The point? The longer we live, the more it seems that Death follows us around, cutting down those near us. But that's only because Death hasn't yet put a hand on our shoulder. There's a wretched arithmetic to surviving those you love: someone has to remain.

Today, at least, I remain. As I watch those I love leave -- and prepare to leave -- I am reminded of how hard--how wrenching, how confusing--it is to be among those who remain.

What is "axis" in dance?

Check out my axis

When I teach dance, my goals range from being as specific as possible for that particular person to being as general as possible, that is, what would apply to everyone equally?

Is tricky.

This one day I'm working with a woman on tango moves and I encourage her to do thus-and-such to have a better axis. She has a ballet background and she's pretty sophisticated for a beginner so when she asks me, "what exactly do you mean by 'axis'?" I realize that in all my years of struggling to gain better axis myself I have yet to define it to my own satisfaction.

Dancers describe axis in any number of ways. They say it's about balance, good posture, stance and motion, smooth and controlled movements, core strength, spiral paths, head position, and on. And on. But for every one of those descriptions, there's a movement that defies it and works nonetheless.

I want to give this woman an explanation that will apply not only to her, but to everyone, no matter what their body type, skill level, or dance experience. I want a definition that allows all the secondary attributes to be derivable by the person who actually needs them, when they need them.

Do I set myself hard challenges? Very well then! I set myself hard challenges!

I'm deep in thought for long enough that she starts to do the "no, no, it's okay" thing and I hold up a hand to buy myself another moment. Because I'm thinking hard and I think I'm coming up with an answer.

"Axis", I say, "is what you have when you recruit all your physical  abilities so that you can, at that moment, move in any direction you choose, easily and efficiently."

She has the "aha!" face so I think maybe I've nailed it. But I decide to check with a few dancers I respect. They each mull it over for a moment and agree that it's a good and, yes, useful definition.

If you're slumped or in a physically awkward position, you can't easily move in any direction you want. To take it to an extreme, if you are about to fall over, you can certainly and easily move in one direction, but that's about it.

In general, being able to move easily and efficiently in any direction at any moment produces grace. As I see it, the "organic" movements dancers work for are all about physical efficiency. A professional ballet dancer of my acquaintance says that once you get the movements right, they feel good too. He adds it may take a lot of years and work to get to the point where these motions feel natural, but that's the end goal: to make the movement feel right, which is the body's way of saying, yes, this is efficient, this works. So feeling good and looking good are, ultimately, one and the same.

Axis is what you get when you can, physically -- and I would also add internally and emotionally -- move in any direction you want with similar ease. That definition draws along with it all the other attributes usually associated with axis, but it lets people derive them directly for themselves.

So, dancers: what do you think?