Why We Charge Submission Fees

Founding Editor of Hypertext reflects on fees

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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There’s been a lot of spirited discussion about submission fees lately. Even though Hypertext Magazine pays the writers, visual artists, and interviewers we publish, we understand why submission fees are controversial. Here’s additional information about why many wholly independent journals, like us, charge a submission fee.

We’ve been publishing since 2010 and that translates into a boatload of content. It was getting too expensive to run the magazine on my own dime and so, in 2017, I structured Hypertext as a nonprofit. At that time, we started charging a submission fee. We stopped during the pandemic and resumed in April 2021.

In the early 2000s, a handful of wonderful Chicago literary arts organizations were, on average, operating on about $140,000 per year. By 2018, all of those nonprofits lost foundation funding and, soon after, closed. Funding shifts. One year, literary nonprofits are en vogue, the next year they’re not. Sadly, it’s been a long dry spell of not being en vogue.

Some so-called publishers take advantage of writers and operate in bad faith. Most do not. I, founder and editor of Hypertext, have never been paid. Our managing editors are paid a nominal annual stipend that, embarrassingly, doesn’t cover one month of groceries. Last fiscal year, what we earned from submission fees was less than half the cost to produce one print/digital issue. For each issue, our expenses include paying 30-40 contributors, a copyeditor, a typesetter, a visual artist and graphic artist, printing, and hosting/security.

Part of the problem is the nonprofit model. Nonprofits are required to have boards of directors and, usually, boards of directors raise boatloads of cash. But small arts nonprofits have trouble attracting wealthy and influential big wigs, people who know where and how to get money, to serve on their boards. Here’s the very outdated model: Board members, through their connections, bring individual donations and foundation grant money into nonprofit organizations. But big wigs aren’t drawn to serve on small arts nonprofits. Why? Big wigs want to serve on “high-impact” boards with other big wigs, have power-big-wig lunches, advance their big-wig careers. They could make a significant impact on the bottom line of small arts organizations, but they often don’t.

Independent nonprofit literary journals rely on a combination of individual donations, subscriptions, foundation/government grants, and fundraising events. Since the pandemic, fundraising events and individual donations have yielded little. This puts us, like most nonprofit literary journals, at risk of closure.

In the United States, literary journals are often the first to go when institutions cut budgets. That’s where my ire flows, not at vulnerable literary publications charging a nominal fee, fearing every issue might be their last. Here's a partial list of lit journals—university and indie publications—that have recently closed or are on shaky ground:

• Catapult (Funded by a daughter of one of the Koch brothers, the decision comes as part of an effort to “focus all resources on its core business of book publishing and its three imprints: Catapult, Counterpoint, and Soft Skull Press.”)

• The Believer (This link takes you to a VICE article about how the new owners created a backdated page on The Believer directing readers to the best hook-up sites—and sex toys. That’s one way to make money. Happily, the original publisher, McSweeney’s, is in negotiations to buy back The Believer.)

• Alaska Quarterly Review (“COVID-19 and Alaska’s Budget deficit forced the cut of Alaska Quarterly Review’s funding from the University of Alaska Anchorage.”)

• The Antioch Review (The magazine remains on a “thoughtful” pause.)

• Tin House (Tin House has shifted “resources to Tin House’s other two divisions: Tin House Books and Tin House Workshop.)

• ASTRA Magazine (Done and done.)

Some journals, like the United Kingdom’s Granta, have wealthy and influential benefactors. According to Glassdoor, a Granta Publications Assistant Editor makes about $50,000 annually. I couldn’t find Granta’s annual budget but they have a robust masthead. This is ideal. If I were a wealthy philanthropist, I would do my civic duty by throwing a few hundred grand at the literary journal of my choice. I mean, editors absolutely deserve to be paid for their expertise. Most literary journals would welcome a generous benefactor’s support. I know Hypertext would.

The constant grind of writing time-consuming grants is difficult. And most of the grants literary journals are eligible to receive do not exceed $5,000 (and are often less). Grants take, on average, 30-ish hours to write. If we write 10 grants and receive all ten, we would get $50,000 but we usually get one grant for every 10 we write. And writing grants falls on top of the myriad other duties required to run a small arts nonprofit (and our day jobs).

Here’s another reason why we charge a nominal submission fee: Funders often ask about our revenue streams. What are your revenue streams? How much revenue do your revenue streams pull in? I get it. They want to know if the business model is “sustainable.” As you can imagine, our revenue streams are anemic and our business model is not sustainable. All content—including interviews and special features—is free online. If we charged readers to access our online journal, how many people would pay? Not many. We charge $5 to submit. We charge $15 per print journal. We have a Substack subscription for $60.00 per year wherein each subscriber receives our biannual journals and an “Atta-girl” for supporting independent publishing.

On the other hand, we have many expenses. Here are a few.

• Even with the CLMP discount, we pay $290 annually for Submittable services. In 2021, we paid $184.00 for Submittable. To be clear, Submittable is an incredibly valuable resource. It would be very difficult to duplicate Submittable’s back end and reliability.

• In 2010, we paid $83.00 for website hosting. In 2023, we’ve already paid $419.00.

• In 2010, we paid nothing for plugins (digital functionality, security, and pay gateways). Every little digital thing has been monetized. In 2023, we’ve already paid over $400.00.

• The bulk of our annual budget goes toward paying over 60-80 contributors, interviewers, a typesetter, and a visual artist (for spot illustrations).

I asked our Managing and Fiction Editor, Chelsea Laine Wells, about what she’s noticed since we’ve been charging a submission fee. She told me this:

Certainly our preference would be to offer a completely barrier-free experience with no submission fees but submission fees are a necessary evil in terms of publication costs and other expenditures. However, as Fiction Editor I noticed—and my readers noticed—a marked increase in quality and adherence to our standards once the submission fees were introduced. As a writer myself, I feel this is because a submission fee naturally brings about a more intentional submission process. Recently when I had a piece of my own that I wanted to submit I carefully researched publications that were appropriate for the piece and had a strong track record of high-quality publications. The literary magazine that I selected had a submission fee that I did not mind paying because it was clear that it was the right magazine for the piece and that they were doing good work. This is the kind of thoughtful submission that Hypertext wants and that we have seen since the submission fee was introduced.

Nonfiction Editor Anita Gill added in a note to me:

I agree with Chelsea that the quality of submissions has improved once a standard submission fee was put in place. As a writer myself, I look at submission fees as my way of supporting literary organizations. It goes without saying that literature and the arts are the programs that suffer the most in times of crisis, yet they are also the most necessary.

Literary journals are often the first place writers find a home for their work. At Hypertext, 94% of what we publish comes from our slush pile (we solicit poetry). In 2021, we published 59 contributors from a variety of backgrounds. Five were first-time published writers.

To champion unknown and emerging writers, our editors log in countless hours reading submissions and working with writers to perfect accepted pieces. We take pride in the considerable effort it takes to put writing—often the writing of marginalized and emerging writers and/or writing the commercial marketplace deems unworthy—into the world. Since 2017, six Hypertext nonfiction contributors have earned “Notable” nods from The Best American Essays editors. A first-time published writer was recently recognized by the PEN/Robert R. Dau Prize for Emerging Writers.

We’re committed to all of these efforts. Yet it’s a struggle to stay afloat with very little money coming in.

We understand that some writers will refuse to pay a submission fee. Nonetheless we hope that being transparent about why we charge a fee and how we use that money will put writers at ease. We encourage other publishers who charge submission fees to do the same.

Our mission is to publish lit journals—online and in print. We at Hypertext would love to find a better way forward than charging submission fees and, at our last editorial meeting, discussed options for those who simply can’t afford them (to enact in Fall 2023). Until then, a nominal submission fee is the price we charge to support the important service we provide: Publishing the work of writers we cherish but whom the commercial marketplace doesn’t always support.

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