The high-school drop out and “magazine nerd,” imbued with H.L. Mencken (no fan of higher education himself), began publishing authors such as Tony Early, Donna Tartt and William Gay, in addition to uncovering previously unpublished short stories by Faulkner, Walker Percy and Zora Neale Hurston. But like all fledgling magazines, he had trouble paying the bills. In late 1994, John Grisham, a graduate of Ole Miss and an Oxford resident, stepped in as benefactor and figurehead publisher, or as Smirnoff calls him, “angel” and “godfather.”
By 1999, the magazine captured a prestigious National Magazine Award for its annual Southern music issue, an award that raised eyebrows among the New York magazine-world hegemony. Still, The Oxford American struggled financially, and this past spring, looked as if it might finally fold. But an Arkansas publishing company, the At Home Media Group, stepped in and bought a majority interest in the magazine, which will now move to Little Rock.
NEWSWEEK’s Michael J. Agovino caught up with the feisty Smirnoff as he was unpacking his boxes at his new address, a former casket factory on President Clinton Ave., where he talked about “his baby,” Southern writing and the future of literary magazines. Excerpts:
NEWSWEEK: How did the Oxford American, published in Oxford, Mississippi, end up in Little Rock? J. Marc Smirnoff: There’s a burgeoning magazine company based here that wanted us. They put out an interior decorating magazine called At Home in Arkansas and while it’s not the kind of magazine that I would naturally reach for, I have since looked it over and can appreciate a number of things about it: how professional it is, how successful it is. These guys know how to put out a successful magazine and The Oxford American needs to be successful. So that’s one reason, it’s a good match. They’re also great saviors because they more or less like the editorial content and don’t think it needs to be tinkered with. They see the main problem as the OA never having a business infrastructure and now we’ll get one. Technically, John [Grisham] should have been listed as “angel” or “godfather” but not publisher. And he’d be the first to say that, I’m not outing him. But these guys are going to bring a real publisher and associate publisher and an in-house advertising team.
Will it still be called The Oxford American?
I thought a lot of times about moving the magazine, and I always had the problem with that. I thought we couldn’t move because of the name. But when I’d ask people their opinion I was the only one who had a problem with it. So I think the name it was born with is the name it should carry as it goes through whatever phase it goes through–like a person.
All editors have their supporters and adversaries, but do you feel you had more adversaries being you were from Northern California, editing a magazine you billed as “The Southern Magazine of Good Writing”?
Well, I wish I could blame it on my origins but I think I’m a difficult person in a number of ways and I think that more than anything caused me to have more adversaries than is proper. I don’t know what it is about me but I’ve picked up a good number of enemies. One thing that makes me feel a little better about it is that what a lot of the people ticked off have in common is that I’ve rejected their work.
As an editor you have to.
I know, but if you’re a writer who really believes in your calling–you put a lot of heart and soul and mind into your writing, and you lose at it–it’s impossible to not take it personally and therefore reaction is going to be deep. On the other hand, I’ve met people who can put rejection in its proper place. Barry Hannah is probably the person I’m most intimidated by–he’s so brilliant and can be so cutting–but he’s probably the easiest person I’ve rejected. And this is a guy whose writing I esteem more than anyone’s. I notice this with other great writers, if they’re really great they are the easiest to edit and, not that it happens that much, but the easiest to reject.
Did you ever feel like an outsider in Oxford?
Did I ever feel like an outsider in Oxford? Hmm. I feel that I know that place so well that it’s hard for me to think of being on the outside of it, but I think it might be a crutch for me to say it’s because of my origins. I think there’s an element of that in there. My ex-girlfriend, she was born in the Delta and grew up in Oxford, and we once got into a fight–and of course her accent started kicking in even more–and she finally said, “And furthermore I don’t see why we need someone from California coming down here pointing out how Southern everything is.” [Laughs] So maybe some folks have that impulse covered up most of the time, but it is down there. But I have a great job that allows me to use everything I have that’s in me–I’m supposed to think too much and feel too much and I think some people, in Oxford at least, thought I got too lucky and they resented that, and they thought, ‘Why didn’t John Grisham anoint me?’
Will moving from this town of 12,000 to a city change the sensibility of the magazine?
In some ways but not in others. One thing Southerners pride themselves in is an acute sense of place, that place influences one deeply, and I happen to believe that, too. For example, the atmosphere of Oxford and what little I’ve seen of Little Rock are profoundly different, and I think it’s possible that the OA may take on a slightly more urban feel here and there….But that’s just a guess.
Back in the May, during the magazine’s most recent financial crisis, the obits were being written. Did you think you’d ever publish again?
We knew we were in trouble before May. But it’s funny, there have been times when my job has almost crushed me and when I had to face the possibility that this magazine might go under. This is hard to make perfectly clear, but there were times when I almost wished it was dead. That was only for selfish reasons and was only momentarily. I’m not good at being a publisher, but I had to act like a publisher, and it totally sapped my energy and took time away from what I was good at, which is editing. So the idea of the OA shutting down didn’t seem bad at times, but I could never hold on to that feeling for very long because it wasn’t natural. I started the magazine with no money, but I knew someone would see it and see that it was worthy and that it would keep going, and I’ve always known that. I never thought it would ever truly die. I was exhilarated and full of gratitude that the magazine would survive in Little Rock but truth be told, I never thought that it would die. Even when I wanted it to, that’s the point.
Will John Grisham still be involved?
Yes. If all goes according to plan, both he and I will remain minority owners and the Little Rock group, At Home, will become majority owners.
Judging from the new literature coming out of the South, how has the South changed, if at all?
Well, one problem with me is that I don’t have a good overview of movements and maybe this is good in some ways for my job, but I like to be moved by the individual. I think what matters is people who just bust through with individual voices that sort of can’t be categorized. How do you categorize Barry Hannah and Donna Tartt and what do they say about each other? I don’t know if they do represent a trend. I think they represent individual genius, varied and uncontrollable. My job is to find the individual talent out there.
What about the future of literary magazines?
I’ll make the distinction between journals like the Paris Review or Georgia Review and The Atlantic, DoubleTake, or Harper’s, which are general-interest that are just well-written. I do believe people crave substance. One thing about this world we’re in is we are battered by soundbites and video clips–it’s a constant barrage and I think people lose themselves in all that hectic energy. So I think we need quiet time. It’s becoming more obvious now that, as our times are crazier, that our souls need nurturing. And communing–not to sound too hippyish–with a great mind is a way of getting nearer to what’s important. I do have faith that the more [electronic media] besieges us, that this minority of hardcore readers will grow I think.
As for literary journals, I think they’re mistaken in that they are going out of their way not to connect with readers. They have this stance of, ‘We’re going to put out this 150-page journal with no art work, no description and we’re going to be satisfied with our 2,000 subscribers.’ They can have that attitude because they are being subsidized by the universities. But I’ve published stories that I know deserved a wider audience, and it pained me not to reach that audience. I didn’t consider that a success. On behalf of my belief in the piece and on behalf of the writer, it’s my job to get it into as many hands as possible and if that means using art work and a subhead and a title that’s flashy, than that’s part of the battle and I accept it. In these journals you’ll find some great writing in there, but who are they talking to? The New Yorker didn’t go down the toilet because they started using photographs.
As a high-school dropout, how do you feel about the proliferation of what is increasingly becoming known as MFA prose?
I think the problem with the writers in those workshops is that they’re coddled when they shouldn’t be. I think coddling young writers is extremely dangerous. It seems to me that the great writers want to know where they’re being terrible in their writing, they need to know that. But the fakes just want people to tell them they’re great even when they are not. So I think the only benefit from a writing class is if someone is completely honest with you–and that’s hard to do in person. But that’s what writers need. This is too important to play games.
And some get the two-book deals right out of Iowa–the story collection and the first novel.
But there’s just sort of this mediocrity. These people can put sentences together but there’s a lack of real-life experience. It’s like dot-to-dot writing. They’ve learned but they haven’t really lived.
But do you feel some quote-unquote writers, because they haven’t lived, take on contrived life experiences in order to have something to say and write about–like backpacking through Punjab and converting to Hinduism, or becoming a stripper? Doesn’t that get predictable?
Absolutely, but once you get out of the classroom and you aren’t surrounded by writers I think you do see more variety. If you had to choose between two evils, I’d run away from the writers. The best lesson I’ve learned from this is from William Gay, who started writing when he was 7 or 8 and this guy has been mainly been a carpenter and handyman his whole life but he just kept writing. He didn’t get published until his 40s. I rejected him 7 or 8 times but nothing could stop him because he wanted to [continue writing] and almost had to. I don’t think a lot of people who go to these workshops would be willing to suffer for that long without getting published. But a true writer will.
And then I guess in defense of workshops there’s Thom Jones, Denis Johnson …
Ray Carver, yeah. Well, I guess nothing can stop a great writer, be it rejection or the Iowa Writers Workshop.
How does the New York publishing and magazine world look from down there? Does it make you break out in hives?
No, but it is overwhelming, like the Yankees. I’m amazed that The New Yorker is a weekly magazine. A magazine that good should be a quarterly, but they do it every week and that just knocks me out. That energy level in New York fascinates me. I guess being in Oxford for so long made me a little envious of that level of excitement. I have talked to enough people in New York that tell me about the backstabbing and gossip, and that’s a real part of it. With every great thing there are terrible things.
Now your new address is on President Clinton Ave. Is it funny? Ominous? Auspicious? All of the above?
[Laughs] I think it’s in keeping with all the strange and wacky and wonderful things that have happened in the 10 years of this magazine’s existence. So when I saw when I saw we were landing on President Clinton Ave., I just knew that somehow it was perfect. I mean, maybe we can’t hide anymore.
