After sitting in on this virtual meeting, I traveled to New York to meet Bernstein, Martin, and several other contributors to the magazine in Martin’s Williamsburg walk-up. In the the cozy apartment Martin shares with fellow TBV editor, Daniel B. Howell ’08, Neil Young plays softly but insistently on a real record player. A shopping cart full of books is parked in the living room. It was on the street with a sign saying “Take Me,” so Martin and Howell did just that. Its presence in the room affirms the omnipresence of literature in the lives of these individuals.

There are five men in the room, three of whom are wearing plaid. Luke Fentress, a contributor who wrote an essay on the myth of Actaeon and Diana in the latest issue, sips Red Stripe in Martin’s apartment. His eyes move restlessly around the room, alighting on people for little more than an instant before zooming onto their next perch. He is excitable and clearly delights in being provocative.

“You develop a rapport with your editor. You can be really rude to your editor. I was really rude to Teddy,” says Fentress. Martin dismisses this comment with a smirk and a sip of PBR. “But then you find yourself in contact with ‘the board,’ and all of a sudden you are answerable to people you can’t be rude to.”

Fentress’ take on their review process, which involves two rounds of editing, differs somewhat from Bernstein’s. Bernstein says that the magazine does not enforce a uniformity of style on its contributors and celebrates their individuality. “We are much more relaxed about [style]. Instead we look for inquisitiveness grounded in the eye of the person,” he says.

The editors have made the unusual decision to allow writers to choose their own subject matter rather than dictate content. They prefer to edit contributions rigorously and collaboratively, working closely with the writer. This way of working is integral to TBV’s philosophy. According to the magazine’s creators, this relaxed attitude to editorial protocol gets the most out of writers, encouraging them to run with their ideas rather then curbing them to fit a mold. But it also creates some ambiguity about the roles of those who edit. Chesnut is reluctant to give people formal titles and impose an editorial hierarchy. “I like that we are free-form and flexible,” he says. “Contributing editor sounds like a rung lower than just ‘editor.’”

There is talk of extending the Google hangouts to other members of the magazine staff. All three acknowledge the need to further distribute editorial responsibility among the magazine’s contributors. The current structure leaves most of the administrative work to Bernstein, Chesnut, and Martin. “These people are definitely part of it. They’ve been here as long as we have,” says Bernstein of the other staff writers. His statement exemplifies The Bad Version’s modest, all-inclusive attitude. The magazine is about collaboration, not top-down management.

PRINTCEST

The editors try to steer clear of catering too specifically to a New York readership. However, most of the contributing writers and editorial staff are based in the New York area. The Bad Version is on sale in 15 bookstores and the vast majority are in or around New York City. There are plans to expand into Austin, Texas. “It would be nice to get out of the Northeast,” Bernstein says, somewhat wistfully, but he points out that independent booksellers who might be interested in TBV are more focused on local publications. “One of the ways [independent] bookstores survive is to be part of the local community. [Non-New York] bookstores don’t want to carry Brooklyn lit mags.”

Chesnut, who is from Chicago, is less forgiving on this score. “We want to avoid being an incest[uous,] myopic lit mag,” he says, “but its really hard to get in places that are not where you live.” He has strong views about New Yorkers’ self-proclaimed cultural superiority. In an email to Bernstein when the magazine was in its formative stages, Chesnut wrote, “I really hate writing that acts like New York is the center of the universe…. New York is arguably the most cosmopolitan city in the world, but its people can be just as provincial as those anywhere else, and sometimes more so.”

Judging by the makeup of TBV affiliates gathered at Martin’s apartment on Friday, New York centrism is not such a problem among contributors. Trevor Martin is from Texas; Howell is from Florida; and Cora K. Currier ’10, a former Crimson news editor, is from Arkansas. But despite hailing from far and wide, all are working in New York, in typical New York occupations. Trevor Martin does graphic design for the theater company, HERE; Howell is a graduate student in comparative literature at New York University; Currier is a former fact checker at The New Yorker and now works for ProPublica, an online news publication. You get the idea. A pattern begins to emerge.

Perhaps the more immediate danger is Harvard centrism. Everyone in the room except Fentress is a Harvard graduate. This was not immediately obvious to me, but it was hard to overlook once the discovery that Bernstein, Howell, and I were all in Pennypacker sparked chants of “Pack Attack!” from the two of them. The Bad Version is self-conscious about the preponderance of Harvard grads among its contributors. When Martin mentions that one of the poetry contributors in the current issue is an undergrad at Yale, Howell says sarcastically, “Yeah, we’re really branching out.”

Despite their best efforts to broaden their readership and contributor pool, TBV comprises a select lot. Since the magazine’s mission is to extend the conversation as much as possible, its Harvard umbilical cord must eventually be severed, its editors say.

A LABOR OF LOVE

Given the current abundance of online publications, the decision to print The Bad Version may seem impractical. Its expensive, and theres the tedious business of getting people to sell it for you. Moreover, all the content will eventually be uploaded to the magazine’s website. Despite logistical and financial burdens, the editors of The Bad Version believe very strongly in the importance of printing the magazine. In the minutes from the first editorial meeting, Bernstein writes, “There was the sense that a print magazine is necessary even if not that many people read it because it signals the seriousness of our intent. There is so much on the internet that is just put up there hastily. Having a physical magazine not only suggests that we have limited space and thus must contemplate what we choose to publish, but also that there is some sort of editorial apparatus at work.” Bernstein eloquently expresses a sentiment that everyone involved with the magazine shares. As I sit on Martin’s futon and handle the publication, touching its subtly embossed, bright pink, Arial font cover, flipping through its pages, I cannot help agreeing. Not only is it a statement of seriousness but also a product of much thought and review.

To what extent is printing The Bad Version an exercise in self-indulgence? The magazine itself, though it aims to be for everyone, caters to a narrow sliver of the literary world. The Bad Version sells for nine dollars an issue, which seems a lot for a small paperback publication. But after probing into the founders’ motives for starting the magazine, it is clear that publishing TBV is not self-indulgent, but a labor of love that requires considerable sacrifice. Each major contributor is doing something else to make money. Bernstein prepares students for the SATs and the LSATs. Chesnut works for a non for profit, Campell & Company, writing fundraising and marketing materials. When I suggest that The Bad Version hire summer interns to help with the ever-increasing load of administrative work, Bernstein bursts out laughing, saying, “But an intern is someone you don’t pay. No one gets paid here. If we hire them to do any work, then they may as well be editors, not interns.”