Learning to Just Say No

"...not every invitation was equally, well, inviting."

Apr 16, 2026

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

I was in love with storytelling as a kid and wrote my first short stories in second grade, which were praised by my gentle, nurturing, dark-haired teacher who wore mini-skirts and white go-go boots. She’s the one who hooked me on biographies with a YA bio of Mozart, which I guess she recommended because I was taking piano lessons at the time.

I relished any story with a beginning, middle, and end; my parents never censored the books I borrowed from our Gilded Age library on 145^th street in Harlem; my mother read to me; and I read the stories in I, Robot over and over again. Was it because I felt alien as the son of Holocaust survivors in a school where everyone in my classes was second or third generation American? Or just love for Asimov’s visionary tales?

My doctor’s office was filled with all sorts of magazines but the one that drew my attention every time I waited was The New Yorker. I loved the cartoons and though I doubt I fully understood the short stories, the fact that they were there seemed significant—and enticing.

Even before I took my first creative writing class in high school, I started dreaming of being a published author. And I chose my college because I had heard about an inspiring creative writing professor there. I took all of her classes and because she knew I wanted to make a career of short stories, she said “Read everything—know your genre!”

I tried. I started with Poe, Hawthorne, de Maupassant and moved on to James, Wharton, Twain, Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, Katherine Mansfield, Fitzgerald, determined to join their club no matter how junior a member I would be.

Even before I took my first creative writing class in high school, I started dreaming of being a published author.

I picked an MFA program not far from home in Massachusetts because I wanted to immerse myself in an environment and it was like two and a half years of a giant writers’ group: everyone was besotted with words. And that’s where my career was launched, when I won first prize in the program’s writing contest judged by a famed New York editor.

I spent a decade after that sending stories to lit mags and other publications I admired and slowly produced a body of work that was collected in a book published by St. Martin’s Press.

It was truly exciting when I first got invited to do readings in the 90s. It made me feel that I had finally arrived. My short stories were getting attention. I was being taken seriously as a writer. I was getting known. I remember now the thrill of meeting other writers who said, “You’re the guy who wrote (fill in the blank).”

Since those heady days, I’ve done hundreds of events at home and abroad, and gradually discovered that not every invitation was equally, well, inviting. A senior author I got to know when the invitations started coming sat me down the morning after a panel we shared to lay out facts I hadn’t really considered: Every event I did would take planning, rehearsing, and time, especially if I was leaving town. Not just that: getting back into my writing routine, whatever it was, took time as well.

She advised asking everyone what the author honorarium was. “Don’t give yourself away free. What you do is valuable, and being taken away from work at home isn’t always a good idea. Are you being paid enough?”

From then on, when I got a phone call or email invitation and spoke to the organizer, at some point, after we’d gotten to know each other and I understood the audience and the expectations, I’d raise the money subject with, “I’m a working writer, so I wonder if there’s a speaker’s fee?” Or use some version of “What’s your budget for this event?” I didn’t always get an immediate answer: sometimes the contact person had to check.

Bookstores presented a different set of questions, my unexpected mentor explained. What kind of publicity were they planning on doing? How well were their author events attended? What was their schedule like? I definitely did not want to be appearing in a crowded week or month—especially if there was a major author event elsewhere nearby that would likely swamp mine (it happens more than you think).

Writers are lured early in their careers by the promise of “exposure,” but you would be surprised how often I’ve been offered nothing more than that, years after publishing many books, garnering rave reviews and prizes. Pre-pandemic, I was going to be at a conference and contacted a nearby venue to let them know I’d be in town. They were thrilled at the thought of my doing a talk there about my latest book. But they had no intention of offering an honorarium, and I knew they could easily afford a good one because I had contacts in town who said they had a large endowment.

Another venue did have a decent honorarium but they wanted me to do “home hospitality.” That and the flight to and from California turned me off. The time change would be a kink that might throw me off my game and if there’s one thing I need on the road, it’s privacy, time to wind down on my own.

I learned that group readings were often a disappointment because 1) most writers can’t keep to their allotted time and 2) organizers or moderators don’t stop them when they go over and 3) far too many writers think they can wing it and end up fumbling. How many times have I heard someone say, “I was wondering what to read on the way over here”? Seriously—did they think that’s was somehow charming or ingratiating? To me it showed lack of respect for the audience. And the same things could often happen at writing conference panels.

Not so long ago, I did agree to a panel of several authors—all of them better known that I was—because the yearly audience at this event was always over a thousand. I said yes because it was a prestige event and I’m happy to say that all my books there sold out. But it was cringe watching one panelist swiping back and forth on his iPad when it was his turn, or another hold up pages of journal she kept as if everyone in the room could read or even see what the writing looked like.

So, what are the takeaways here?

You may think it unlikely that anyone will want to hear you talk about your stories, poems or essays, but it’s worth being prepared for the possibility. My first editor predicted I would be sought-after as a speaker and reader, and he was right.
It’s always important to be polite at every stage of the interaction with someone who’d like to book you for an event, especially if you end up declining the invitation. If you have doubts, try some version of “Let me think about it and get back to you.” Don’t feel rushed.
Make sure the date or dates being offered are really workable for you and won’t interfere with your writing schedule at home or just feel badly timed for some other reason.
Don’t be ashamed about raising the question of an honorarium if it’s a venue that likely has a budget for events: a library, a religious group, a museum, or any other alternative to a bookstore where money doesn’t come into the equation.
Saying “no” doesn’t mean nobody will ever invite you again. It’s totally okay to feel that an event isn’t for you, for any number of reasons. The more you publish in lit mags and elsewhere, the more visibility you have, the more likely invitations will come.
Take the time to consider the invitation from every possible angle. You might in fact say yes because you need the experience of doing that event and learning from it. The audience or the venue might be the main draw for you.
The best advice ultimately came from my spouse who has done quite a lot of public speaking himself. “Is it interesting, something different, new? Is it going to be fun? Or will you be complaining for two weeks beforehand that you wish you hadn’t said yes?” 😊

For those of you thinking about doing more gigs, Lit Mag News has published my performance advice about preparing for a reading: