I’m trying out Sixfold, starting today. It’s an online magazine, edited by the contributing writers. We are now each reviewing each other’s short stories and poems, ranking them and deciding what goes into the next issue . . . by committee.
I know, I know, “committee” is a four-letter word. Of course, there is wisdom in crowds. Every couple of years, American Idol produces a recording star. Unlike corporate committees, there will not be a whole lot of personal exchange. Participants will never actually meet. It’s more like elections in those countries with 12 political parties. Like Israel. No problems, there, right?
The real problem might not be the committee itself, but the fact that it’s made up of writers. When I read I’m either jealous that the author is better than me or angry that the hack is wasting my time. I can only hope the other gregarious loners, perched before their devices late at night, in coffee shops, basements, the common room at the clinic or a book-lined study with crackling fire, under the gaze of a bronze raven are more mature than myself. I hope they can rise above internal, instinctive competitive drives and, after careful consideration, realize my story kicks ass.