Q: Is class a feature of marginalization and underrepresentation in lit mags?
"Do the voices of the poor not bear mention?"
Welcome to our weekend conversation!
Recently I was reading That Book is Dangerous by Adam Szetela. (The book will be out in August 2025. Szetela sent me an advanced reading copy.)
He writes about various concerns in contemporary publishing, but one that directly relates to literary magazines, and which struck me as particularly interesting, is the way in which class is rarely, if ever, acknowledged as an axis of marginalization and underrepresentation.
Szetela cites the submission guideless of several magazines.
New Orleans Review:
Our staff represents a wide range of diverse identities. We value the voices and stories of all marginalized writers, and offer free submission opportunities throughout the year (see below). We want to emphasize that we are not here to box anyone in, so submissions in prose and poetry can but do not have to engage with the following identities.
In celebration of Black History Month, there are no submission fees for Black writers for the month of February.
In celebration of Disability Awareness Month, there are no submission fees for writers living with both visible and invisible disabilities for the month of March.
In celebration of Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage month, there are no submission fees for all API writers for the month of May, not limited to those living in/born in the US.
In celebration of Pride, there are no submission fees for LGBTQIA2+ writers in June. We are especially interested in trans, non-binary, and gender non-conforming voices.
In celebration of Hispanic Heritage Month, there are no submission fees for Latinx writers from September 15th to October 15th.
In celebration of Native American Heritage Month, there are no submission fees during the month of November for all Indigenous writers, not limited to those living in/born the US.
We also want to be clear that writers with the identities above are encouraged to submit year-round.
The above guidelines begin by stating that the editors “value the voices and stories of all marginalized writers.” Yet nowhere in the list is any mention of writers who have had to struggle financially throughout their lives or who are struggling now. This is particularly surprising, given that they are offering fee-free reading periods to writers they think would benefit from them. Are poor writers not among those that would benefit?
Similar guidelines exist at Portland Review:
For over sixty years, Portland Review has published the works of emerging writers and artists alongside the works of well-established authors. We warmly encourage previously unpublished writers and artists to submit, and we aim to support work by those often marginalized in the artistic conversation, including (though certainly not limited to) people of color, women, disabled people, LGBTQIA people, and people with intersectional identities.
These editors “aim to support work by those often marginalized in the artistic conversation.” There is no mention of poor writers. It stands to reason that they do not consider poor writers among the historically marginalized.
Black Warrior Review:
We especially strive to magnify voices that are traditionally and systemically silenced. Writers of color, queer and trans writers, disabled writers, immigrant writers, fat writers and femmes: you are welcome and wanted here.
These editors wish to “magnify voices that are traditionally…silenced.” Do the voices of the poor not bear mention?
At Massachusetts Review the reading period differs for writers with certain identity affiliations: “Submissions are NOT accepted from May 1 to September 30…Submissions from authors who are Black, Indigenous, or People of Color will be accepted year-round…” Poor or low-income writers are not named as eligible for the extended reading period.
Hayden’s Ferry Review’s guidelines state (emphasis theirs):
At HFR, we believe that as a literary journal we have the responsibility to publish creative work that reflects diverse experiences, identities, and cultures on both a national and global scale. We are especially committed to uplifting the voices of those who have long been marginalized and underrepresented.
Art submissions are open year-round and always free but during the months that we are open for other genre submissions, we will have at least 50 free submissions in each genre for underrepresented voices. If you consider yourself to fit into this category, please submit for free to “Free Submissions for Underrepresented Writers.” Among the many types of underrepresentation that exist in literature, we particularly encourage Black, Indigenous, People of Color, and those who belong to the LGBTQIA+ and disability communities to submit to HFR.
HFR editors “are committed to uplifting the voices of those who have long been…underrepresented” and provide free submissions to such writers. They do not name writers living without means in these categories.
Why are poor people excluded from these lists? Why do so many lit mags omit class as defining point of marginalization and underrepresentation?
Let me be clear: my questions are not an indictment of any lit mag that wishes to actively encourage more racial, gender, and/or bodily diversity among their submissions. As I’ve said many times before, editors have the right to operate their magazines any way they wish. Writers are free to submit to any lit mags whose guidelines appeal to them, and to avoid submitting to those that do not.
I am specifically focusing on what appears to be a curious omission in some journals’ attempts to be more diverse and inclusive. Do editors generally not consider poor people to be underrepresented in literature?
I’ve been reading lit mags steadily, one a month, for the past three years. I’ve read gorgeous poems, thought-provoking essays, entertaining and moving stories. They’ve covered a range of experiences—teaching, dating, travel, divorce, addiction, wanting to have children, taking care of an aging parent, healing from abuse, uncovering family secrets, political strife, communing with nature…
In my experience as a reader, rarely if ever, have I encountered work that highlights the day-to-day struggles of someone without means. These works exist, don’t get me wrong. But they are few and far between among pieces that largely focus on interpersonal dynamics—family and romantic relationships, emotional and psychological struggles.
There is generally one exception to this, and that includes work that has an international component. In the pages of lit mags, it actually is fairly common to encounter writing about a person who has left everything behind to move to another country, or who lives in poverty in a remote village, or whose life has been rent asunder by war, by genocide, by political catastrophe.
These are all critical stories, crucial to our understanding of the world, and often wrenching to read. It is commendable that lit mags seek out such works and make particular efforts toward including translations when necessary.
Yet what I am saying I rarely see in lit mags is the much more banal financial struggle with which millions of people contend every day. Working two jobs. Managing life at $7.25 per hour. Being evicted. Getting the electricity shut off. Living on social security income. Drowning in medical bills. The grinding work of caretaking for a sick relative. Credit card debt… Put another way: Stories of poverty and financial hardship would appear to be underrepresented.
Meanwhile, it’s no secret that writers living in financial strain face greater challenges breaking into the profession. Not everyone can take a year to three years off the workforce in order to earn an MFA. Yes, many MFA programs offer stipends, but these are not available to all, and the stipends might not be enough for many.
Then there’s all the rest of it, which most of us know very well. Conferences. Workshops. Unpaid internships to connect a writer with the right people in publishing. Editing fees. Application fees. Submission fees. Virtual meet-ups and readings that happen at times impossible for someone with a night job.
There is also the whole of literary culture, which is highly middle-class-coded. I remember the first time someone at a book launch told me about the Breadloaf conference. The thing you need to do, this older writer advised me, is to apply to be a waiter at Breadloaf. That’s a huge honor and will be great for your career.
An honor to be a waiter? And I have to apply? And then…pay to be a waiter?
I burst out laughing. I honestly thought this person was joking. At the time I actually was a waitress, and my aching feet reminded me of that fact every day. But he wasn’t joking. This is how that conference is designed. Such a structure might appeal to many. Others, perhaps those who don’t see paying to pretend to be a waiter for two weeks as particularly appealing, might bristle at the very idea.
Not to mention time, the most precious commodity of all. Yes, of course, if you wish to be a writer you must make time. First and foremost, you must have the time to make. Not everyone does.
All of which is to say, it is likely that people under financial duress may not be submitting work as much and may not be sharing their stories as much.
In that case, wouldn’t this put such writers in the category of “marginalized” and “underrepresented”? It would appear such writers are both.
Why, then, are poor and low-income writers rarely acknowledged in submission guidelines that go out of their way to welcome other groups of people?
I don’t know the answer to this question. It could be that class is simply a blind spot in the literary world. It could be that class is a difficult thing to talk about and is therefore a subject generally avoided.
But if any group of people can discuss a complex and delicate subject, I know we can.
So, let’s talk about it.
What do you think?
Is this something you have noticed as well?
Have you actually encountered plenty of works that deal with these subjects?
Why are writers who live in financial strain typically not counted among the marginalized and underrepresented?
Class is *absolutely* a factor. Social and economic justice and culture creation are inseparable, but many (most?) of the white-glove organizations that give out prizes, grants, book contracts, and so on favor those whom they know and the people they know are almost always as socially-economically privileged as they are. There are outliers, of course, like Octavia Butler who worked in a factory and then went home and wrote until she was able to support herself with her writing. I would argue, however, that Octavia would be unable to accomplish that feat today because her union factory job would be gone, her health insurance would cost too much, and the magazines she wrote for would not longer pay any decent fee for her work. For translators, the situation is even worse. Our profession is barely in demand or compensated in this xenophobic nation and remains the privilege of people with inherited wealth, economically stable mates, and/or university teaching jobs. I've been independently employed since 2001 and it's goddamned hard to find the time and energy to write and translate. I literally moved away from NYC to a small town in the South so that I could afford to write! And even so, my many publications barely garner a few thousand dollars a year, much of that income going to pay membership fees at such fundamental organizations like AWP, ALTA, and the AG, all of which are great and essential. But what person in my state -- or with even less income, for I am privileged compared to many -- can afford to go to a conference in another state to network? None, that's who. In short, when we put up with an economically unviable publishing landscape, we are de facto excluding the voices of the struggling and oppressed from any hope of success in literature and translation.
Oh Becky, this one hit so close to home for me. I grew up rural working class, and have had such a heavy chip on my shoulder for years about class issues. When I moved away from home to attend college, I never felt so ‘other’ than to be surrounded by kids of such means. It was a diverse group but they all came from a certain level of money, whereas I was there on a Pell Grant. I had to work my way through, so there were no football games and parties and generalized college fun for me. And the lit world came with a whole new set of rules and worlds that made me feel utterly unwelcome, so much so that it would take me another 25 year to return to writing and the literary scene. Even now as I submit I feel every acceptance as proof that I get to be here, too. It’s sticky and messed up and needs to be talked about in the light of day, so thank you for this, truly. I will say that I noticed Tiny Molecules offers something particular to working class writers in their submission guidelines, although off the top of my head and can’t recall what. I thanked them for that in my cover letter. Even though I’m no longer of that group, I will never escape the feeling of being so, of this constant drive to prove my own self-worth.