I’ve been writing fiction, on and off, for roughly two decades now.
(I know, I know, I don’t look old enough. Thank you for your kind words.)
But 2021 – for whatever reason – is the first time I’ve ever made any effort to actually, you know, get my work published.
I’ve got the Duotrope subscription. I’ve got an ever-growing list of black-and-blue Submittable entries. I’ve been reading blogs entitled things like “THE 100 literary journals you NEED to KNOW” and “10 publishers who won’t spit in your face if you send them a novella”. And I’ve been waiting.
Because it’s pretty much all waiting really.
I’m looking at the “Estimated Response Times” of some of the journals and publishers I’ve submitted to as per Duotrope. 180 days. 237 days. 167 days. 228 days. 211 days. 240 days. 365 days. Imagine applying for a job and being told that you’d probably get a response some time a year from now, give or take.
It’s an endurance test.
It takes less time to conceive and have a baby than to get a response from many magazines.
Obviously I know why this is the case – almost all literary journals are reliant upon a subterranean network of unpaid labour, volunteers doing endless reading, sifting, recommending, rejecting – but I’d like to think the system won’t be this broken forever. If nothing else, it does absolutely nothing for the currency of creative writing if it takes 2-3 years from a piece’s inception to it actually maybe possibly being published somewhere.
On a personal level (and I know there’s nothing unique about this, I’m just trying to capture the experience for however many of us are in this endless limbo) it’s incredibly… what’s the word? Demoralising? A bit. Frustrating? A lot. But it’s mainly just a sort of endless delayed gratification which feels almost masochistic in nature.
I’ve written pieces of flash fiction in a couple of hours, less than a thousand words, submitted them just a few days later, but then will be waiting a whole year to get a one-line template rejection for them if I’m lucky?
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
But even when you get past the mail-merge responses, it’s not necessarily any more edifying.
I’m thinking of the reputable indie publisher who got in touch with me to say they liked the novel I had submitted to them. Amazing! They just wanted to collect some basic information on me to submit as part of their latest Arts Council funding bid… Could I tell them how I identify in terms of race, class and sexuality? Erm, bit intrusive, but sure! Oh, but this definitely didn’t mean they were making any commitment to publishing me. OK!
A few weeks later, a further flurry of emails arrive. They really like my novel, they just want to cut maybe 40,000 words from it and make every character related in some way (literally related – make these ones brother and sister, these ones father and daughter, etc, etc.), and if I do that then we can definitely meet up to discuss next steps. Of course, I’ll get cracking on all that!
(I mean, it is a long novel, c.140k words, but it’s not War and Peace, and you were the ones boasting about taking risks and experimenting with form, which is why I sent it to you in the first place…)
Oh hang on, actually on second thoughts they’d like me to do all the editing to their very specific requirements, but without any further input from them – and, now they come to think of it, I should probably cut 60,000 words – so I should do that entirely on my own and, if and when I resubmit, then I shouldn’t in any way expect a favourable response, or any response at all, because that will just signal the starting point for a possible, hypothetical chat on publishing my novel, and they won’t be talking about that in advance and please don’t try to contact them for at least the next four months as they have other, much more important priorities to focus on. Erm, that’s ok, I’m not really interested any more!
Wait, why did I need to tell you my sexuality again??
Then there are the prizes. We can all do the sums on how many entries x cost of entry and see how much income they generate. Which is fine by me. Cross-subsidising your press or journal through a prize, while also potentially identifying new talent, is a really smart idea. Big thumbs up.
But if you’re taking in thousands, or even tens of thousands, in entry fees, run it professionally at least. Don’t have your acknowledgment message from the 2018 Prize still going out to people in 2021. Don’t confidently state that you’ll be announcing your shortlist in May, then apparently forget all about the Prize until July, at which point you tell people it’s ok, all the entries have been received, don’t fret about that (well I wasn’t before!), but everyone should wait until August now for any further update.
Things happen, we understand, so at least try to explain it or, I don’t know, apologise for the delay? Sending your money and work off into the same black hole starts to feel a little unsatisfying after a while.
Anyway, fortunately it’s not all like that. I’ve had a lovely experience with another indie publisher who shortlisted a different work – a collection of short stories – for their next publication round, but ultimately went with another piece. Disappointing, yes, but they could not have been more transparent or responsive or encouraging throughout the process. And all turned around within c.6 weeks or so of their submission window too, which was truly incredible for full-length submissions.
Oh, and I’ve just had a first piece accepted for a lit mag which I really love. So that’s nice. And great communication from them throughout too. Seeing that piece in print later this year will be a very concrete reminder of why I started down this route in the first place…
A ARBOR, JULY 2021
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