Superstition Review is always looking to celebrate the achievements of past contributors and interns, which are featured in our weekly contributor and intern updates posted here on the blog. We now have an easier way for past contributors and interns to reach out to us with news of their literary and academic accomplishments. Updates can be submitted by following a link to Submittable, an online submission form found on the front page of our magazine, or by clicking here.
I’m going to be honest with you: I hate blog posts that tell people how to get published faster, how best to submit or write cover letters. More accurately: I hate the number of them. I understand that the process of submitting to journals can seem daunting to a newcomer, but I see more social media sharing of posts that offer submission tips (and submission “strategy”) than those that offer writing tips, which seems backwards to me, and beside the point of what would hopefully be an artistic endeavor.
Furthering my frustration is that many of these articles make cover letters, and the submission process as a whole, seem like an intricate, mysterious process. Truthfully, it’s not. And I fear that all the attention and worry about the logistics of submitting, namely the cover letters which seem to give those new to the process the most trouble, is distracting. As an editor, let me tell you: I believe a lot of people are over-thinking this.
Because the reality is: we’re spending a lot of time talking about what hardly matters today.
As an editor, I’m only looking to determine two things in a cover letter:
- That you take the publication seriously
- That you take your own writing seriously
That, essentially, is it. Sure, all editors have pet peeves, but those are minor, and for any editor who gives a crap (which, since most editorships are purely a labor of love and not paying gigs—even then, paying very little—is essentially all of them) it will always come down to the quality of the writing itself. Those annoyances (more on those later), while worth being wary of, in the end don’t matter. Only a lack of one of the two things listed above would actually impact the way I read a submitter’s work.
Of course, if there are any specific instructions with regards to cover letters in the guidelines, like specifically asking for you to include or omit a bio (generally you would include one if not specified), make sure you follow them. But usually there are not, and the presence of a cover letter of some kind is simply implied, which I think is where a lot of the confusion can come from. So having a sense of what a typical cover letter should do might not be second nature to newcomers, but it’s hardly complicated once you’ve been on the editorial side and read a few directed at you.
Cover letters, remember, came from a time when submissions (and job résumés, for that matter) had to be mailed in physically. A writer would have to type out a cordial hello to editors on a typewriter, insert the letter and the submission into an appropriately-sized envelope, affix postage, then, I assume, ride their donkey to the nearest township and hand over the parcel to the Post for the next time a train came through town (again, this is based on my assumption—kind of before my time, submission-wise. My foray into publishing didn’t start until the late 00’s). The cover letter was necessary because for an editor, receiving an envelope that is a product of a fair amount of effort already and opening it to find nothing but the work to be considered—the effort stopping short of the formal hello and thank you—would come off as impolite and impersonal.
Today, however, nearly all submissions are handled online. While this has made the process far less cumbersome, it also means a few things have changed about the act of submitting and considering work for publication, for both writers and editors. For one, it makes the ability to submit one’s work faster, easier, all around more accessible for people to start sending out their work. Therefore, submissions are far more numerous. Editors are inundated with submissions, plenty of it high-enough quality to put together stellar issues of course, but still many to read and consider. That means more cover letters to read, which many writers hate writing anyway—so for both sides a shorter letter becomes preferred.
Also, the proliferation of online submissions more or less makes cover letters…well, not terribly useful. What can one put in a cover letter about oneself that an editor can’t already tell? Most submissions are coming through Submittable or another submission manager that already provides name and contact information. If an editor wants to know more about you or your past work, a Google search takes all of a couple seconds. You quite possibly have a website for that very purpose. What I’m saying is that there isn’t a need for cover letters in the sense that there used to be. I do think they are polite to include, and show some personability (always a nice thing to see from makers of art, no?), but editors combing through their “slush piles” really have all they require already—they want to read your work. (For that matter, cover letters for employment purposes have largely become irrelevant as the hiring manager wants to get down to the meat of the résumé.)
Which is not say that you shouldn’t pay attention to this part of the social contract between writer and editor, but rather that it’s not something worth troubling yourself over past the few moments it takes to do it right.
So, even though I railed against this exact thing up front, allow me to explain why those two points above (taking the publication and your own work seriously), are all that matters to me in regards to cover letters.
For me, it’s nice to see that someone submitting to my publication is either a fan—nothing pleases an editor more than to hear some kind words about a poem or story the submitter enjoyed in a past issue of the journal—or, at the least, cared enough to look at our Masthead and write mine and/or my co-poetry editor’s name. If I get the sense that you don’t even know who we are as a journal and are just submission-bombing every place with an open listing on Duotrope, it doesn’t reflect well on how seriously you take us while simultaneously asking us to take your work under serious consideration. The number of submissions that start “Dear Editor” or otherwise reflect that the submitter views a journal as the same as all the others out there—just another poetry/fiction publication, undifferentiated—is unfortunate. It also strikes me as likely that those writing “Dear Editor” are sometimes the same people who bristle, publicly on social media, about receiving a rejection that opens “Dear Writer.”
When in doubt, it’s best to keep a cover letter short and cordial. If it’s your style, you can be witty, enthusiastic, and more in your cover letter—I like seeing the writer’s personality outside of the work!—but please, don’t do so at the expense of your own writing. I received one submission whose author told me the poems within were written in a period of severe dietary distress—not exactly the association you want to build as I move on to your poems. Some cover letters preface the work with something along the lines of “These probably aren’t very good.” This, to me, is baffling; if you, the person who spent time and effort to build these works of art, don’t think they’re of any quality, why should anyone else? And if you truly think sending them out is a waste of time, why would you then knowingly waste the time of an editor? Some of this language may come from an attempt at appearing modest, but direct communication with an editor is not the place for that. Neither is arrogance, mind you—that’s actually far worse—but all that matters is that you believe in your work, and think it’s worth an editor’s time and consideration.
In that sense, the way I look at a cover letter is like checking a box. Did the writer demonstrate that they take the journal and its editors as well as their own work seriously? Yes? Okay, then let’s see the poems. Everything else is a distant second. I’ll always appreciate a bit of warmth or sociability from other members of a community that I’m happy to be a part of, but writing past that makes it far more likely that you’ve added something unnecessary or questionable. Editors do have pet peeves, as mentioned above, and while none of them will disqualify you from fair consideration, pretty much any of the following things won’t help your chances:
- “Cute” bios. I don’t care about your pets’ names. Yes, I’ll enjoy all the pet photos and videos shared with me on social media, as everyone enjoys them, and I’m sure your animals are lovable and adorable, but unless your poems were written while under a hypnotic spell put on you by your Jack Russell Terrier, Juno, leave the pets out of the bio. I’ve seen some humor tucked into the final line of some bios, and sometimes they are amusing while still fitting into the main two points of criteria above, but more often than not they come off as unprofessional or at least distracting. Also worth remembering is that these bios will often be pared down by editors if your work is accepted anyway.
- Don’t explain your work in your cover letter. To wit, I’m not further explaining this bullet point.
- Read. The. Guidelines. Some editors will not consider a submission from someone who clearly couldn’t be bothered to take 60 seconds to read the guidelines for submitting (yet again, not showing respect for the journal that one is asking to spend well more than that amount of time reviewing one’s work)—as is their right. Personally, I’m not in that camp because I want to find the best possible poetry I can, no matter what, but clear disregard for the very reasonable guidelines given (as they always are, no matter the journal) will not be setting one up for success. Your work will have to shine bright to make an editor forget the fact that you couldn’t be bothered to follow their instruction. It certainly does happen, but if you want to help your chances, take the time to be considerate.
- Bios that state number of publications. “FirstName LastName has been published in over 200 journals.” Hm. I don’t doubt that claims like this are true (though like hell am I going to count to verify), but it says something about a writer’s priorities, implying that one cares more about publication than creating good work; quantity over quality. List a handful of relatively recent publications you’re proud of, and leave it at that. If you have a book or multiple out, you probably don’t need to list more than those. Notably, I get the sense that someone who’s published in 200, 300 (I even saw one submission that claimed over 1000) journals is just sending the same batch or two of poems indiscriminately to as many journals as they can.
- Are you sure you followed the guidelines? Never hurts to double check.
- Address the submission to the proper editor(s). For example, if you’re sending fiction, address it to the fiction editor(s) by name. If there are no dedicated fiction editors for whatever reason, addressing it to the editor, managing editor, or editor-in-chief is your best bet. In rare occasions a journal might have more than a couple editors for a given genre, in which case “Fiction Editors” or “Poetry Editors” is an acceptable substitute to listing six or seven names out. Worth keeping in mind is that unless submissions are read blind, these are the very first words read in your submission and to get them wrong (like saying “Dear Editor” when there are multiple editors in your genre, or getting the gender of the editor wrong—I’ve seen it) is not a good first impression.
Editors want to read your work, and if it fits what they’re looking for, they’ll want to publish it. Submissions are the lifeblood of many journals, and certainly the one I work with. Cover letters are usually necessary, but there is rarely a need to make them more than a friendly, professional hello. Don’t trouble yourself more than you need to with this. Check the box and move on to the work—it’s what both writers and editors care about most.
You may remember me, SR readers, as the former intern who wrote a post in Summer 2012 about my early years navigating the “real world.” When I left off last year, I mentioned that I still freelance for one of my internship mentors as a break from my technical-focused day job (proposal coordinator for an engineering firm). I appreciated the creative outlet, and still do.
I’m here to tell you that side gigs are all well and good, but there’s something to be said for a work/life balance—especially for the college student or recent graduate. I remember being so caught up on preparing for my next assignment, paper, test, or final, that when I graduated, I thought I’d have more time in the day. Instead, I continued to fill my day planner without even thinking about it.
So, finding time for personal writing projects and other leisure activities has only become more difficult. I write out weekly goals, and somehow, those activities always get pushed to the bottom of the priority pile. There’s always something to do.
When I set out to write this post, I realized how much I looked forward to writing my post last year, and again, how much I looked forward to it this year. I have plenty of incentive when I know I’m writing a piece that will be followed by a 1099 Form at the end of the year. So, I thought, what makes this blog post so motivating?
For me, writing this post feels like leisure time, but it is also a commitment that I made to SR. It sits on the line between recreation and responsibility, so that I can’t just brush it off as something I might get to later. Ultimately, it’s a personal thing.
Even as an intern, contributing to SR has never felt like “work.” And, taking time to browse the pages within helps me put aside my day planner for a bit. Nothing causes me to pause like a good literary magazine! I mentioned in my last post that I try to focus on humility and embracing the big picture that there is always room to grow. I’m learning that growth doesn’t always come with a paycheck or a packed schedule.
Like many people, I found myself moving from one obligation to the next, catching moments out of the corner of my eye. Starting today, returning the balance ranks higher on my to-do list.
Living in Northern California, I’ve enjoyed a fair number of wine tastings at vineyards in Sonoma and Napa. For many years I preferred white wines to red. The white wines were crisper, sweeter, easier on the palate. The reds were more subtle, more complicated, altogether more work. I’d drink the reds with a sense of duty, the whites with an air of expectation.
Over time this changed. These days white wines seem childish, too easy. Bring on those sophisticated red grapes! I can handle them now. Life is complex and multi-layered, meant to be understood and appreciated gradually. Our alcohol should be similarly complex.
And our writing too. I often cringe when I read essays or blog posts that I wrote years ago. Those posts–such as when I excoriated the GOP in 2005 for exploiting the decline of Terry Schiavo–were fun to write. The blood boils, the pulse races. But after the adrenaline rush subsided, I’d ruefully realize that my latest missive had added more heat than light. Back then it was acceptable for my writing to be polemical more than polished. Sometimes this was even the point.
My writing began to mature in 2009, when my first marriage ended after eight years. During this year my blog became a public sanctuary, a safe place to sort through the welter of emotions that accompanied this life-changing event. Eventually Superstition Review was kind enough to publish an essay I wrote about that painful year, entitled “Divorce and Gratitude.”
During this year my writing deepened. It went from white wine to red. I consciously examined the divorce from every angle, coming to terms with it however I could. No pulse racing writing came along that year; instead there was a series of lengthy, slow-to-develop essays.
It often seemed that friends were angry or wanted me to be angry, but I resisted this beckoning toward bitterness. These days I wonder if I exaggerated this “beckoning” in my own mind, as a way to give my writing something I could respond to. If so, it worked.
Life moves on, sometimes in the most wonderful ways. Four years later I am very happily remarried, whereas four years ago I was convinced I would die alone. I’m still proud of that year’s writing, but from this remove I can’t help but notice its solipsistic nature. My writing that “divorce year” was reportorial, insular, brooding. This interiority was a necessary transition away from the fiery blog posts of yore, but I’m glad those days are over.
These days my prose is outward looking, and the reports about my personal life I do draft are light. The beautiful thing about writing–this privilege of stringing words into meaning, and hopefully moving our readers–is that it is capacious enough to cover all stages of our lives. Now my words are more measured, more polished, but just as passionate and hopefully (a bit) more wise. Growing older has its rewards, on the page and in life.