Lou J Berger Reader/Intern Comments:
As a professionally published author, I have always had a bit of a ken for what the purse-lipped editors that abound in the publishing industry call "purple prose." They usually say this with disdain.
For the uninitiated, purple prose is overly descriptive, flowery language that chokes a narrative thread with unneeded garlands of adjectives and adverbs, sprawling across the written page like kudzu through a parking lot in North Georgia.
A good editor friend of mine, whose name rhymes with "tequila," has asked me over the years to submit lyrical prose to her august publication, and I have historically refused for a variety of reasons, the chief of which is my conviction that I'm absolutely terrible at whatever the hell lyrical prose actually is.
Finally, when I saw that the same editor had posted an open call for readers, I came to a sudden realization, based on previous work I'd done as a reader elsewhere.
See, many moons earlier, I'd read slush for one of the better genre magazines out there, a professionally edited publication that remains, to this day, an unrequited love of mine. I have yet to publish a story therein.
During my tenure as reader for said genre magazine, I learned more about the craft of writing a GOOD story than I had in my years prior. A short window of opportunity, working for an established editor, reading through the dross, trying to find something of value, is a highly valuable experience if one goes into it with an open mind and a willingness to learn something new.
And, when I came upon such a story, the difference in how that story made me FEEL was electrifying. Suddenly, unlike its paltry brothers before it, THIS story grabbed me by the hand, leaned in with an excited expression, and PULLED me into the adventure it was so hell-bent on having.
Reading for Eastern Iowa Review would have the same educational experience, I surmised, and maybe, just maybe, I might break into understanding whatever this lyrical prose thing was. Maybe I'd finally understand what made one piece lyrical and another just a motley assemblage of descriptive words, hurled into a mare's nest of ink, praying for a miracle.
So I said "yes" and volunteered to be Tequila's guinea pig, and she sent me a good dozen or so submissions.
I read through the first piece maybe six times. Blah. It left me cold. The subject matter was a fern, I think, or moss on a rock. Something banal.
The next wasn't really any better. A flowering field symbolizing a young woman's untrod virility. Or so I imagined. It might have meant something else entirely. Or maybe it was a flowery field for reasons that escape my limited comprehension.
Then I opened the file containing "Arizona Drought" by Amy Karon.
Boom. Lightning strike. That prose poem grabbed me by the eyeballs, yanked me along each brilliantly executed line, and told me a STORY, not just in the words, but in the choices of words, plucked like semi-precious stones and arranged lovingly on an alabaster background. The very soul of the English language stumbled, fell to its knees, and bowed obeisance to this remarkable bit of lyricism.
"Oho!" I exclaimed, startling the cat, who glared at me with malice. "So THIS is what she means!"
My yardstick for measuring lyricism, from that moment on, was measuring emotional impact, and the feelings that the words, and how they are used amongst one another, left in my brain.
I enjoyed, so much, being a reader for Eastern Iowa Review. But, most importantly, being a reader gave me the insight I needed to fathom what makes a prose poem lyrical. . .or not.
Thanks for the opportunity, and thanks for the education.
And thank you, Ms. Chila, for the invitation.
As a professionally published author, I have always had a bit of a ken for what the purse-lipped editors that abound in the publishing industry call "purple prose." They usually say this with disdain.
For the uninitiated, purple prose is overly descriptive, flowery language that chokes a narrative thread with unneeded garlands of adjectives and adverbs, sprawling across the written page like kudzu through a parking lot in North Georgia.
A good editor friend of mine, whose name rhymes with "tequila," has asked me over the years to submit lyrical prose to her august publication, and I have historically refused for a variety of reasons, the chief of which is my conviction that I'm absolutely terrible at whatever the hell lyrical prose actually is.
Finally, when I saw that the same editor had posted an open call for readers, I came to a sudden realization, based on previous work I'd done as a reader elsewhere.
See, many moons earlier, I'd read slush for one of the better genre magazines out there, a professionally edited publication that remains, to this day, an unrequited love of mine. I have yet to publish a story therein.
During my tenure as reader for said genre magazine, I learned more about the craft of writing a GOOD story than I had in my years prior. A short window of opportunity, working for an established editor, reading through the dross, trying to find something of value, is a highly valuable experience if one goes into it with an open mind and a willingness to learn something new.
And, when I came upon such a story, the difference in how that story made me FEEL was electrifying. Suddenly, unlike its paltry brothers before it, THIS story grabbed me by the hand, leaned in with an excited expression, and PULLED me into the adventure it was so hell-bent on having.
Reading for Eastern Iowa Review would have the same educational experience, I surmised, and maybe, just maybe, I might break into understanding whatever this lyrical prose thing was. Maybe I'd finally understand what made one piece lyrical and another just a motley assemblage of descriptive words, hurled into a mare's nest of ink, praying for a miracle.
So I said "yes" and volunteered to be Tequila's guinea pig, and she sent me a good dozen or so submissions.
I read through the first piece maybe six times. Blah. It left me cold. The subject matter was a fern, I think, or moss on a rock. Something banal.
The next wasn't really any better. A flowering field symbolizing a young woman's untrod virility. Or so I imagined. It might have meant something else entirely. Or maybe it was a flowery field for reasons that escape my limited comprehension.
Then I opened the file containing "Arizona Drought" by Amy Karon.
Boom. Lightning strike. That prose poem grabbed me by the eyeballs, yanked me along each brilliantly executed line, and told me a STORY, not just in the words, but in the choices of words, plucked like semi-precious stones and arranged lovingly on an alabaster background. The very soul of the English language stumbled, fell to its knees, and bowed obeisance to this remarkable bit of lyricism.
"Oho!" I exclaimed, startling the cat, who glared at me with malice. "So THIS is what she means!"
My yardstick for measuring lyricism, from that moment on, was measuring emotional impact, and the feelings that the words, and how they are used amongst one another, left in my brain.
I enjoyed, so much, being a reader for Eastern Iowa Review. But, most importantly, being a reader gave me the insight I needed to fathom what makes a prose poem lyrical. . .or not.
Thanks for the opportunity, and thanks for the education.
And thank you, Ms. Chila, for the invitation.