An idiot's guide to Silverfish bashing

Silverfish bashing has become an annual sport. I thought this year's season was over. But looks like I was wrong, judging from a book review in the Sunday pullout of a major daily. (The fact that a major English newspaper actually allowed someone to use its pages for a blatant personal attack raises many other questions. Did they not read it? I have written to them but have not received a reply.)

The questions I have had to field over the last week have been the obvious ones. Who is Amy de Kanter? Do you know her? Why is she attacking you like that? Outraged as my friends are, I am actually quite amused. She probably popped a couple of blood vessels writing that. First, I was taken aback. Then I got a little annoyed. Then, when I came to the faulty microphone part, I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it. It was so lame. Dear Amy, you are one unhappy bunny.

As for the first question, my answer is, "I don't know who she is," which also answers the second. As for why she is attacking Silverfish Books and me, I can only speculate. She says that our editing is so bad and compares it to a singer using a bad microphone, or a dancer on a wobbly stage! How poetic. Ironically, on the next page of the same magazine section was a story of another Silverfish title vying for the Frank O'Connor International Short Story Award, the richest of its kind in the world!

Actually, the book she 'reviewed' was released eight months ago and has been read by thousands of people, and is very popular. Silverfish Books has published over 30 titles so far, sold over 100,000 books some of which are used as college text in over 20 local and overseas universities (including the University of California in Berkeley). And, now, Amy de Kanter compares the standard of our editing to a faulty microphone, or a wobbly stage. Oh, she wounds me, I fail, I fall, I die! (Sorry, Tash Aw.)

So what does she have against me? First of all, I am not even sure this is a real person. Or one person. It could be a pseudonym. She has neither an email contact, nor a bio in her story. Maybe, she does not want her boss in her own newspaper to know that she is moonlighting with another. It happens. Or, she is one of those who prefer to hide their hands after throwing stones. She could be reacting to a perceived or imaginary slight, or she could be carrying a torch for someone else, or sucking up to them, or she simply wants to teach this 'uppity native' a lesson.

There are several reasons for hating Silverfish Books. Firstly, we are publishers and we reject manuscripts. We have, on several occasions, had friends coming in asking why so-and-so is saying (or writing) this about you. All I have to do is, go into my room and pick out a manuscript and ask, "Is this the person?" I have been right many times. There are also those who post comments anonymously, but one can, sort of, guess what their problem is from the tone of the comment. I have even had nasty emails from people who have not had their one short story selected for an anthology. But these are the tiny minority, the loony fringe. (Thank God for the delete key!) Most people send me a 'thank you' note.

Then there are those who want to self-publish, and are quite willing to pay (until they know how much). (Is this a norm in Malaysia?) They ask to use the Silverfish imprint. I say we can't do that unless it satisfies our criteria, in which case we will not charge them. But, we could help them self-publish under their own names, I say. They insist on the Silverfish imprint. I resist. They are surprised that I prefer not to take their money. They get angry and leave in a huff, sometimes with expletives trailing. Difficult.

Virulent strains of the 'basher' virus include envy and inferiority complex. Some people just can't come to terms with this 'uppity native' being able to do things they dare not even dream about. On one hand they hate this native. Yet, on the other, they want to be part of the trip. It is a real dilemma. So in between, they bash.

Let me tell you a fairy tale. Once upon a time, in a land far away, a man was working on a rather large project, he was organising a festival so grand the likes of which had never been done in the land, for he wanted the people to rejoice. He had a small dedicated team. This lady would to hang around and watch them with a hangdog expression obviously wanting to be a part of it. He was reluctant to rope her in because he knew she was panic prone. But he relented eventually. He felt sorry for her, found the simplest task and asked her if she could 'help' them. He though she couldn't possibly mess it up. He also offered to pay her a 1000 smackaroos a month, a sum he could ill afford, and which he should have given to another member of the team who was doing amazing work. Anyway, two months later when he asked her about it, she had done nothing! It was a simple job, but she couldn't handle it. She had panicked. She had icicles on her feet. The event was only three weeks away, and they needed to go to the printer immediately. They were desperate.

The man lost his head and hollered at her, took the job back, and worked on it himself through the night with a hundred other things to do. She was upset. He pacified her and gave her even simpler jobs to do he while still paid her. He soon forgave her for the incident, for he was not one to hold a grudge for long. After a successful festival, that saw poets and writers from the world over converge to the land, that saw people rejoicing with much merriment, he returned to his castle. That's when he noticed that many of his wells had been poisoned. He was confused. He couldn't understand who would do that. Why, he asked? This went on and on for years, this poisoning. He still couldn't understand it. In the meantime, she went around telling everyone how ungrateful he was for not thanking her for her help. For what, he retorted, when people told him, and dismissed it.

Then she changed. But he was too buried in his work to notice. She transformed into a Cik Zahirah of Shih-Li Kow's story. She lost her face. Or rather, acquired the ability to choose any face she wanted at will. She mastered the art of huggy-wuggying and kissy-wissying the man in public, and then badmouthing him the moment his back was turned, in the same breath too. She was good. Nay, she was brilliant. She could praise a book (or people) in one breath, and rubbish it (or them) in the next. Once, she sat in his castle and rubbished a book (and its editor) by another publisher. He wondered what that was all about. Then he found out. Not much later, she picked up something else totally unrelated that he had written, completely distorted and misinterpreted it, and led a hysterical knotted-knicker frenzy (don't try to imagine that) making him the villian, creating a crisis with the other publisher. Soon, everyone joined in the bashing. The evil mist spread ...

The land became divided. Sometimes, he would laugh at her clumsy antics. Mostly, he was sad. The people were split into two: winners or whiners. Those who could, did; those who couldn't, whined. And that continues to this day.