This summer The Atlantic is publishing its first ever fiction issue, composed entirely of short stories, related commentary, and poetry. With fiction no longer featured every month, this issue embodies the magazine's continued commitment to a literary tradition envisioned by its founders when they described The Atlantic Monthly as "a magazine of Literature, Art and Politics."
At the helm of this endeavor is C. Michael Curtis, who has been an editor at the magazine for more than four decades and the impresario of its short fiction since 1982. He has edited several acclaimed anthologies, including Contemporary New England Stories (1992), Contemporary West Coast Stories (1993), God: Stories (1998), and Faith: Stories (2003), and during his tenure The Atlantic has been awarded four National Magazine Awards in the category of short fiction, including one this year. Apart from his keen eye for quality, one of Curtis's distinguishing characteristics is the encouragement and advice he provides to fledgling writers. Retrieving the occasional jewel from among the thousands of submissions he receives each month is no mean task, but Curtis asserts that doing so is among the most satisfying parts of his job.
I spoke with Michael Curtis in May, in the offices of The Atlantic in Boston.
—Mary Ann Koruth
| C. Michael Curtis |
You've been at the magazine since 1963, which is more than four decades. What brought you to The Atlantic and what have you enjoyed most about your work here?
The story begins with Peter Davison, our long-time poetry editor. In 1961 he gave a reading at Cornell, where I was getting a PhD in political science. I was the editor of a campus publication somewhat like The Atlantic in that it published poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. And I was a poet and had won a student poetry prize. So Peter asked to see samples of my poetry, which he took back to Boston with him. And a little later he wrote to say that The Atlantic was going to publish one of them and asked if I'd like to come and work at The Atlantic for the summer. I did, and at the end of the summer we talked about the possibility of my staying on. I wanted to finish graduate school, so I went back to Cornell for two more years. In the spring of 1963 Edward Weeks, who was then the editor of the magazine, called me in Ithaca to ask if I might be interested in filling a slot that had just opened up. I said I would, and I've been here ever since.
When you first came here were you mostly responding to poetry submissions?
For at least a while I read some poetry submissions, but that wasn't a major part of my job. I was mainly responsible for reading fiction, unsolicited and otherwise. In those days we had no masthead and we had a very loose sense of organization and a pretty small editorial staff. So our jobs were not described very specifically. Mine very quickly embraced a great many different parts of the magazine.
Were you mentored at all? Was there anyone who worked with you to refine your editing instincts?
Charles Morton, who was then the associate editor, did introduce me to a great many agents and publishers and editors in New York. I took over the editing of letters to the editor from him and began to take on the part of his job that involved a lot of reading and assigning of nonfiction.
When did you take over the editing of fiction?
Not until 1982. For a long time all of us—all the senior editors—read almost everything and offered opinions about everything, and even edited almost everything. In 1982 when Bill Whitworth came in as editor, he and I had a long talk about what I most wanted to do. I told him that I was most interested in the fiction side of the magazine, and he handed that over to me as my particular responsibility. It wasn't the only thing I did—I continued to work with nonfiction as well—but from that point on I was responsible for seeing that the stories got read and edited.
Do you have an editorial ethos or vision that stories must meet in order to be published in The Atlantic? Or is it more a matter of what appeals to your instincts as a reader?
It's somewhere in between. I don't have any fixed rules, though I certainly have biases. I want something to happen. I prefer a story that concerns itself with events and their consequences in the lives of principal characters. I'm not partial to what you might call a sketch or a glimpse. I also read every story looking for distinctive dialogue, strong mechanics, and skillful use of figurative language—things that create a sense of artfulness rather than just a plodding working-through of plot.
Given the magazine's long and venerable literary tradition, do you feel that in a sense you have to slip on an Atlantic "cloak," so to speak, when you come into your office?
I don't think any editor can do any more than make his or her best judgment based on reading and experience. It pleases me to think that of the 150 years The Atlantic has been around, I've been part of almost a third of that legacy. So I feel as if that cloak is at least partly mine.
Am I right that Atlantic stories get fact-checked?