Stepping Away from the Submission Game
A few nights ago, I received a response from a literary magazine to which I had submitted three poems. As soon as I saw it in my inbox, starting with the usual, “Thank you for…,” I knew the gist of it already. Some variation of, “Though we appreciate the opportunity to read [inserted names of poems here], we regretfully could not accept them/we felt they weren’t right for our journal/we couldn’t find a place to fit them in our current issue. Best of luck placing them elsewhere/good luck with your writing/please refrain from submitting again for x number of months.”
Over the past decade or so, I’ve probably submitted my work to dozens, if not hundreds, of magazines, contests, workshops, and residencies. I’ve spent hours scouring the web for potential publications, open submission calls, editor interviews, and advice from other writers, and I’ve trickled away more money in total on $3 reading fees than I can bear to add up. And I’ve been wondering lately — for what?
When it comes to the residencies and contests, there’s a clear goal: to be given the space and time to write or to win a monetary prize. Of course, the fees for residency applications and contest entries will make most writers pause, often resting somewhere between $20 and $60 for each. That’s not even considering the fact that, no matter how “niche” or relatively unadvertised a residency or contest may be, you can bet they’ll still receive an incredible amount of submissions. After a while, it’s hard not to feel like you’re simply there to keep the lights on.
But what about literary magazines and journals? Browsing through Chill Subs (the most recent tool to find publications), you can see that there are over 2000 outlets that accept poetry submissions (most with reading fees but some without). If you’ve spent any amount of time submitting work over the internet, you might think, “There’s got to be at least a handful of places on that list whose editors/readers feel one or two of my pieces align with their aesthetic values!”
Of course, being the dutiful submitter that you are, you always read the “Submission Guidelines” for your genre, which often include such statements as:
Please do not send any work that uses this common literary tool or form (for poetry, that tends to be rhyme, no matter if it’s end rhyme, internal, half, or just part of your style).
Please only submit new work that deals directly with our current issue’s theme (whether that theme be a vague, abstract concept or a very specific object or detail).
Please do not send work that has ever stepped one toe beyond its original Google Doc or Word document. Personal blogs, Facebook groups, and family headstones are all considered publications.
Please only submit work that jolts our bones, scars our hearts, turns us inside out, and forces us to restitch ourselves whole again!
Whatever an outlet puts in their guidelines is their prerogative—it’s their outlet after all. And as a former editor of two college literary journals, I get it. You want your publication to be unique, to feature work that exhibits the styles, perspectives, and topics that you (and/or your team of editors) deem worthy of the space you have. This inevitably results in a limited number of acceptances and a majority of rejections.
And I’d be lying if I said that it wasn’t a real, honest-to-god thrill to finally receive that “acceptance” after sending out a piece a dozen or more times. In the comment sections of lit mag-focused platforms, I’ve seen other writers post that they keep 20-50 active submissions going at all times, fashioning a ready-made group of pieces for another journal the moment they get a rejection. Even though I’ve never been as committed as that, with months-long gaps here and there due to everyday obligations, I’ve watched my Submittable page fill up with blue “Received” buttons just as well, waiting weeks, months, or years for that “Thank you for…” response to land in my inbox again.
In the meantime, the old poems get pushed aside for new, obviously better poems (because they’re new). Those get submitted, rejected, rejected, rejected, pushed aside, and the cycle repeats. And some iffy or truly bad poems are recognized as such and die an honorable death, but some good poems languish in the back alley of a Google Drive folder, slowly getting scooched into the “bad poems” category over time.
It might be worth it if there was a greater chance of getting genuine critiques in the process. Sure, certain journals have a “feedback” option these days, costing between $10 and $50 for each submission, and it’s nice to have that option, but every editor or group of editors will have different suggestions based on their preferences and experiences. And accepting the suggestions of one editor won’t get you into that journal or another journal with a different set of editors. Why not join a critique or accountability group then? Or a workshop? Again, those are great options to have, but they generally cost money, too. (And that’s not even getting into the discussion about whether or not people feel that they can truly critique poetry these days, or if the genre should simply be treated as a pure expression of the soul.)
So beyond the possibility of an acceptance, what am I getting? Fame, money, connections? (Ha! No.) More importantly, how is it affecting my writing? Is it making me better, making me more determined to develop my skills, hone my craft? Or is it making me hesitate, making me question my instincts if my poem doesn’t challenge any literary traditions? Some writers may remark that anyone who feels affected by the “submission game” is not really in it for the writing. I think many who participate, though, would agree that it does affect them, as it’s “proof” that your work is complete, that it’s been validated by someone outside of yourself or your circle of friends, that it exists in the world.
It’s the smallest, most fleeting experience (as your poem soon falls into the deep, dark archive of a Weebly website), yet that feeling is what keeps the whole thing churning—the submission calls and reading fees and contests and $100 workshops that profess to give you just the right recipe for increasing your acceptance rate. And it is a wonderful feeling, isn’t it? And for many wonderful writers, it’s worth it—they’re absolutely committed and it works for them. But, for me, the desire for this feeling seems to be taking up more space in my mind that could be used for writing and without any real benefits.
You might ask, then what am I doing here, now, telling you this? Well, I guess I’ve decided to try my own version of publication—one in which I would not only post my poetry and prose (including drafts and reflections on the writing process), but also host makeshift residencies and workshops for myself using the research and resources available to me. Finally, I’d like to explore and review the work of other poets, particularly those who don’t have long lists for their bios or hundreds of followers on their social media pages. During this time, I plan on submitting to few, if any, external publications.
By doing this, I hope to encourage myself to take more risks in my writing, to be more creative and more willing to explore different styles and techniques. Most of all, I just want to write more. Not worry about rejections or acceptances—just write. So that’s what I’m going to do.