Why Do You Think They Call it "Submission"?
by Diana J. WynneThis is the day a writer lives her whole life for: The New York Times just left a message to say they want to buy my story. Their caller ID claims their number is 111-111-1111.
Selling a story is like persuading a Fortune 500 company to create a position just for you, as resident bohemian. Competition is fierce. MFA programs churn out aspiring Stephen Kings and Alice Sebolds, each hoping her phrasing will thrill the intern in charge of the slush pile and catapult her onto "Oprah" and "Charlie Rose." In reality, most literary magazines publish twice a year and pay "in copies." This means you don't have to pay to show your mom the family secrets you just revealed in The Iowa Review.
For years, I survived on the quality of rejections. Occasionally they moved beyond xeroxed form letters so that a trace of encouragement might be detected by someone with a good imagination.
Grand Street complimented my story about growing up in casinos and wished me best of luck placing it elsewhere. (I'd have been more flattered if the editor hadn't run the stationery through upside-down.)
This American Life enjoyed reading about my grandfather's friend Frank Sturges, a Watergate burglar who's frequently implicated in Kennedy assassination theories, but didn't think it fit their upcoming schedule.
The agent at Carlisle: "While your book is incredibly fascinating and at times quite remarkable I just don't know that I could sell it."
Salon and McSweeney's encouraged me to send them more submissions. But when I sent Salon another story, I got exactly the same e-mail.
A writer lives on such inferred praise. When people you know compliment your writing, what they're really saying is, "of course I love you." It's not the same as knowing your story is good. Only a stranger can tell you that, preferably one from PenguinPutnam or William Morris.
Last summer, I got my first flattering e-mail from The New Yorker, which thanks to the anthrax scare no longer takes paper submissions:
"We?re [sic] sorry to say that this manuscript is not right for us, in spite of its evident merit. Unfortunately, we are receiving so many submissions that it is impossible for us to reply more specifically."
It's rumored The New Yorker pays a dollar a word. In just one story, I could recoup what I'd spent renewing my subscription over the years, painstakingly addressing envelopes to myself while hoping I would never receive them. (A SASE can only mean rejection. When they buy your story, they call.)
In between rejections, I published column-length essays and wrote much longer ones. I found it was easy to sell travel pieces; everyone needs a story on Angkor Wat. Readers of my relationship stories sent sympathetic e-mails: "I really enjoyed the article and can relate to some of your distresses." Maybe I could get a job as a romance counselor.
But now I was going to have a story in The Times Sunday Travel, if I could survive the standards of their editorial department. The best travel market in the country - in English, really. I had arrived.
The New York Times required that I use real names, places, and dates. No pseudonyms! This was a little worrisome, writing about various romances on a trip to New Zealand. I hoped that Mrs. Wakamatsu and her friends did not subscribe to the Times.
After months of careful copyediting, the Times renamed "Men Traveling Alone," publishing it as "Unattached on the Road," like it was some kind of some kind of swinging singles piece. (At least they paid $1 a word.)
When the article ran, cousins and former classmates called to congratulate me. One suggested I seemed a little lost, roaming the world, looking for a connection. Maybe this is why my mother seemed more disapproving than proud. My dentist, on the other hand, showed my story to all his patients.
My life is not different now that I have a story in The New York Times.
I still have stacks of unpublished manuscripts and bills, and most of my payment went to printer cartridges. Terry Gross hasn't called. I don't pal around with Toni Morrison or have soulful talks with Anne Lamott or Dave Eggers. If once I dreamed about being featured with Michael Chabon and other up-and-coming writers, today I still print out unsolicited submissions before mailing them off to Granta and The Atlantic, hoping one of them hits.
But I resist sending a query to Harper's, determined not to blow my one chance with Lewis Lapham, as if not being rejected were somehow better than once again submitting to a writer's destiny: be read or be forgotten. All I need is that story in The New Yorker, though, and I can retire.
Diana J. Wynne lives in San Francisco. Her essays on travel and politics have appeared in The New York Times, The Christian Science Monitor, RawStory ("Fossils"), Ms. Magazine, Exquisite Corpse ("The Ballad of Curly_Sue"), and the San Jose Mercury News. She is still waiting for Lewis Lapham to call.