The open book: what writers don’t tell writers about writing (part 6)

As I’ve worked, on and off, on this series, I’ve tried to consolidate the questions and blind spots I see (and have personally encountered) on creating — and thriving — in a writing career. I get asked, and see others asked, what the single best piece of advice they can give to writers just starting out…and the best answer, across the board, is to read. Read everything. Read, read, read. Reading does more to help develop voice, style, and a sense of narrative shape than a hundred writing workshops will.

It’s never the answer people like to hear. But it’s true, nonetheless.

The second best answer is: write. Write a lot. Write garbage. Write well. Doesn’t matter. But write something, revise it, finish it — and repeat. For the first several hundred thousand words, no one writes anything worth much, usually. Maybe you’ll glean a story or two from it. But don’t assume that this is when you’re productive. Assume this is when you are learning to be productive.

This is also very true, somewhat unpleasant advice. And I give it, along with the reading shtick pretty frequently. But I also realize that I haven’t been centering the third piece of advice that is also very good and true, if not kind of a pain in the ass — the bit of advice that helps actual writing, albeit indirectly, but, more pointedly, helps focus the blobby bit between writing and profession, that actually helps quite a bit when new writers are starting to navigate the great muddy waters of Lake How-The-Fuck-Do-I-Get-Published.

There is something I can suggest. Be warned: in its way, it’s both a shortcut and a distraction. But it is one of those very few activities that feel like writing but which aren’t writing…only this actually has measurable, reproducible benefits for a writing career (that sitting around with other writers, for example, talking about what you want your work to do…doesn’t). And while it takes a little legwork, it’s absolutely doable.

Read slush for a publication.

Slush reading is a slightly disparaging term for an essential stream into Lake How-Published. When magazines or sites have submission periods, open or timed, all the submissions that were not directly solicited are considered “slush” in the slush “pile” (the pile probably a throwback to the literal pile of mailed-in paper manuscripts). Someone has to open these submissions, enter the writer and story info into some sort of tracking database, and then do the initial reading and determination of the submission is appropriate, complete, follows any required rules or parameters — and then, well, if it shows promise as something that publication might want to, well, publish.

This/these someone/s is/are sometimes the editor/s. But many (most) publications receive enough submissions that editors need help, and that help comes in the guise of (usually) volunteer slush readers.

It’s part data entry, part triage, and part friendly (hopefully) gatekeeper.

Slush readers are the front line, unsung heroes of the literary magazine world. It’s mushy, fascinating work.

Slush readers see almost all the submissions — or, at least, a good percentage of them. And, as a slush reader, once you’re familiar and comfortable with the aesthetics of the magazine you’re reading for (because yes, personal taste does play in, of course, but has to be tempered by what you learn are your editor’s preferences), you will get a deep education in all the factors writers can’t control that come into play seeing a piece from submission to publication.

Let me repeat myself: there are factors writers can’t control that come into play seeing a piece from submission to publication.

Sure. You’ll see pieces that are, well, just bad. You’ll see pieces that ignore submission guidelines, that are inappropriate for the magazine, that are “easy” (if there is such a thing) rejections.

But you will also see marvelous pieces, amazing work, really cool shit get passed over for hundreds of reasons that have almost nothing to do with the quality of the work.

Maybe it’s about bees — and there’s something in the zeitgeist that has people into bees. So, this is the 75th submission about bees, and, well, there can only be one or two this cycle in this not-bee-focused magazine.

Maybe there’s no more room in the editorial calendar for a piece that’s 5000 words. The magazine accepts submissions that are this length, but you need to find 1 more piece that is 3000 or smaller for this next issue…because that’s all that will fit, or that’s all that can be paid for.

Most commonly, there are multiple readers, and each of the readers have pieces they really love. Not all those pieces are going to make it, again usually for budget or space restraints. These are all pieces that rose to the top. But some will have to be rejected.

There are tons of contextual situations that all have to align in a certain way for an acceptance. Only two of those things are actually following guidelines and writing a good piece.

I can tell you this. You may even hear me. But seeing it, participating in it, is enlightening in a deep way. And getting this kind of understanding will do several things for you.

It will show you how the whole mysterious publishing process works, for good, bad, ugly. You’ll see things in cover letters and stories that are awesome tricks you want to adopt, as well as shit that is accidentally off putting (which you’ll avoid). You’ll develop a better understanding of the nuances of what makes what a “fit.” You will perfect your skills to precisely discern what makes a story or poem work or not.

And you will grok that publishing is the most personal and most impersonal process ever.

It’s (sometimes) not you. It’s (sometimes) not your work, talent, or effort. Sometimes rejections happen for reasons outside your sphere of influence. And so, rejections become less hurtful — not just through the grueling process of desensitization from just getting them, which does also happen. But also because your piece, well, maybe the timing was wrong. And it gets easier to dust yourself off and resubmit the thing as soon as/if it comes back.

Finding a gig as a slush reader is not difficult, though it can take a bit of snooping and cold-calling. Sometimes places will advertise for slush readers on their website or in their newsletter. Otherwise, identify the magazines and sites that publish work you enjoy (personal tip: do not apply to the exact magazines where you, personally, want to/try to publish. It’ll knock you out of there for a while if you become a slush reader, due to conflict of interest). If the magazine or site is not based out of academia (because academic venues usually use their students as slush readers), send a polite message to the editor. Introduce yourself, briefly state what you do, maybe a link to your website (if you have one), and that you are interested in reading slush. It’s also handy to ask: if they aren’t looking for readers, do they know anyone who is?

While slush readers are usually in control of how much time they read weekly/monthly, etc, be prepared to commit for at least a year. It takes a bit of time to get to know the magazine and the process, and so, be sure and make this investment worthwhile to the magazine or site.

The investment will be worthwhile to you. Pinky swear.