Editorial: On “The Modern Experience”

modern |ˈmädərn| adjective

of or relating to the present or recent times as opposed to the remote past: the pace of modern life | modern U.S. history.

• characterized by or using the most up-to-date techniques, ideas, or equipment: they do not have modern weapons.

• [ attrib. ] denoting the form of a language that is currently used, as opposed to any earlier form: modern German.

• [ attrib. ] denoting a current or recent style or trend in art, architecture, or other cultural activity marked by a significant departure from traditional styles and values: Matisse’s contribution to modern art.

noun (usu. moderns) a person who advocates or practices a departure from traditional styles or values.

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experience |ikˈspi(ə)rēəns| noun

practical contact with and observation of facts or events: he had already learned his lesson by painful experience | he spoke from experience.

• the knowledge or skill acquired by such means over a period of time, esp. that gained in a particular profession by someone at work: older men whose experience could be called upon | candidates with the necessary experience.

• an event or occurrence that leaves an impression on someone: for the younger players it has been a learning experience .

verb [ with obj. ]

encounter or undergo (an event or occurrence): the company is experiencing difficulties.

• feel (an emotion): an opportunity to experience the excitement of New York.

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i’m prone to twitter rants, usually when i should be writing and certainly while reading submissions. i had a twitter fit last night. the submissions (some of) irked me a great deal. i sat back in my chair, trying to locate the source of the difficulty. why is “the modern experience” so hard to unpack? my twitter fit followed, where i proceeded to threaten, i suppose, deleting our theme, our mission, altogether. To do it the PANK way: give us your beautiful, your weird, your best efforts–and we might publish them. the deeper i fall into the editorial rabbit hole, the more i lean toward Roxane Gay’s stance. i can see it clearly. it makes sense. just send in your best work and let that…be that.

…and my fingers hovered over the keyboard as i prepared to eradicate our mission, to say “send us the dopest shit you got.” Athena was prepared to go along, but she sat behind me–quietly–which means, “i should inquire.” she had trepidation, concern, the same pause in my heart. i asked and she said, kinda sorta, “give Specter a chance.”

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in art of any kind–and make no mistake, i view Specter as a form of art: yours, mine, Athena’s–you have three choices. Only three. And they all deal with artistic statements or, if you wish, missions: you make your statement and explain it; you make your statement and don’t explain it; or you don’t make a statement at all. There is no wrong answer. the error comes when you do what i did last night on twitter: defending an artistic statement. Defense. Playing defense. Arms up to parry attacks, mostly internal and rooted in frustration. Defending your reason for your statement, your mission, the very purpose of your art, is akin to defending your faith (or non). There is no right or wrong answer.

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last night, i logged off twitter determined not to explain our mission. things change because here i am, presenting to you an explanation. somewhere, there is an itch, a twinge if you will: i shouldn’t bother. let Issue Zero do the talking. yet, as i said on (nano)Specter, lit mag editors can’t hide.

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i’m a true believer: i believe in love; i believe in art, in literature; i believe in people. all of that is quite warm and fuzzy, though genuine, but i want to understand, too. i don’t know why you write. i don’t know what it is you’re trying to achieve. i write to connect. i write to kill this loneliness that refuses to go away, in spite of Athena’s love, in spite of the antidepressants (fuck it, we need real talk, here), in spite of the people who support Specter–me–us. i write to understand why we, humans, do what we do and why we, people, live the way we do today. why we’re so awful to each other, why we tear people down, why we’re myopic and frightened to see the outer edges of our blinders–and why, in spite of all of this, we get up everyday and, instead of destroying the planet, or ourselves, we try to be better. Betterment even in the face of misguided reasoning, logic, or colored perspectives. today we try.

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our mission statement has been revised a few times already. we took out “the generation of the 1980s and forward;” we took out “generations x, y, and z;” that was a mistake, i think. it’s a balancing act: we don’t want to be exclusionary because–well–the exclusionary feel of some online lit communities is why we’re here.

but i said “real talk,” so…

my defense of our mission comes from an internal struggle, a problem with ownership. if you’re a dope ass writer and you can make those words dance, sing, twirl and backflip, then we’ll publish you–the caveat being “the modern experience.” tell me about the world. the world today. planet earth. six billion people and counting–cultures loom over us all, some exist in complete anonymity–men have sex with women; women make love with women; men desire to die old and frail and content with other men–atheists, christians, muslims, jews, wiccans, believers in yoruba orishas–should i continue?

but i said “real talk,” so…

despite blogs and such, it’s my belief that my generation–people in their 20s and 30s, more or less–are desperately wanting to be heard. we don’t need more social networks; we need readers; we need art lovers and critics; we need people to take us seriously. i want to give representatives of my generation a platform to unpack, define, fucking obliterate the world around them, picking up the resulting pieces and cobbling them into literature. i want to hear their poems and read their stories. because i don’t think anyone else cares. nor should they. our generation is ours to define and, call me nutty but, i think we’re long overdue to define it beyond being internet savants, although this tool helps.

what does the internet mean to me? twelve years ago, i read a poem by a poet on a website. eleven years later, we got married. now…isn’t there a story or poem in that “modern experience?” nothing in our entire history, prior to the last 20 years, could’ve made that possible. THAT is the Modern Experience. It is not relative, though it is fluid, since we’re referring to time. Time, however, as it relates to today…right now…where you are, how you’re reading these words, how you and i communicate with 140 characters or status updates or video chats with 8 other people who never met, but laugh and discuss and listen and learn from one another.

That shit is beautiful to me. That shit right there is the modern experience. Or…just one aspect, hence the line “from a multicultural/multi-sexual perspective.” i don’t care what country you’re from, or what you think of my American roots, or who you sleep with or whether you define yourself as queer, straight, pansexual, fuck all that.

You are beautiful. You are beautiful in these, the modern times.

…and that’s why we’re here. Specter wants you.

peace.