I just applied for a Big Fancy Grant that required that I publish at least five pieces of nonfiction in the past six years. And I just barely squeaked under that wire. And I don’t have very many pieces out so far this year. Time to recklessly throw out submissions to anyone I think I will take them.
Usually the process is an optimistic foray into the world of “About us” and “Submit here” buttons, followed by some crouching in the corner and shaking, and denouncing the whole fucking literary endeavor. As I’ve been a wee bit short on meds (thank you very much National Pharmacy Chain), I’ve been a shuddering heap of brain jelly by about 3:30 anyway. I’m hoping that a generous helping of ridicule will keep the brain in its appropriate shape so that I can go mold young minds this evening.
“Send us your earthquakes, your codes, your scientist hearts in the dark”; yes, please, don’t mind if I do. On the other hand, “We are looking for poems that match our aesthetic exactly”; not so much. And if it’s the first issue, how the fuck is the poor writer supposed to know what your aesthetic is?
And $10 per piece. This is generous, as most places pay nothing. Except when you break it down to think how little $10 compensates you for the essay that took you years to write. Then you might rather be paid nothing. Maybe a better way to look at it is that this journal would buy me a fancy Manhattan at my very favorite cocktail bar, the one that DP and I have stopped going to because everything is delicious and we spend way way too much money there. OK, thanks for the drink, [magazine redacted].
How are your submissions going?