I Finally Said What I Was Thinking

"But then, like a clanky evil robot you didn’t expect, comes the modern submission process."

Welcome to our weekly column offering perspectives on lit mag publishing, with contributions from readers, writers and editors around the world.

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My mentor and greatest supporter, a woman named Marjorie Peters who passed away in 1979, once told me to never change my style or my voice. It will find an audience, she said from the wisdom of being an author’s agent for the likes of Gwendolyn Brooks, but you must know it is not commercial. It will see the light of day, “but don’t quit your day job.” The quotes surround her exact words.

She was a wise woman who was old-school and it turned out she was exactly right. Though many might have seen that comment in a bad light, it was perfectly sensible to me, and I will never forget her or it. In the interim I have never tried to write other than how I write or to ever try to be who I was not. I’ve been lucky enough to have found a few dozen fellow lunatics in my life who have always accepted my junk while the “journals of long-standing merit and dignity” have never liked me. Oh so what. In all this time I am proud to have been included in some great places beside intriguing writers I am happy to have been “seen” (read) in the company of.

But it is, after all, 2024, and I suppose like most un-agented writers these days I have the same submission sob stories as anyone else with the same look of my computer screen, loaded with its six versions of the same query letter, copies of the same story in two different formats, 500-word synopsis files and 150-word synopsis files, and files from submissions I don’t even remember anymore.

In the past I wrote when I could fit it in as I raised a family and had jobs that took a lot of energy or time out of me. But since my retirement from the workforce three years ago I finally found the time to concentrate on my writing and in these years without having to punch a clock I’ve written two short stories, one novel, two novellas and, just like anybody else, am pretty sure my recent stuff is the best I’ve ever done.

But then, like a clanky evil robot you didn’t expect, comes the modern submission process. Basically the same as when you found open calls in The Writer or Factsheet5, but now with that new impersonal flavor of the amazing, wonderful, goddam internet.

Now it’s one thing to conform to what seems like a thousand different ways publishers and editors want to receive submissions. There were always different rules for different venues, and you could get just numb to the myriad maze of different desires of the past as those of now and you just do it, because you have to. But at some point… like, right now… you may find you’ve reached a testing point.

The absurdity of the process overwhelms you.

As of this writing I have 19 queries out to publishers on the novel, 10 queries out to publishers on one novella, 5 queries out to publishers on the other novella, 10 requests for representation from author’s agents, one short story in the hands of 6 lit mag editors, each submission tailored to meet, as near as possible, the proclivities and style of the house the work was sent to. I am a careful surveyor and, since I ran a lit mag myself for a time, try to match what publishers ask for and I don’t just send stuff wildly out to places that offer absolutely no chance of accepting it.

However it is true, I have learned, that they can also be completely full of shit. And at one point in this process of late, I have to confess, it began to occur to me that most publishers and editors (and I say this remembering that I also ran my lit mag for 10 years and know first-hand what an asshole I could be) need to hear from someone who is submitting but not submitting. As it were.

And though I know the proper etiquette to reading a publication’s guidelines is done with the idea of building one’s comprehension and due notation, and it is impossible for editors to give detailed explanations to you about why your work sucks because of the sheer number of things they see all the time that suck, I think I have recently snapped.

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It all started when…

The rejection email said: Although we cannot publish your title, our award-winning design team offers services that can assist you with formatting and cover design. If you are interested, you can contact our Design Lead,… Farco Barnes

And what I said was: Nothing. I just deleted their email and moved on.

But what I thought was: I know my stuff isn’t for everybody but seeing as how you’ve had my submission less than 24 hours I think it must have only been your intention to sell me your “editing services.” If I wanted to use said services I already know of two or three legitimate people who provide it as their main business without having to use the phony cover of being a “publisher” to snare unsuspecting novices. Next time try holding the piece for a few weeks before making your sales pitch, you might look like a bit less of a con artist.

But I didn’t. I was a good boy. I said nothing. I moved on.

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Then there was a website that said: We want to hear and see new perspectives. And when the MFA-infected intern rejected it with prejudice…

What I said was: Nothing. I just deleted it and moved on.

But what I should have said was: Thank you for reading. So I guess you may want new perspectives but only on the same old shit then?

But no, I kept my mouth shut and my fingers still and just turned the page.

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Then I saw a website that said: We are interested in those things that can’t be categorized. The unusual. The kind of stuff the Big 5 will never look at. Things we’ve never seen before.

But the rejection email said: We (meaning “I”) can’t see a narrative in this.

What I said was: Nothing. Deleted. Moved on.

What I should have said was: Thank you for reading. When you figure out who you are drop me a line.

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But then something snapped, and the world began to blur. And I read website after website, guidelines after guidelines…

Some wanted the

First 6 chapters

others wanted the

Entire manuscript

or the

First 5 pages in the body of the email

or the

First 10 pages in a format I’ve never heard of and can’t find software for

or else

Only the first chapter

and

BTW - Do not send attachments. All such emails will be discarded unopened

and

Don’t forget the title

and

Tell us your genre

or

We don’t do genre

or

We like mixed genres

and even

Bend your fucking genres

but be sure to give us a

Synopsis (if you can’t do this in 150 words or less we have serious questions about your ability to communicate)

as well as a

250-word bio even if you haven’t done shit in your life

so

What are your platforms

and oh…

Your marketing plan?

That’s right, the submission form on the website said: Please tell us how you plan to promote your work.

And what I said was: I can make myself available for readings and can do most travel at my own expense. I have contacts for podcast interviews. I’m on Substack, I have a website, and - after 30 years - I have an admittedly small but loud handful of fanatics who have always supported my work.

What I should have said? I write, you publish. If you don’t know how to make a marketing plan for your writers perhaps that’s why you’ve remained an obscure publisher whose books always end up in the 6,000,000th rankings at Amazon maybe? Ya think?

But no, I kept my cool.

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Then there was…

The website that said: We want to represent marginalized communities.

And in my submission I said: Nothing about this, as I don’t mind the sentiment and am proud of publishers who want to help level the field.

But in my submission I probably should have said: I’m 70 and ageism is not only the last bastion of the uncorrected bigot but remains the last acceptable prejudice. Plus I’ve had exactly one and a half semesters of college way back in the 1970s because I had to quit school and go work or starve. Other than that everything’s JUST FUCKING FINE.

But I didn’t.

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And then there was this…

The submission form on the website said: Can you name any books that are similar  to your submission?

What I said was: I consider Boris Vian, Leonora Carrington, Robert Walser, and Dazai Osamu my greatest influences. And am very proud of my Oxford comma back there.

What I should have said was: No. Why would I want to copy other people’s stuff? I try to write stuff no one’s ever seen before, doofus.

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The form on Submittable said: Tell us what audience you are trying to reach.

I said: I have had most success in publications that have served college students, artists and writers, and activists.

What I should have said, after all this time, was: Any world that I’m welcomed to.

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The website asked: What is your philosophy of the writer/reader connection?

I said: I read somewhere that difficulty enhances the enjoyment of reading and so I treat my reader like an adult, so that comprehension comes, when it does, in sudden light. I think that was the viewpoint of ee cummings, who was a favorite of mine.

What I should have said: I write. You read. We are connected.

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Now I will be the first to admit that my writing isn’t for everybody. It can be vulgar, it can be violent, it can be all the things publishers with pretty flowered pages (I swear you can smell the petunias when the page comes on) and well-meaning political slants don’t want, including being comprehensible to most people who don’t like to be challenged with what is just my usual awkward madness. My influences are Fluxus, surrealist, experimental, and I was proud in the old days to have my stuff appear in rat-mags and alt-zines next to poems by Bukowski and other denizens of the times. So I always knew there will be venues that would never take my material, probably ever. I get it. But after months and months now of hammering out the work to send out into the world like diaperless children, the lid blew off completely. I’d had enough. I was punchy. I was high. I didn’t care anymore. And I got this…

The rejection email said: This is just too traditional for us.

And I simply had to reply: Thank you for reading. That’s the first time in 30 years I’ve ever been rejected for that particular reason, and I find it strangely refreshing.

But I know I know. What I should have said was: Nothing. Just deleted it and moved on.

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The website said: If you haven’t heard from us in 6 months feel free to send us an inquiry.

And my last email to them said: I sent my 6-month inquiry 6 months ago. Now what?

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And then…

After receiving the THIRD rejection email from the same publisher (who nicely requested to see more/other in the first rejection) for a third submission for the third time said: As you know, we require unanimous approval from our editorial staff in order to accept something for publication.

To which I replied: Thank you for reading. When that guy croaks would someone there please give me a call?

I know. I know. What I should have said was: Nothing. Delete/move on. They probably didn’t think that was very funny.

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I think I’m going to regret that last one. But it felt good, y’know? I’m saying I know it does no good to engage an editor after a rejection. I used to hate it when that happened to me on the editing side.

But you have to let the badger loose every once in a while, or you’ll just make yourself more nuts than you already are. Sometimes we just have to do more than submit, say nothing and move on.

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