Harlot's House

I love Harlot. I know it's kind of obnoxious to say that about a magazine I helped start, but I do. Not just because I think it's such a cool and even necessary project (which I do), nor because I think it's got potential to be exponentially cooler as the years go by (which I do), nor even because every time I open up the home page I smile at how pretty it is (which, yeah, I do). I love Harlot because it's fun. It makes my "work" inextricable from "play" — I get to explore media I once feared, to blog about whatever occurs to me, to collaborate with an amazing group of editors, reviewers, authors, audiences. . . and to look forward to more playmates as we all continue endlessly revising the space. It's been a year since we launched, another year since the pilot, and ages since we began chatting about the concept over happy hour(s). In that time, throughout innumerable debates and tweaks and plenty of hurdles, the underlying mission and passion haven't flagged. We still think that there should be more — more critical, more fun, more public — conversations about communication. And I love that you think so too.

Sometimes Harlot makes me feel guilty. The behind-the-scenes conversations we've had since we began thinking about this space — how to name it and brand it; how to select publishing technologies that complement our philosophy; how to conceptualize our usership and when to cater to it or push it into uncomfortable territory; how categorize and review submissions without instilling simplistic and harmful divisions among traditional, emerging, and mixed genres; how to interact with creators and a consortium of reviewers in ways that welcome the surprises of plurality yet also maintain a healthy dose of intellectual rigor even as such a fuzzy concept is further destabilized in these creative, inclusive digital times. . . .

Um, I lost track of that sentence. But I remember my point: These conversations are bittersweet for me. They are fun and invigorating, yet most of you only get to consume and wrangle with the resulting products. It's a shame. My wish is to see more people take part in and help publicize these conversations so we can share the learning, the struggles, and the insights that happen as Harlot continues to grow into the thoughtfully carnivalesque space it's meant to be.

I've seen too many academics falter and flounder when describing their interests (or "their work," as the parlance goes) to any audience other than those inside the academy. I've seen too many fail to get others excited about the subject, even when the material is downright fascinating. I've seen too many use the same language and pitch-technique they would use when speaking to their dissertation committee, seemingly finding a perverse enjoyment in their audience turning off, confusing their rhetorical inadequacy for being so smart that no one can understand them. Gross.

What I dig most about Harlot one year out is the challenge it presents. The genre we're calling for is not easy. "You should take those really smart ideas and make them accessible to a wider audience; and put some humor and wit in there while you're at it," we tell people. But we don't say it cavalierly. We know how tough it is. But difficult as it is, as Wayne Booth would say, we must add it to our list. How do you explain theory to your hair stylist in such a way that his or her mind gets turning? How can you convince your father-in-law that the answers to the questions you're asking about communication are as relevant to his life as they are to yours? Can you discuss rhetoric in a way that turns people on (and, yeah, I mean that in the most physical of ways).

I realize I'm speaking mostly to you academics out there, and to me that's okay. While Harlot's goal is to reach well beyond the walls of the university to the point we don't talk about "walls" anymore (and we will get there), right now a solid portion of our audience is academics. It's time, however, to expand our territory. We can do that by writing about intriguing stuff in intriguing ways. Fall in love with this challenge and pass it along — I promise you won't regret it.

Harlot inspires me. Having just finished my Ph.D. in Rhetoric and Composition [insert big sigh of relief here], I have much practice with (and am well versed at) writing in “academese” for a strictly academic audience. I also recognize, however, how inaccessible my dissertation most likely is and how little influence this document that took me years to compose will have on — well — anyone until I make it more accessible both in style and location. The smart, playful pieces that have been submitted to and published in Harlot have faced the challenge of delivering intellectually rigorous content in an engaging, accessible form. And that inspires me. A year after launching the first issue, we are still conscious of striking this balance in the submissions we publish, as well as in our own correspondence compositions. This is what makes Harlot unique and what will help inspire us as we continue to work toward our goal of a wide-ranging audience connecting academic and public reflections on rhetoric.

Dearest Reader,

I wish I had some words of wisdom here. I wish I had some broad, declarative statements worthy of an issue published a year after our first, but I find myself looking forward more than back. Think of the possibilities of this place — of this space — of this project. I take a shower and think of the things that will improve the site technologically and persuasively while lathering the Lever 2000 into all my two thousand parts. Yeah, I get excited to figure out technical glitches. I get excited to read new submissions and comments and queries.

Reader, we're in this together. We're creating a future full of blurred boundaries and open dialogues. We're creating a community and a haven worthy of all this excitement. Thank you for that, Reader; dearest Reader. Thank for the submissions, the comments, the support, forwarding emails on, and posting the articles to Facebook and Twitter (as well as other social networking sites). With you, our future's looking good — pretty damn good.

Yours,
Kaitlin