Shawn Huelle

the fate of "stub"

The other day, per a suggestion in the comments, I submitted a short piece about pencils to an online journal. Here is the piece:

Stub The pencil he was using had dulled past the point of optimal dullness, and he was now forced to sharpen it. He hated sharpening pencils because he hated sharp pencils. He had a small tattoo on the inside of his right elbow where, in 7th-grade English, Seth McConky had stabbed him with a sharp pencil. Even then he had hoped his entrance into the world of the tattooed would have been more meaningful. In high school, he was offended when several of his friends decided to get the same tattoo of a single dot. Years later, he finally connected his distaste for their plan to his minor puncture wound. One can't partially sharpen a pencil, one must sharpen it all the way, and then use it back to perfection—a perfection which never lasts. The one nice thing about sharpening a pencil, he remembered, was immediately pressing down hard and breaking the tip. At least once in his life, though, the tip had jumped up into his eye. Sometimes he closed his eyes as he pressed down on the newly sharpened pencil, but he didn't like to; he wanted to witness that first minor act of violence which started the pencil toward the dullness he desired. Occasionally, he allowed himself to use a pen. When he did, the pen was always fresh out of the package, and he always used it for a full hour before throwing it away. He began using the pencil at the top of the page, but only made meaningless lines. Real writing couldn't happen until the pencil started to wear down. He wouldn't even make doodles with a sharp pencil. Eventually, as the pencil approached a perfectly dull state, he would start writing actual words and sentences. This essay, then, was originally intended to be a showcase for the following list which our hero made on the day in question:

  • I bit my own finger today as I was trying to eat.
  • I am writing this in pencil because it is impermanent, and should be erased and rewritten.
  • Perhaps I am never as angry as I deserve to be.
  • Or was that a gift they gave me? Those years?
  • My finger hurts.

However, it has become clear that the list, interesting though it may be, is now secondary to the shifting ideas of sharpness vs. dullness. Very likely, the reader is much more interested in learning just exactly how long the optimal dullness of a pencil might last, and also especially why it is our hero desires such a state, and why he devotes so much intellectual energy to this dullness. The answer is simple: Our hero is himself quite dull. He is, in fact, so dull that he abhors sharpness not only in other people (he avoids anyone whose eyes even hint at sparkling), but also in knives, teeth, and especially pencils. After pausing briefly, I press the stub of graphite to the paper again, and continue.

Today, I received the following rejection email:

Thanks for your submission to [redacted]. We liked the connection to the pencil object in your story, but were confused by the changing narration/point of view (he, one, our hero, I). With such a short form, we'd suggest giving the reader one voice to connect with....

Keep reading, writing and please do send us something else in the future.

Now, I want to be very clear about the following: I am in no way complaining about being rejected. Every journal has a certain editorial aesthetic with which no one (except the editors themselves) can rightfully argue. I do, however, have a question for my readership (however small it may be): Should the POV within the short short form be more constrained than, say, within the short story, or even the novel?