How to Make a Literary Magazine Submission

The hardest part is choosing what to submit. The second hardest part is finding a position where the downstairs bodega’s Wi-Fi reaches your laptop. From your room, you can hear your parents arguing over the potential tax benefits of divorce, but you need to concentrate. You remember the inverse correlation between stable homes and success. 

You think of how you’ll return the laptop to your upstairs neighbor Jared. Stealthy, if possible, since he doesn’t know you borrowed it. The Wi-Fi finally connects as you perform yoga position 17 from the book you also borrowed from Jared. You reread the title and realize the book wasn’t about yoga. 

You decide to stop borrowing his stuff… 

 …Battery Low… 

 …after you take the laptop charger.

By this point, you should have proofread your work. If you’re an editor low on caffeine, a submission riddled with errors will be an easy target for rejection. Alternatively, you could submit your work as is to preserve its “mystique.” See how that goes. 

Once you’ve selected your work, follow your childhood friend’s advice and “strategize.” That’s what he did when he vanished to join a commune. Don’t follow your father’s advice and “quit while you’re behind.” 

You remember how your friend bought back copies of a magazine, stalked the editors on social media, and analyzed the literary traditions of the staff’s demographics to improve his chances of an acceptance. Sure, you’ll want to research, but don’t get obsessive unless you have to. Anyway, each time you refresh a page, an ad pops up inviting you to meet singles in your area. So keep the browsing to a minimum. Most of these editors and writers have their names plastered everywhere. You judge them for it even though it's what you want most. 

Check to see what kind of stories the magazine publishes. If they don’t take “genre” fiction, don't submit anything that’s remotely unrealistic or fun. It’s not like realism is a genre anyway. If they say something vague like “our magazine publishes stories that defy existing conventions” that means they’ll take anything but want to sound cool about it. 

You put in your earbuds as the discussion between your parents devolves into a shouting match. 

Write a cover letter. It’s a good way to humanize yourself before sending your work to a faceless cabinet of digital files. Try to address the editors by name, but don’t overdo the familiarity aspect. You’re not on their softball team or anything. 

Prove you’ve done your research but keep the letter simple but make sure the masthead is up to date but don’t forget to change it for each submission but don’t make it too long but don’t worry about it. 

Whatever you do, don’t describe your work in the letter. Nobody wants to read a submission whose cover letter begins with “Dear editors, I’m confident my poem about sentient toasters will redefine modern literature.” Let your work speak for itself. 

Mention in your letter whether your piece is a simultaneous submission. If they don’t allow simultaneous submissions, consider whether you’d be willing to wait months to submit that piece again. You’ll never prove yourself at that pace. Or, if you’re feeling lucky, submit it anyway. Pretty bold of you to assume they’d read your work anytime soon. 

Don’t screw with the margins of the document, unless you think you can do something new. What if you squeezed it down so only one letter fits in each line? You could be credited with starting a new form of literature, as well as a shortage of paper. 

Somewhere between formatting your submission and triple-checking the guidelines, you hear Jared stomping upstairs. You picture him searching for his laptop. You tell yourself you’ll return it. Later. Once you send your submission and your parents stop arguing. 

Use a simple font like Times New Roman. It’ll look ugly. Ugly enough for you to think all creativity in the world has died. But remember, it’s for the editors. Alternatively, you could pick an edgy font like Papyrus and hope the editors welcome irony. Reminder: they won’t. Don’t put your name in the document unless asked to. You remember there were a few people in your creative writing classes you should have been nicer to. You hope they didn’t become editors. 

Remember to double-space your document. Or you could triple-space it so the editors will have more room to draw elaborate disdainful doodles. They’d appreciate that. 

Look for a word limit. Some magazines cut off flash fiction at 1500 words, others at 1000. Still others at 750. You check the definition of flash fiction just to make sure you aren’t crazy. You aren’t, but some editors are. You wonder if one word too many will make a difference.  

The Wi-Fi cuts out so you adjust your position until it reconnects. Position 9. It makes you feel happy in a way you barely understand. 

Check how the magazine wants you to submit your piece. They might use a common submission engine, or email if their sponsor screwed them (or they just hate themselves). If they say they accept mailed manuscripts, it's a trap. Go ahead, dinosaur. Send forty envelopes before you get your first acceptance. You don’t even know where the post office is. 

Make sure you’re not submitting anything that you’ve already published. That includes online. That one friend who told you to put stories on your blog? Beat his ass. It's his fault some of these magazines won’t take your work now. Alternatively, you could get rid of your blog before submitting and no one will ever know. You could also submit something you’ve published but using a different name. Then you’ll see how long it takes for the literary community to notice (it will be a long time). 

Your parents stop yelling. Perhaps they remembered you were there. 

Try to submit in the middle of the day when editors are less likely to reject your submission on a whim. Of course, they will look at your submission whenever they please, which might be right after a breakup or a car accident or an alien invasion. But at least you can give yourself the illusion of strategy. Submit your work at exactly 12:03 PM on a Wednesday during a waxing crescent moon for best results. You open your window to look at the moon and a rancid odor hits you. You decide the moon looks fine the way it is. 

If they let you submit more than one piece, make sure to send your best. Unless your best is too good for them, then send something worse. You imagine getting your first publication. You figure this moment will appear in your dreams since they’re always so realistic. Sorry, literary. 

Hit send and… 

The bodega Wi-Fi cuts out. You try refreshing the page. Nothing. You hide the laptop and sprint downstairs, begging the cashier to restart the connection. He takes his time. You pace around, deciding it’s only appropriate to purchase a bag of chips meanwhile. You rush back upstairs and the submission portal refreshes. The confirmation email pops up. You know you should feel relieved, but your mind cycles through the potential rejections as you wonder if this submission will mean anything to anyone but you. 

We’re sorry to tell you… 

Outside the door, your parents discuss who should keep the car. 

Your work does not fit the needs of this issue… 

Jared drunkenly raves in the stairway. 

Unfortunately, we won’t be able to publish… 

Your mother calls you for dinner. 

Our decision is in no way a reflection of your… 

You trip on the book of not-yoga poses as you leap off the bed, causing you to choke on a chip. Regrettably, we could not find a place for… 

You close the laptop screen. 

We have chosen not to go through with your… 

You can always submit again.