A few years ago, the literary world was beset by a bogeywoman who came bearing bad news and the numbers to prove it; her name was VIDA. Some assumed this moniker was an acronym or a misspelled allusion to Virginia Woolf’s famous literary paramour, Vita Sackville-West, but it wasn’t. VIDA was an all-caps neologism that would come to haunt the dreams of editors of magazines large and small, eminent and less so, with your author, dear reader, included among those unsound sleepers.
If you are an accredited member of the magazine world or else a vigilant fellow traveler, chances are that you already know about VIDA. You have heard of the Count, which tallies bylines by gender at publications that “are widely recognized as prominent critical and/or commercial literary venues.” You have opinions about what the numbers mean and how magazines should or will respond to them. If you are a partisan of the Count, or a feminist, or a woman writer, there is a good chance that, having read the opening paragraph of this essay, you are puzzled or angry. If you are a reactionary, an embattled editor or a plain old contrarian, you may already be cheering: Look, here we go, a woman writer and editor socking it to those sourpuss byline-counters! It is easy to incite, in the small community that cares about such things, indignation or delight, because the battle lines have been drawn, it seems—demands issued, sops and reassurances offered—and little has changed.
* * *
The summer of 2013 was a season of outrage. Maybe it was the impending collapse of the current world order; maybe it was the dreadful heat. Whether or not those months marked some sort of historical nadir, indignation was the order of the day: over the acquittal of Trayvon Martin’s killer, George Zimmerman; the NSA’s broad surveillance of cellphone records and lord knows what else, as revealed by Edward Snowden and Glenn Greenwald; #solidarityisforwhitewomen, a Twitter hashtag created to draw attention to white feminists’ failure to understand and address the concerns of feminists of color; the exploitative, even “rapey” video for the summer’s most popular jam, “Blurred Lines,” in which blue-eyed R&B crooner Robin Thicke (son of TV’s Alan) cavorted with bare-breasted dancers and even pretended to inject one of them in the buttocks with a giant syringe. Soon Miley Cyrus would outcrass Thicke at the MTV Video Music Awards, when, during a dismal duet fusing that song with her single “We Can’t Stop,” Cyrus twerked and grinded on the body of a zaftig, black backup dancer.
Twitter, whose 140-character limit is uniquely conducive to spontaneous, grammatically perverted confessions of bad behavior as well as denunciations, tellings-off and other expressions of outrage, has not just amplified the volume of simple thoughts and emotions but elevated them to high camp. Thus, by August, when President Obama and his advisers believed they had no option but to bomb Syria in retaliation for its deadly retaliations against its citizens, the chatter from the feeds of America’s less militant millions seemed to coalesce into a seething hive-mind of anger and fear almost as humid as the sweat of the strongmen peddling grave hypocrisy and lethal confusion.