Why I Never Submit to Literary Magazines

"There was a little moment of fear. Was I making excuses? Was I afraid that I wasn’t actually good enough? Was I simply scared of rejection?"

Most great literary magazines in history only lasted a few issues, a few years (The Germ, The Dial, The Watchman) and were made by friends for friends. Sure, you’re no Ralph Waldo Emerson, no Margaret Fuller, no Samuel Taylor Coleridge. You are neither Christina nor Dante Rosetti. But your blood does boil for your essays, your stories, your poems. So now what?

I never submit my work to literary magazines.

This article may be a stone of stumbling to many who read it. After all, I live in the literary and educational cantons of Substack. It is possible that every single one of my Substack friends has submitted something to a lit magazine at some point. My intent is not to come off as superior. When it comes to my own literary production, my byword is what the man once said: dilige et quod vis fac. This is also my lemma when it comes to your literary fruit, and that only so far as it is my business, which is not at all.

I have been considering writing this for some time now. I hold the view that most literary magazines work against the making of good art and literature, narrowing rather than broadening artistry in our culture. So I have a positive reason for writing, in that there is some change I would like to see writers make.

Still, the thought that it’s not really my business made it easy for me to keep pushing this to the back of the pile.

The thought is true, but only half true. On the one hand, you have all the authority over your own work; like I said, quod vis fac. On the other, I believe that the world would be better if artists were more fully integrated into society, a thing which most literary magazines, among other artistic institutions, actively work against. So far as I wish to work for this possible betterment of literature, so far do I make this matter my business.

I finally got off my duff on this thing when a friend posted this article from

Lit Mag News

about a Narrative Magazine scam. In his words, “Embarrassed to say I fell for this scam. The definition of a grifter is someone who preys on the hopes and dreams of others.”

My friend is smart and educated. Most of us are familiar with crude scams like Bookleaf’s bogus poetry contests, which are effectively pay-to-publish schemes. The Narrative Magazine play isn’t aimed at the same audience. Rather than targeting “casuals” who have written a few lines and wonder if they’re secret geniuses, they take advantage of dedicated artists who are putting real work into their craft. Instead of fleecing daydreamers, the literarians behind Narrative have covered themselves in the trappings necessary to deceiving even the faithful, i.e. those who strain toward hopes and dreams. In the elegance of its presentation, Narrative becomes more cruel than Bookleaf.

This article is not about scams, but it is about the manipulations of hopes and dreams. It’s about putting yourself in unhealthy power dynamics. It’s about the preservation of your soul and the construction of a blessful community.

---

As a writer, I consider myself primarily a poet. Returning readers of this Substack will see that this article riffs on themes similar to those in an earlier article, On Being a Public Poet, Especially Occasional.

As an undergrad (late 90s) at the University of Florida I was an active poet. Most of what I mean by that is that I wrote poetry somewhat dedicatedly, but there was a bit more to it. I worked at the original location of Common Grounds, and would read at the open mics there. I would host events, or attend those of friends; we often mixed music with poetry. I sought out books of poetry and always picked up literary magazines with interest. In those days, of course, everything was printed; nothing “serious” was published exclusively online.

I distinctly remember a moment of clarity I experienced during that time as I leafed through a university-affiliated magazine of poetry.

I wondered about submitting a poem to them, and the moment I had that thought, two others sprang to mind: they would never publish my poetry and I wouldn’t want them to publish my poetry. My poetry was unlike anything in the magazine; most of what I read in it I didn’t like, and the editors would not like what I did.

There was a little moment of fear. Was I making excuses? Was I afraid that I wasn’t actually good enough? Was I simply scared of rejection?

At Common Grounds open mics my poetry stood out for its quality.

I confess I wrote that to be provocative. Sorry.

I don’t mean quality in the sense of degree of excellence. I mean quality in the more philosophical sense of properties and attributes. All the other poetry at these events was deconstructive and bellybutton-gazing (these were birth-of-emo times); mine was bright and brash and lyrical. Their poetry would often turn to rants; mine was controlled.

It was a pleasure to share my poetry with that audience. There was no hostility from that group¹, but neither was there resonance. I had never been tempted to change for them, and the cleanness of that thought gave me confidence as I leafed through the magazine.

---

I started a zine. We published maybe a half-dozen issues over a couple of years. I would walk into local businesses, or up to friends, and ask them for twenty, thirty, fifty dollars to cover printing costs. I was dating the woman who would become my wife, and she was a visual artist. We sought out work from our friends that would render well in black and white. I asked poets and musicians I knew for their verses. And of course, Kimberly and I heavily featured our own work. I would leave copies at a few likely local joints, but mostly these were for our friends. We were talking to each other, and building each other up.

---

My father reached the top of his field. Seriously. He became a global authority on the thing he did.

He did not follow a standard path to that recognition.

After getting his doctorate from M.I.T. he went into the private sector. He wouldn’t keep a job. Not couldn’t, but wouldn’t. He would not suffer fools, so we moved every year.

Eventually he returned to academia. He got a post-doctorate, then a position at the University of Florida. He was frustrated by the work, wanting to do research and avoid teaching undergrads.

He abandoned his academic pretensions and started a company with some research friends. The company built time in for him to do some research, so he started writing. And publishing. And publishing some more. He was out of the academy but was suddenly publishing in peer-reviewed journals at a ridiculous rate, some years getting three or four papers published.

He’s mostly retired now, but he spent the last twenty years back in academia, this time doing exactly what he wanted. He’d built himself an entire career in the academy from the outside, without doing the institutional time.

---

I suppose the point of that story about my dad could be something like blaze your own trail! Or more amply: Ignore lit mags and just write, your genius will impose itself on the literary world whether they like it or not!

But no. The point is not that I inherited my father’s virtues, but his vices, and I have fought against them since I realized it.

To be clear, I’m glad I’m the way I am. I just want to temper myself away from the temptations intrinsic thereto, as I’m sure my father has wanted to in his own life.

Virtue: I am confident in my ideas and free of shame when wrong. Vice: I am impatient with careful people.

Virtue: I don’t see enterprise or achievement institutionally. Vice: some institutions do great things, and I struggle to fit in if I’m not in charge.

In my early to mid twenties, having been married for three or four years and enjoying the fruits of a developing theology/anthropology and a great church community, I had a conversation with my dad.

I had experienced something of an epiphany. What I had to say to him will probably sound silly to most people, since their own angst is elsewhere. But it was a big deal for me.

“I’m going to start caring about what other people think.”

My father was upset, truly distressed for my sake.

---

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

John Donne, Meditation XVII, Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions

---

Your desire to be recognized as a writer is a good thing. Your instinct that you cannot be excellent or know excellence without other people is a good one. You do not write for yourself, no matter what the belly-button gazer might say; you write to bless others, even if your blessings be hard or dark.

Take me with a grain of salt, for I confess that it is easy for me to go unacknowledged as an artist; it is one of the mixed blessings my father gave me. I recognize that acknowledgment from others is its own form of motivation and blessing. You must take it on faith that I empathize with the desire, to some degree, but as one evidence I present the reminder that I am married to a visual artist. We both want to be taken seriously in our work; we both have to manage how that manifests itself.

We all want to be great; we should want to be great. And greatness cannot exist in a closet, or in some archive of folders in the cloud.

So how has my decision to care about what other people think manifested itself artistically? If I want to be published, why am I not willing to at least try with lit mags?

At last we arrive at something like a list.

---

Lit mags are impersonal.

Which is worse, receiving a rejection letter or receiving no response at all?

Lit mags are arbitrary.

I mean this in both senses of the word. For one, you are submitting yourself to the arbitration of people who don’t know you or respect you. That is relatively harmless, certainly if you have a thick skin. The other meaning is the more harmful. I have been in and around the literary and book world for many years. Many small magazines do work hard to give each submission its due, but the pressures of efficiency always dominate. And the bigger the reputation and reach of the publication, the more subject to factory efficiencies will their process be. Even knowing this, many people submit their writings to such magazines. It’s like playing the lottery. Is the prize worth the effect the process has on your art and your psyche?

Lit mags warp your writing.

This one risks being overly righteous, but writing to be published rather than to say your thing excellently seems more like technical writing than creative writing. It is morally neutral (I’ve written a textbook, and I can’t wait to come out later this year), but if your poetics have publication or acknowledgment as their end, you will drift into mediocrity.

Lit mags limit my potential audience. Lit mags are written for lit mag readers.

I want to talk to my friends, who are regular people. Austin works in construction, and manages the rugby club with me. Robert is some kind of app developer, and used to be the lead singer of a Christian band. Valerie loves my audiobook readings, which makes it easy for me to like her, but she’s an editor and sometimes she points out errors in my tweets. They don’t read lit mags.

I want to talk to people whose quotidian loves are like mine. People who are raising kids, growing gardens, homeschooling, trying out new beers, trying to get to church on time. They don’t read lit mags.

---

So…what? Is the message to not even try to be published?

No, of course not. It is wonderful to be published. It is wonderful to be read. If you are interested, I again refer you to my Public Poet post, which tells a version of my journey of publication.

You should be ambitious. You should want to be published. You should want to be published by people more awesome than you, who have judged your work awesome.

I just think you should stay away from most lit mags. You should stay away from people who are part of an industry that makes you a product. You should avoid seeking the approval of gatekeepers unless you’re really really sure you want to be inside their gates.

And if the reason you write is simply the approval of critics or other writers, perhaps you should reevaluate your calling as a writer.

Depending on the kind of writer you are, different avenues of publication may be open to you. I had a poem published in an educational journal. A theology website published another. Have you ever sent a short story to Rolling Stone? to Southern Living? to Angler’s Journey? to Montgomery Neighbors? to Tabletop Gaming? to Senet Magazine?

Have you ever asked your hobbyist/political/culinary/tradwife/activist/painter friend to publish something of yours on his website? Why not? You’re friends. Don’t you value his opinion?

Is it because it’s easier to be rejected by strangers? Is it because you’re afraid of his pity? Get over yourself.

Remember when I told you that I had a poem published in an educational journal? Well, I offered. The editor-in-chief is a friend, who I know respects my work. If you don’t have friends like that, just wait. You will. And you won’t even have to be mercenary about it, just earnest.

---

The itch you want lit mags to scratch is legitimate. I want to propose to you a much more salutary solution, one that I think will do more than scratch. I offer you the calamine lotion of community.

Build one.

Not like an influencer builds one, although that’s fine, and real, as far as it goes.

I mean, start talking to people, and talking seriously. Speak earnestly of earnest things with writers and non-writers alike. First date? Tell her about the story you’re working on now. In your own mind, it’s one of the most important things you’re doing. Shouldn’t she know about it? Just…make sure you follow your mom’s advice and don’t talk too much. Becoming friends with that other young dad from church? Tell him about the story. Going to model train club? Same.

That’s how it starts. Be earnest and purposeful.

I mean, start talking to writers, and talking seriously. Tell yourself you’re a writer. Find people who will take you seriously, seriously enough to respect you and seriously enough to cut you. Substack is great for that. Your friend group has secret writers; sus them out.

Of course, if you’ve built a community, it’s going to bear fruit. Do we here arrive at the great hypocrisy of me telling you not to submit to lit mags, but to start one of your own?

Well, yes. Kind of.

I truly believe that breadth and generosity (not size) of your community and audience is the great panacea to what ails the arts today. Produce fruit lots of kinds of people can eat.

I believe we should be rebuilding the artistic world into something more joyful. The next thing to do, when your community is producing its own fruit, is to seek out more gardeners and orchards. Are you publishing something? You do the work. You find the people you want to publish and improve. You ask them.

---

I love literature. I like magazines. How could I not love literary magazines?

I’m not warning you off cooking and eating. I’m warning you off processed foods.

---

Most great literary magazines in history only lasted a few issues, a few years (The Germ, The Dial, The Watchman) and were made by friends for friends. You’re no Ralph Waldo Emerson, no Margaret Fuller, no Samuel Taylor Coleridge. You are neither Christina nor Dante Rosetti. But your blood does boil for your essays, your stories, your poems.

Obviously, if you have no friends of like mind, that’s the first problem to solve.

If one day you find that you and your friends are processing the writing of others as if you were a factory conveyor belt, sell it to someone and move on.

And finish that freaking book already.

---

Hey, if you think you like what I do, check out my big project.

1. I will not speak of the satanic eucharist someone once held on that stage.