What Happens at an Editorial Meeting

"Let me break it down for you..."

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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I recently had an editorial meeting at my magazine. To new, emerging writers, it is somewhat mysterious what happens at an editorial meeting and what it means to have a submission “In-progress.” Let me break it down for you, starting with the composition of the editorial team.

At our magazine, the masthead is deliberately diverse as is necessary to read and understand varying styles and narratives. In this meeting, we were a group of eight joining in via Zoom from the US, Europe, South Asia, and the Middle East. I joined from India, and it was already late in the night but a Sunday evening spent among like-minded literary folks is exactly what I have always dreamed of.

First thing I noticed was its dissimilarity from my “local” writing circles, where literary discussions involve an air of false superiority and highbrowed-ness. At the start of this editorial meeting, we were all talking about contemporary writers and popular literature, although most in the group were academics who probably taught differently in class. We were all united in our commitment—no pretensions, no snobbishness, room for doubts, even the possibility of mistakes, and our sincerity was non-negotiable. Central to our efforts was the quest for new and diverse voices, striking the right balance of narratives that inspire and elevate literature. Above all, everyone relished being part of the process.

After the initial pleasantries, the first thing that came up were a longlist of pieces we needed to discuss and vote on. You must note that some acceptances had already gone out (pieces we simply didn’t want to lose) and their consents secured. Some declines also had been sent (pieces absolutely out-of-line with our theme, those that were beyond the word limit—yes those submitted too, or those none on the panel upvoted). Several pieces had not received unanimity in the voting process because of being too meandering in their storytelling, sometimes for being too brief to bring out the essence. Sometimes we did not agree with the ending (too unconvincing), sometimes because too many ideas had been introduced all at once.

The scheduled one-hour meeting seamlessly flowed into another hour. We were so absorbed in our collective energy and the contagious enthusiasm that art can ignite that we barely noticed the clock. We had a specific discussion about the number of pieces for each genre that we must allow—seldom equally distributed between poetry, art, nonfiction and fiction.

What we accept depends on the total count of submissions in each genre. So if fellow writers have been sending in a lot of nonfiction, and you’re writing nonfiction, then it’d actually be a blessing because more nonfiction will be chosen. Remember, we discussed each piece still “in-progress,” acknowledging the intricate variety in style, taste, nuance, and artistic merit. Anyone, therefore, assuming that decisions, either acceptance or decline, should be quicker, well, adherence to this kind of process simply wouldn’t permit.

We were acutely aware that writers out there would be waiting with hope. After much back-and-forth discussion, where several factors were weighed in (suitability to the theme? whether the writer had already been published by this venue? whether the piece will stand the test of time? whether there is enough variety in the issue as a whole? if there’s subtle correlation among pieces to spark and interest readers?) we decided on each piece, whether selected (or not), pending the actual sending out of decline/acceptance emails.

So at this point, a submitter would still see their submission “in-progress.” It is magical how these meetings are an invaluable opportunity to interact human-to-human, and the exchange of creative insights exists in real time, driving the literary discourse forward. Nevertheless, my experience on various mastheads is that each meeting is different and some places don’t even hold meetings, deciding everything over other non-personal mediums.

Next thing, I did recognize that my position at the meeting was indeed a position of power: one can champion a piece passionately believed in. Plus, in this particular editorial role, I had the option to solicit entries. I chose not to. My reluctance to solicit isn’t founded on opposition—I’ve successfully published pieces through solicitations in the past, both as the one soliciting and as the one being solicited. Instead, I recognized that submissions arriving via Submittable for this particular open call were already strong enough.

When submissions were ongoing, I was also mindful to broadcast over social media and my blogs that anyone who struggled with submission fees could reach out to me and I’d provide a fee-free link, ensuring that financial barriers do not stifle creativity. I think editors need to reflect an undying commitment to fairness, responsibility, and ethics, all of which are critical to maintain the integrity of our literary community built on trust and respect. In any event, writers must be aware that ultimately decisions are made collectively, which adds layers of democratic engagement to any editorial process.

Writers should also know that most literary magazines anyway operate on a shoestring budget, each masthead member often donates their time, fostering an environment built on shared ideals rather than monetary gain, a testament to the love we all share for the written word. I’ve served on mastheads that do compensate their editors, which is more of an exception than a norm. Regardless, for me, compensation never dictates my approach. The joy of uplifting voices and experiencing the thrill of discovery are far more rewarding than any monetary gain could be.

At the meeting, as decisions began to be locked-in, we often veered towards expressing our individual literary experiences—after all, every editor is a writer! It was a most illuminating experience that I’d love to summarize and share vital lessons that may benefit others:

1. Themes should function as guiding notes (rather than rigid confines) serving as springboards for creativity. Allow creative freedom as referenced rather than defined by the theme. For example, if you open with an “explanation” of the theme, that’s not advisable. Nor are stories to be structured like “moral stories” of yore, where theme might be fashioned as a concluding final line. Typically, successful submitters let the theme “emerge” from the piece or give it only tangential relevance. Remember to always write your authentic story.

Looking back, I’ve faced many failures while competing for themed contests, primarily because I overanalyzed what was expected and lost my authentic voice in the process.

2. Writing must stand strong on its own, rather than appearing as mere responses to prompts (or artwork) in workshops/classes. Such pieces are easily identifiable and often their impact diminishes, failing to evoke any emotional resonance. Workshops can often lead to derivative or duplicative work, especially given the slew of venues offering similar programs, and most aren’t cheap. We must keep reminding ourselves that originality is key in establishing a writer’s identity and distinct voice that speaks to readers.

3. In my experience, submitting early is crucial. This not only gives writers an advantage because readers and editors are fresh post-break, but they may reserve longlist spots early, ensuring at least several more reads by other members of the editorial board. While this in no way suggests that late submissions do not receive consideration, they often contend against previously listed pieces in a pool of limited spots, making the competition fiercer and the stakes higher for every delayed submission. Personally, while this might not be true at every magazine, I regret the folly of submitting to prominent magazines just before their deadlines, leaving little room for me in a fast-paced decision-making process.

4. Talent will always rise to the top, even in chaotic environments, but once on top, it is undoubtedly a tight contest. Some pieces received from equally talented writers hover on the brink of acceptance, and at times merit is nearly indistinguishable. I am not sure if other editors are able to pinpoint why one piece was better than the other at that final stage. I surely can’t. What ultimately tilts the scale in favor of one among two pieces of equal merit is something quite unexplainable and speaks to the selector’s sixth sense. That is exactly where I believe the luck factor comes into play—a good luck day for one writer, and bad luck for the other. I have had countless close calls declined, reminding me that the literary journey is as much about resilience as it is about talent. Sitting there, I pondered how frequently my own work must have faced similar fate, but I was equally grateful for the moments I was fortunate enough to be celebrated.

5. Opinions diverge. In our meeting four would favor a piece while the other four would oppose it, revealing how our individual experiences shape our interpretation of art and the multitude of factors that influence our judgments. As a relative newcomer, I found this dynamic infinitely amusing, even revelatory, underlining the subjectivity of the process.

6. I realized the importance of having a website, whether a writer or an artist. I had long been wondering if editors look writers up on the internet. The good (or bad!) news is that: they do. Not everyone, but some of the decisions might have had some bearing with who the submitter was, what they had been publishing and what promise they held. Editors, for example, definitely want to know that the art/writing has come from a human and not a bot—which is significantly supported by previous publications in similar categories as enlisted on the artist’s/writer’s website. If one is unpublished, editors might be curious as to what genre or category is the writer’s current work in-progress. If the editor is more interested, they’ll perhaps read a piece or two that have been published elsewhere. Sometimes, the editor might like to be convinced that though the submitted piece doesn’t fit a particular issue, whether it’d be worthwhile to solicit something else based on previous writing and publications.

7. My final takeaway is that editors are kind people at heart—unless proven otherwise. They want to showcase voices, and champion writing that they think deserve more readers.

Ultimately, when you submit, know that your writing is read and critiqued as though it was the editors’ own. Writing is so profoundly personal and yet universally relatable that it might baffle us writers when (and how) our work is perceived or related to by someone else.

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