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Antigonish Review
# 124
| Sheldon
Currie
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Goodbye George and Gert
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Deep in their hearts, writers, deep in their lonely caves, know, that
editors, sometimes otherwise known as "those idiots," are important,
in spite of, often, their inordinate love affairs with, the comma. Every
writer remembers the thrill of the first acceptance, leaping off the floor,
telephoning relatives in California, dancing in the dark with the assuaged
ego, finally an editor with room in the head for beauty.
Enough of that. George and Gertrude Sanderson have been editor and managing
editor of The Antigonish Review, since 1980. Their mandate, like RJ Mac
Sween's before them: develop writers, especially young writers, new writers,
especially Canadian Writers, especially Atlantic Canadian writers. And
let it not only be, but look beautiful. Like seasoned National League
coaches at a minor hockey game they recognized the perfect shooter with
the awkward skating style, the lovely skater with the impotent shot, the
enthusiastic hagiographer with the klutzy analogies.
Enough of that. Let's say that under George and Gertrude's ample editorial
umbrella a myriad of hopeful writers took their chances and presented
the best they could do at the moment. Sometimes their literary newborns,
otherwise healthy and full of potential, suffered from mild cases of myxedema.
Never mind. Therapeutic prescriptions and promising prognoses flew through
the mail and soon the impotent shooter straightened his shot, the awkward
skater cut circles in the ice with aplomb, and mixed metaphors and alliteration
spun out of control altogether.
Enough of that. Rabindranath Maharaj, Wayne Johnston, David Adams Richards,
Lynn Coady, Alistair MacLeod, George Elliot Clarke, Carol Shields, Rohinton
Mistry, Leo Mac Kay, Thomas Merton, Marshall McLuhan, Annie Dillard, Don
Mac Kay, Peter Van Toorn, Louis Dudek, plus a myriad. If you don't know
all these names maybe you're reading too much trash. Not all began their
writing careers in TAR but many did, and many more who will be cross at
me for not mentioning their names. On behalf of them all I presume to
thank you George and Gert. I know you two. I know how much time you spent
at your desks in your offices, at your dining room table, on your living
room chairs and in your bed (well, I'm not sure about that, I'm guessing)
with whatever they call that thing on your lap supporting poems and short
stories and articles and book reviews and essays and a salad of pictures,
working away at the Review, as if there weren't driveways to be shoveled
or philosophy and modern language classes to be prepared for the next
day.
One of the deep drawers in the TAR office contains a collection of letters
from writers thanking you and your troops, not only for acceptance, but
for gentle rejection, useful criticism, encouraging suggestions, invitations
to re-submit. I know it's a secret but your secret's not safe with me.
I presume to thank you on behalf of all those writers, sung and unsung.
Someday a literary historian will write the definitive history of the
literary reviews. After the final judgment, some editors will be in heaven
and some will be in hell. You two will be in heaven sitting at that eternal
desk, or eternal dining room table or living room chair or that eternal
bed in the literary sky. If there are survivors in the world to read the
book and look at the pictures they will marvel at the variety and beauty
of the covers and the work of the artists within the covers. And they
will imagine the pleasure of the writers when they beheld their work imbedded
in such beauty. On behalf of them all I presume to thank you George and
Gert. Lounge around a bit. Enjoy your slipdreams and your awful treeshades.
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