Editor's Note: Everyone has different motivations for sitting down with a notebook or keyboard and creating art. For some of us, it’s purely about the process, with little to do with the outcome. For some of us, it’s about building a bridge between our work and an audience who will appreciate it. In order to find readers, we eventually need to submit to journals, presses, and agents with the hope it will end up in print somewhere. For many writers, this is the most daunting part of the process—the part where a lot of people get stuck. In this issue’s craft essay, three RWW faculty put on their editor hats and offer thoughts on the publishing process. Hopefully, their words will encourage you to take the next step.

 

Kelli Russell Agodon

When I sat down to write this, I knew I didn’t want to lecture you. I wanted to share a few lessons I wish I’d known earlier. So let me take you back to a younger me: black beret and leather jacket stitched entirely from misguided ideas about publishing.

I’ll start with the “mistakes.” And I put mistakes in quotes because they weren’t really mistakes—they led me here. But some were . . . cringey.

In my twenties, I quit a corporate job to be a poet. I was both highly sensitive and overly confident—like being made of tissue paper and glitter. I thought editors were waiting for my brilliance. I even wrote a poem in English and broken French, convinced it would get me into The Paris Review. I mailed those poems with a cover letter that basically said: I left my job for my true calling—poetry—and look forward to working with you! As if we already had lunch plans.

Of course, rejection followed. I assumed: I must be terrible. And honestly, I wasn’t great yet. But I joined a writing group, read books, stopped submitting for a while, and focused on craft. Slowly, my poems got better.

Later, as co-editor of Crab Creek Review and co-founder of Two Sylvias Press, I saw the other side of publication. Here are five myths I once believed—and what I’ve learned since.

Myth #1: Rejection means I’m not good.
Reality: Sometimes work needs revision. But sometimes rejection has nothing to do with quality. A journal may have run out of space or published something similar in the previous issue, or maybe an editor missed your name on the back of a paper (true story from my desk). Rejection is not always about you.

Myth #2: I should send work that matches a journal’s vibe.
Reality: Kind of, but don’t become a chameleon. Once, without reading guidelines, I sent a funny poem to a journal that wanted “serious work” and they published it. Had I read that guideline, I wouldn’t have sent it. So now I’ll send four poems I think they’ll like and one I’m sure they’ll hate—it’s usually that one that gets accepted.

Myth #3: Editors only publish friends.
Reality: Some corners are exclusive, but I believe editors just want the best work. Once at Two Sylvias, we had to choose between two manuscripts we loved. One author had four books; the other was unpublished. We picked the debut—not for sales, but because launching a new voice into the world felt good to us.

Myth #4: Cover letters don’t matter.
Reality: Yes and no. They do—a thoughtful letter can reinforce connection, but I read the work before the cover letter so I am not biased. Also—luck, timing, and someone falling in love with your work play a big role.

Myth #5: The perfect press exists.
Reality: Even the best presses will both thrill and disappoint you. Some answer emails slowly but throw you a book party. Some let you choose your cover art but have no promo budget. No press—or person—is perfect.

And one bonus myth: Publication will make me feel like a real writer.

Not necessarily. Imposter syndrome exists. For me, the real work is staying in love with the process, poem after poem. So keep writing. Let your work out into the world. The reward isn’t publication—it’s the writing itself.

 

Wendy Call

Editing anthologies—I just finished my fourth one—is an act of love. So, here’s a love letter.

 

 

Beloved anthology contributor,

I know that we aren’t actually lovers yet and maybe this is just cosplay, but let’s roll with it. Otherwise, this might become a Dear John letter, and neither of us wants that. Here’s how to make this relationship work—at least for a little while.

First, let’s give each other the benefit of the doubt. If you can assume that I didn’t mean to offend you when I copyedited your manuscript, I will assume that you aren’t a sloppy slacker, even though you misspelled several proper names in your bio, including the titles of literary journals that have published your work and one of your own books.

Second, when we make a date, please do not stand me up. Deadlines are deadlines, sweetness. I know that life happens, but when it does, please let me know earlier, rather than later. You might not have realized it, but this little tryst is actually a threesome. I am merely a go-between: the lowly anthology editor who raises my own stipend (from donations) because the publisher has a tight budget, and I want you to be paid. Yes, I know that payment from the publisher is a pittance and it is not at all what your luminous words are worth.

Third, whatever method you give me to contact you, please use it. If you only gave me an email address, please check your email. If I have to text you because you don’t ever read your email, please don’t throw a fit.

Fourth, although I do want you to feel like the only one, the truth is: I’m dating thirty-five different writers right now (after turning down another 465 or so who also wanted to be on this particular hot date). When I suggest some small changes to your manuscript, before you resist or become enraged, please consider: You are only one flower in a big, beautiful garden—a garden that you have not yet seen. I might need to wield the pruning shears so that each of you thirty-five lovelies can bask in your little bit of sun.

Fifth, let me apologize in advance for the inevitable moment when I ask you to do something on a tight timeline. Yes, I realize that you have other lovers, too. Even though I’m snuggled between you and the publisher in bed, they are ultimately the one who sets the terms of this relationship for both of us.

And finally, when we take our relationship public on the anthology’s publication date, please be loud and proud about our time together. Don’t duck and hide like some loser CEO at a Coldplay concert. Oh, what a literary anthology editor would give for three seconds on a JumboTron! Let’s not blow it, my dear.

Hugs and kisses,
Wendy

  

Aram Mrjoian

During AWP last year, I experienced a frustrating trend. I’d estimate eight out of ten people who approached the Michigan Quarterly Review table opened their conversation with some version of the same three questions: Are you open for submissions? Can I send you something? Can I address my cover letter to you and mention that we met at AWP?

Very few people asked about what kinds of work we published or what our editors were excited about, or even bothered to flip through the print issues organized across the table in front of them. I watched writers rush from booth to booth trying to check off their suck-up list without showing genuine enthusiasm for the places from which they hoped to see their writing enter the world. It seemed to me they imagined their art as a commodity that could be sold to anyone if only they knocked on enough doors.

Most of the time, I fear we’ve jumped the shark on talking about publishing. Best practices, at this point, are readily available online, but everyone is still trying to find shortcuts and formulas. Students, acquaintances, and randos incessantly ask me about what makes writing “publishable” as if there’s a singular answer that I just refuse to tell them. Perhaps I am an idealist in that I believe the best work usually finds its way to the right editor at the right time. But my editorial sense is that many writers will struggle to make the progress they strive for because they’re more interested in sending out large quantities of passable work to amass CV lines than they are in taking risks that make their writing memorable.

For this reason, to be deemed “publishable” is often nothing more than a label of mediocre proficiency. Publication on its own is not a sure marker of quality or longevity. Literary publications are subjective and as likely as any other enterprise to be littered with human error, nepotism, burnt-out employees, and capitalistic reasoning. What I want as an editor is not necessarily writing that is fully resistant to or operating outside of commercial structures, but writing that does demonstrate an understanding of how to selectively navigate the artificial barriers imposed by the creative writing machine. I want writing that is measured and polished far past the mundane designation of “publishability,” that pushes beyond the boundaries of simply being good enough.

As an editor, I honestly don’t want you to give me a second thought while the work is in its early stages. I don’t want to be pandered to. I want you to write whatever aligns with your artistic vision and goals, then revise like hell, make it the best it can be—you’ll definitely need to go back and revise more, assume that when you think it’s good enough it’s probably still a mile away, and then, finally, when you’ve exhausted yourself, when you’ve decided you never want to look at the damn thing again, wait a month and come back to it one more time, then do your research, read curiously from venues where you imagine your work living, and be brutally honest with yourself if it is a good fit. If you’ve done your homework, it makes my decision easy.