A few thoughts (and some sage advice) regarding short story submissions
It’s one of the noblest & most depressing acts a writer can do: submit a story for publication. It takes a certain mindset to undertake such a daunting endeavor, a certain brand of persistence, because the default response to a submission is most often one of REJECTION.
The build-up to the act of submission is one of concentrated nervousness. But first, there’s the creation of the Excel file of all the intended destinations. This list begins with the most prestigious of names: The New Yorker, Glimmer Train, Ploughshares, Tin House, etc. And on a mentally lower tier, there’s the university publications — the Reviews and Journals of the land — that you figure would be a fine home for your story. The list grows longer and longer and the names become more and more obscure. You begin to wonder: If you’ve never heard of it, has it ever been read at all?
So, the list has been created, but have you taken the time to read the submission guidelines? Of course you have. You’re a professional. You’ve formatted your document correctly and used 12-point Times New Roman, because only assholes write in Comic Sans. Some publications want to read stories blind and ask you remove any personal information from the document. Others want word counts, specialized headers and footers with your name and page number, and so on. Others, like The Paris Review, only accept snail mail. It really depends, and each submission should follow these guidelines, because you’ve decided to play by their rules. Also, be careful because many require a reading fee of two or three dollars. Contests cost more. No refunds.
The story, your labor of love, has been cared for since birth. Sure, maybe you abandoned it for awhile, like some writers do, but now it has your undivided attention. You look it over again to see if the fucking thing still makes any sense. Maybe the ending is garbage and needs to be rewritten. Maybe it’s riddled with typos or a pernicious formatting error. You read it again, and then a third and fourth time.
At some point, you decide it’s ready to be seen by another set of eyes, so you send it to people you know and trust and who you hope don’t mind reading your drivel. Inevitably, they’ll see some typo you’ve overlooked a thousand times before and point out something blatantly obvious that should be clearer. You’ve lived and breathed this story for days, weeks, months, and everything must be perfect, even though nothing is ever perfect and you’ll always spot something that could be better.
After endless rounds of revisions, you’ve determined it’s finally ready to go. Each publication’s guidelines state they only accept submissions from such and such dates, so you cull the list accordingly. Select wisely and choose widely. It’s a waste of time to put all your eggs in one basket. Your chance of rejection is absurdly high since your story is one of perhaps dozens, hundreds, or even thousands that they’ll read during the submission period.
Now it’s time to write the cover letter. Keep it short and sweet. It’s inevitable it will sound generic since (between you and I) you’re probably going to use it as a template to write the other fifteen or twenty letters. Be sure to properly address the editors of each publication, and don’t say Dear Editors of The New Yorker when you mean to address the editors at Crazyhorse. Don’t be arrogant, but don’t grovel either. I think a bit of humor is always a nice touch. Cordiality is also important — do like your parents taught you.
Put aside a few minutes to address the panic rising through your chest. Let it expand like an overdose of Vick’s Vapor Rub until it entirely consumes you. Then put that shit aside. You have work to do. Pay attention to detail. Everything counts. This story is an extension of you: your personality and creativity, your resourcefulness and rigor. It is your voice distilled into literature. You copy and paste the cover letter, double check that, and then attach your story. Take a breath, or maybe several breaths, and hit submit.
Congratulations! You did it! In a few moments you’ll receive that automated email saying your submission has been received and it feels so good.
Next comes the waiting. Tom Petty says the waiting is the hardest part. I can assure you it sucks. But then the emails gradually start to roll in. Get used to reading flattering sounding form letters. Lunch Ticket will chew you up and spit you out quickly, rest assured. I always hear from them within a few days of submission.
You’ll log onto Submittable and track the status of each publication. Oh! My story at AGNI and Triquarterly is in-progress! It gives you hope that the next letter will be one of acceptance, a literal confirmation this whole lonely enterprise is worth the time and effort. I’d like to think it is, even if the path to recognition is rarely a yellow brick road.
Each rejection and form letter is like a white-gloved slap to the face. The kind editors say the story isn’t right for them at this time, but they wish you luck placing it elsewhere. The rejections accumulate, frustration plants a seed of despair deep inside your soul. Weeks pass, then a few months. There’s just a few submissions remaining. You’ve run out of options.
With a heavy heart, you decide it’s time to start preparing for the next round. Maybe you’ll have more luck with this other story you’ve been working on. After all, it’s got a plot that cooks like Marty McFly playing “Johnny B. Goode.” The dialogue crackles. The ending is possibly your best yet. You’re ready to close one door and open another.
An email arrives from a place you’d almost forgotten about. You’ve conditioned yourself to read form letters like they’re stereo instructions. Maybe you’ll type them a thank you letter. But wait, WTF is this?
“We’re delighted to accept…”
“Please send us a bio…”
Oh snap, son. You go on to Submittable to confirm. There it is:
You could receive a million more rejections after this one and it wouldn’t matter, because for one day, at least, the only response that mattered said yes. Who cares if it’s not the New Yorker? There’s always the next time. Savor this moment. Enjoy it.
Be patient. Stay hungry. You will succeed.
