Lit Mags Don't Need to Hold My Hand

(a writer's report)

When I started out publishing essays and short stories back in the 80s, rejection slips were pretty standard in terms of their template. They were brief, business-like, blunt: Thanks. Didn’t work for us.

The words might vary somewhat, but the message was the same. Sometimes I was invited to try again, sometimes not. Well, usually not, and that was okay.

It was a big deal when I started to get notes scrawled on the photocopied form rejections, signed or unsigned, and better still, actual letters. Though sometimes editors or readers could go overboard. A story of mine that was later included in a University of Nebraska Press anthology got an over-the-top response from a famous lit mag. The reader wrote two double-spaced pages explaining to me how and why my story should have the detail and depth of Balzac.

This made me laugh. I’d read and admired Lost Illusions, Cousin Bette, Père Goriot, and Eugénie Grandet. But my story wasn’t aiming for the kind of Balzacian social and cultural detail and the letter felt less like a suggestion than a tirade.

But of course nothing beat the terse response to my first collection of short stories which included this deathless assessment: “I don’t much like your metaphors and such.”

I went on to publish 27 books including two collections of short stories and several essay collections.

During the isolation of the pandemic, I found myself drawn back to both of those genres. My luck at finding editors who resonated to my work has been good in the last two and half years: I’ve published close to sixty essays about travel, family, illness and more, plus several new short stories. Many editors haven’t just congratulated me for the work, quite a few have been laudatory in very specific and gratifying ways. One even wished we were neighbors so she could have a coffee with me and discuss the piece in detail. That was pretty cool.

But along with those acceptances, there’s been an annoying trend in the rejections: a sometimes grotesque attempt to soften the blow. I don’t mind the email saying “We’re sorry, but—” I do mind when whoever designed the rejection feels they have to assuage my apparent trauma and protect my presumed fragile ego.

I’ve been told how they’re writers too and they know how hard it is to submit my writing, how courageous I am to put my words out into the universe, and how difficult it must be to be rejected and they’re so very grateful I shared my work. On and on to the point of unctuousness.

Today I got a rejection saying that they were sorry to give me bad news at a time when life is so dark. Seriously? How do they know every recipient feels that way? My life is actually quite sunny right now thanks to a new voice teacher and some other very positive developments.

I also have to wonder about the rejections that say something about your submission not be right for them “at this time” but don’t say when it might have been or might be in the future. Obviously it’s just filler and you’re not meant to ask when the time is right. Note to editors: how about skipping that phrase altogether?

Then there the rejections that attempt to be jocular, along the lines of “We’re gonna rip off the bandage right away and hit you with the news you really don’t want to hear.”

What I don’t want to hear is what almost feels like an apology. Or feels like an attempt to protect themselves from a crazed response or maybe even litigation due to the writer’s feelings having been hurt.

Writing is an art, but it’s also a business, and there’s nothing wrong with a simple rejection that doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard.

Lev Raphael escaped academia years ago to write and review full time and has seen his work appear in more than a dozen languages, most of which he cannot speak.

He edits, coaches, and mentors writers at writewithoutborders.com.

(Photo by OSPAN ALI on Unsplash)