Introduction:

While talking with Ellen Parker, the editor of FRiGG, during a showcase piece about her literary journal, we found ourselves discussing terms such as “standards,” and editorial policies like solicitations. As time went on, the discussion moved further away from the work published in FRiGG, and more into a debate about publishing practices. Why do some people only publish in print? Do writers want critiques of rejected manuscripts? Is it the editor’s duty to provide those critiques? Just what is the role of an editor anyway? We were way off topic and running in circles. So we reigned in the FRiGG discussion, and decided that we’d set out asking these very questions. And thus, Get Real was born.

After compiling a list of topics, we sent out and posted notices about our new project. The WRITERS’ responses to the first topic went live on Saturday. The EDITORS’ responses are below. The responses are in alphabetical order according to the respondent’s last name. If you have comments, questions, or a response, please leave them in the comments section, addressed to the appropriate person.

The Rejection Letter: Feedback or Form?

Some literary magazine editors often critique stories they reject. Other literary magazine editors seldom or never critique stories they reject. Editors, what is your practice (or policy) here?


EDITORS SPEAK:

Dave Clapper is the founding editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He occasionally writes, most recently appearing in FRiGG and forthcoming in Per Contra.

At SmokeLong, we rarely critique stories we reject. We may offer a little extra encouragement if the writer was close to an acceptance or if we have a pre-existing relationship with the writer, but I’m hard-pressed to think of the last time we actually critiqued a piece we were rejecting.

Occasionally, I receive follow-ups from writers asking what didn’t work in the piece, and in that case, I may offer a little more insight, but it seems that those follow-ups most often come for pieces that weren’t even close, so it’s tough to engage positively.

In any case, I can’t think of the last time that I gave a full-blown critique of a piece we rejected. I strongly prefer to do that in a workshop setting. I just don’t know how appropriate it is to engage in it outside of that. What are we hoping to achieve?

The only time we give more in-depth feedback is if we’d like to accept a piece, but think it needs some edits. In that case, we actually will offer line edits, etc., but otherwise? No.

Matt DiGangi is editor of Thieves Jargon.

Unless you can read minds, it’s useless to try and write rejection letters that every writer is going to be pleased with. As such, I think an editor should be more concerned with getting responses out to their writers as soon as possible.

If writers are looking for in-depth critiques of their rejected work, they should find a writing group or take classes.

I prefer form letters that can be easily modified:

“Thanks for sending your work. Unfortunately, our submissions are really jammed up, and just last week we accepted a different piece about one-armed drag racers. In the interest of keeping it fresh, we’re going to have to pass on this one, but I do hope you think of hitting us up again.”

Thieves Jargon has one guy on staff (Andy Riverbed) who writes a few creative rejection letters each week for the other editors. I consider it something of an ambassador position. The interesting thing is, some rejected writers really appreciate getting this type of rejection, and the rest really hate it. There seems to be little middle ground. Either way is fine with me. Both the pleased and the displeased are going to tell their friends, and that’s good for business.

Like, yeah, we’re clowning around, but we’re not trying to do it at your expense, so chill out some.

Vanessa Gebbie is a writer, editor and creative writing teacher.

How possible is it to comment on all submissions? My guess is that it is not. And the more of a “cult” magazine you are, the less possible it is. And therefore, only the chosen few writers can expect to have anything other than form rejects. The ones that come close but for some reason just miss, I hope fervently get a few words of encouragement… and those are the ones I would comment on myself.

Steve Hansen has had limited success as a writer, having published stories over that last 10 years at FRiGG, The Danforth Review, The Paumanok Review and a few other online “reviews.” He currently spends his time and energy trying to meld the worlds of high finance, literature and comic books at www.tqrstories.com.

Allow me to put my editor’s hat on. One sec. OK, now I am all-knowing and omnipresent! I started tqrstories.com because (having critiqued so many stories on zoetrope.com) I thought it would be valuable and entertaining to have an e-zine where the public could have access to the process of elimination in the form of public critiquing as the stories make their way up the editorial ladder. Granted, a lot of writers probably have not submitted to TQR because they don’t want to endure a public critiquing, but I figured such transparency would keep out the pretenders, the riff raff if you will. For the most part, this has been true. The number of submissions has always been low, but we’ve almost always been able to glean three top-notch pieces of fiction each quarter. And most of the contributors have come away from the process (whether they’ve been published by us or not) with an appreciation of our iconoclastic ways. I’ve been terribly lucky to headhunt a core staff (working gratis of course) who are editorially savvy and skillful enough to allow me, so far, to pull it off.

Tania Hershman’s short stories have been published in various publications including Cafe Irreal, Front&Centre, Transmission, Riptide and Brand magazines, and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Her first short story collection, The White Road and Other Stories, will be published by Salt Publishing in June 2008. Visit her website.

As a reader, I send out both form rejections and more personalized ones, if I feel there is something constructive I can say regarding their story. Very often, the piece submitted is so far from being a flash story that there is nothing I can say briefly that might help. But in perhaps twenty percent of what I read, I like it but it just isn’t quite “there” so I make a very gentle (I hope!) suggestion, perhaps something about the point of view, the tense, maybe suggesting cutting some of what I feel are extraneous descriptions in a 500-word story. I have had a few replies to these rejections which indicate that people are delighted that someone has taken the time to read their story and think about what might make it better. That’s my aim, and I would appreciate the same treatment from the editors I send to!

Leigh Hughes is the editor-in-chief of the online literary journal edificeWRECKED.

When we first started edificeWRECKED we sent every rejection with a brief explanation of why the story didn’t work for us. It was not an in-depth critique and usually wasn’t about the writing of the story at all—just why it wouldn’t work FOR US. However, after a few months I was completely worn down by writers’ complaints, either receiving comments like “I didn’t ask for your opinion. A simple ‘no’ would have been better,” to rude comments (”go f*ck yourself”), but mostly just arguments about how wrong I was in my assessment of their genius story and why I should change my mind. It was disappointing at first, as I’d only wanted to provide the writers with what it was I thought they wanted, what I thought I would want. Then it got down-right maddening. The truth is that you can never tell a writer what they want to hear unless it’s a “yes” and we soon stopped giving any personalized rejections whatsoever. All form, all the time. No more complaints (at least to our faces.)

This subject comes up a lot on the writers workshop website Zoetrope.com and the attitude I often see is that the editors “owe” the writers not only an explanation of why they didn’t want it but also some brief critique of the story, so that they can make it better for future publishers. This seems to be the big complaint about form rejections–that they don’t know WHY it wasn’t accepted and therefore can’t possibly improve their work. This attitude pisses me off, frankly. As a writer, I completely understand. But guess what, a story shouldn’t be submitted if it isn’t ready to be published. Period. If you are distrustful of your own editing eye—then you workshop it, as often and as earnestly as you can. I think, with the Internet and the relatively fast responses of e-zines, that many people submit their work to editors not necessarily for publication but for the “review” from the editors. Rude, rude, rude and RUDE. It is not the responsibility of an editor reviewing a piece for publication to tell the writer how to make their story better. It just isn’t. It’s NICE if they do, and should be appreciated accordingly. (Gifts are great.)

Besides, what does ONE editor know anyway? The submissions are reviewed against the other submissions received and the style of the publication. THIS is the main criteria for publication. It all boils down to opinion. And one opinion formed from a very small group of people (many times just ONE person). Not to say that the editors are unqualified to make these judgments (they read shockingly large amounts of fiction/poetry and even if they have no formal education or literary experience they quickly become accustomed to what’s “good” and what isn’t) but it is still just opinion. The next publication may love it. Writers should simply acknowledge the rejection, mark that pub off the list of possibilities and send it out to the next one.

The bottom line for me is that it’s presumptuous to assume the submission readers at any level OWE anyone anything, except, of course, maintaining their personal, subjective view of the quality of their own publication. They certainly don’t owe any writer an explanation or critical review of a rejection. Ultimately, a no is a no is a no, anyway, regardless of its overblown or minimal wardrobe.

Beverly Jackson is a poet, writer and artist (and former publisher/editor) living in N. Carolina.

I tried to give feedback in the early years, but then as I hired more and more editors, it became a time consideration and form emails were developed. It was hard to insist on feedback when editors were so overworked. However when the work merited a remark, very often my editors would also add a note of encouragement or constructive criticism. But it wasn’t a policy.

Steven J. McDermott is the editor of Storyglossia. His short fiction has appeared in numerous literary journals and in his collection of stories Winter of Different Directions.

My policy with Storyglossia is to always provide a reason why I reject a story. Sometimes the reason is simply a matter of taste and if that’s the only reason I’ll say so. Just because a story is well-written it isn’t a given that I’ll like it. Lots of journals out there and that means there’s plenty of editorial taste to go around. On the other hand, if the beginning is slow, the ending weak, or the writer has a fondness for “it” instead of precise nouns, or if any of the other possible ways that a story can lose my interest is present, I’ll say that, too. If something really impressed me even as I reject the story, I’ll pass that along also. Usually I’ll only respond with a couple of lines of feedback, but occasionally I’ll provide more extensive feedback, or even offer to work with a writer on a revision. Editors who claim that time constraints prohibit such a response are slinging BS. If an editor has time to read a story they have time to provide at least a one-sentence reason for rejecting. I can understand not wanting to write such responses, but saying you don’t have time? Not buying that excuse.

Stefani Nellen is a writer of literary fiction and science fiction. She co-edits the Steel City Review, an online quarterly that also publishes as annual print edition.

I have to say that the decision to send out a personal or a form rejection is mainly a function of time. Our main goal at Steel City is to get back to writers as quickly as possible. Sometimes, we have the time to append personalized comments to rejections, sometimes we don’t. If you catch us at a busy time, you might get a form rejection even though we would have had much to say about your story—such is life!

However, we never “critique” submissions. That’s not our job. What we sometimes do is point out, in one sentence, what worked for us and what kept us from taking the submission—always with the caveat that this is only our subjective opinion and not a verdict.

Finally, if a submission is totally wacky (glaring spelling/grammar/formatting issues, weird content, etc.—editors, you know what I mean) they’ll get a form rejection. Why waste time on ‘writers’ who apparently can’t be bothered preparing an adequate submission?

New Yorker Carol Novack is a former criminal defense/constitutional lawyer, the publisher of the multi-media collaborative e-journal Mad Hatters’ Review, a former grant recipient, and the author of a chapbook of poetry, a play, and several collaborative projects. Recent writings in print may or will be found in journals including American Letters & Commentary, First Intensity, Gargoyle, Fiction International, Journal of Experimental Fiction, Knock, LIT, Notre Dame Review, Salt Flats Annual, and in the anthology, Online Writings The Best of the First Years; links to online publications are accessible via Carol’s blog.

We (at Mad Hatters’ Review) don’t. The writer hasn’t asked us for a critique, only for publication. It’s presumptuous to offer submitting authors critiques when they haven’t asked for them. Of course, if an author who has submitted to us asks for a critique after rejection, and I have time, I’ll tell the author why we decided not to publish her/his submission/s.

Ellen Parker writes fiction and edits the online literary journal FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry.

I do not critique stories that are submitted to FRiGG unless that story is close to being ready for publication in FRiGG. (Notice I didn’t say close to being ready for publication. I can only say that a story is close to being ready for FRiGG—meaning it is close to being compatible with my sensibility, tastes, and standards. This has nothing to do with whether the story is ready for publication in another journal. Perhaps it is. In fact, in many instances, I’m sure it is.) If a story is close, I will either tell the writer that the story was a “near miss” and he or she should please submit again—or else I’ll tell the writer the story is very close and I’ll ask the writer if I can ask some questions about the story and make some comments. The writer can say yes or no to this. If the writer says yes, we begin the “critiquing” process. Often, this process leads to the story being accepted.

What also occasionally happens is I say, Ohmigod, this story throws me into conniptions. Can FRiGG publish it? Please? And we publish it verbatim because it is so sublime.

Now, if I know a writer even very casually, I will not send a form letter. I will give a personal response. This response is usually no, thanks—and then I’ll either open the door for future submittals or else I won’t encourage them.

If a story is not close to being ready for publication in FRiGG and I do not know the writer personally, I will send a form rejection letter. This circumstance covers probably 95 percent of the submittals we receive. I do not believe an editor owes any comments to a writer (who is unknown to that editor) who submits a story. Quite often there is no way I can soft-pedal my reason(s) for not accepting a story. Here are some common reasons: The story is badly done. The story is ham-handed. The misuse of just one word signals to me that the writer does not have control of his or her craft. How can I say any of these things to a writer? Should I spend hours of my time thinking of ways to soft-pedal reactions like: I dislike this story; this story is sophomoric; this story is not interesting; this story has nothing to recommend itself to me.

I am a professional copy editor and it’s part of my job to kindly and gently and deferentially tell writers that their writing needs improvement—and then I tell the writer, as kindly as possible, exactly how the writing can be improved. This process takes hours and hours and it calls on all of my powers and experience as an editor and I charge a lot of money for it. I do not want to engage in this process, even to a small extent, with every writer (or even most writers) who submit work to FRiGG. I absolutely will engage in the process if I can see that a story is close and I have asked the writer if he or she will entertain questions and comments about the story and the writer says yes. Otherwise, I will offer no comments or “critiques” or words of any nature.

So to those writers who are fervently hoping for even a few small comments from an editor, all I can say is your chances of getting any words from an editor if you submit to FRiGG are not great. The editors at FRiGG are not kind-hearted. However, if you submit a story that is close to being ready for publication in FRiGG and if you agree to enter into the critiquing process, you may indeed get many, many comments from us.

In the four years she has been writing, Kay Sexton’s fiction has been chosen for over twenty anthologies ranging from ‘Mexico, a Love Story’ to ‘Tales of the Decongested’ and recent magazine publications includeAmbit, Frogmore Papers, Lichen (Canada), and Mindprints (USA).

I’ve read for places that do both. I do prefer to able to say something, however fleeting—and I do have a bit of a problem, ethically, when I’m reading as an associate editor or just a slush reader and I’m not able to respond directly to the writer. My least favourite system was one zine where there were detailed discussions of stories and poems by up to four editors but none of that was fed back to the writers by the Senior Editor, which seemed to me to be a tragedy for the writer: who didn’t get constructive feedback, and the editors: who’d put in time on thinking critically about the story only to have their debates go entirely to waste. My favourite system to date has been the Night Train system of finding at least one good thing to say about the story, before going on to explain why you’re rejecting it. While it may sound mawkish to “always say something nice,” most people who’ve had to work with me as an editor say I’m very tough so I’m not exactly known for my tenderness to writers! Even so, my feeling is that there is always something you can say that will make the writer feel you actually read the story. That’s what most writers want to know, even if you only thank them for submitting according to your guidelines, it can be enough to show that you really did read their work. I liked the NT system also because you put your name to your rejection email and every writer knows who read their work—transparency is always a good thing.

Kelly Spitzer is a writer and an editor with SmokeLong Quarterly.

I’m still trying to figure out how to write rejection letters. They are freaking HARD, I tell you. Seriously, I have spent a good deal of time trying to word the little bastards. Especially when the piece has come close to acceptance. Why aren’t we accepting it then, I’m sure the writer wants to know. And the truth is, it could be any number of things. A tone that really bugs the shit out of someone, and would be difficult to edit out. Strong writing, but the story doesn’t grab us the way we want it to. Good story, good writing, but no one feels strongly about it. Too much. Not enough. The list goes on and on and on… So, am I supposed to tell the writer why we’re not taking the piece? Do they want specifics? I never know. All I can say for sure is why it didn’t work for the editors at SmokeLong, and often times, the opinions will vary so much among individual editors that it would be contradictory, and um, irresponsible (?) to send the writer our responses. So, as a general rule, I don’t. More than likely, you will get the: This Came Close For Us, Please Consider Submitting to SmokeLong Again version of the rejection letter. If we say this, we mean it. Otherwise, I use the form rejection letter and don’t personalize it.

Mike Young co-edits NOÖ Journal and blogs here.

At NOÖ, we receive enough submissions that I often have no time to send a detailed critique, and therefore I resort to “form” letters. However, I always individually type each letter and spend a lot of time with the nuance of the wording. If I sound enthusiastic in a rejection letter, I was enthusiastic. If I’m curt and don’t mention anything about wanting to see future work, your style probably eludes me. Plenty of people in the ’90s wore potato sacks for jeans. Some people bathe in patchouli oil. These people aren’t evil. I just don’t feel like a human being when I hang around them. When I send brisk rejection letters that seem to exhibit no sense of humanity, it’s because what I read didn’t really make me feel like a human. Thankfully, that occurs rarely, usually only in the face of mass mailing, utter delusion, jaw-wrenching obnoxiousness, or all of the above: “Dear magazine x, here is a link to fifty poems I wrote this morning. They are all (c) 2007 Starfish Popcorn, so please don’t steal my work.”

If you’re reading this, you’re not one of those people. You have what science calls a heart.

Returning to the main question of extended critiques, I usually will dive into critique if I feel like I really understand a story’s motivation and style and see it meshing with the magazine’s aesthetic (which isn’t the same as “my” aesthetic)–except for a few little things. Then I’ll try to talk through those little things honestly and clearly, casting them not as the story’s failures (I’m a writer too, yo) but in terms of something Mike-the-reader misunderstood or yearned for.

Stories like these don’t annoy me, they just make me feel a little stalled or off, so I say as such and save the snark for Starfish Popcorn. Some of the horror rejections I’ve heard about—usually from big lit rag “slush pile” interns—disgust me. A friend of mine had her story returned from the Georgia Review with “STUPID!” written on it. That’s not critique. That’s callous disrespect. No need. Grow up, interns. Etc.

So, yeah, the stories NOÖ receives that are written by earnest, hardworking adults I feel should be treated by the best earnest hardworking adulthood I can summon up. And the PDFs we receive of 700 poems about blue horns of sour rainbow love—um. Um. That’s why God invented whiskey.


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