The Year of 250+ Submissions, or How Indie Lit Saved My Life
this got a rejection from the place i wrote it for and i don't really have another home for it, so, enjoy i guess
Here’s what I know: I started sending work out for opportunities in 2017. I was an eager emerging visual artist in undergrad at a fairly competitive art college. I was a member of a small department that didn’t get a ton of love on campus, so I focused a lot of my efforts off-campus and was moderately successful. (Worth noting that I was also heavily encouraged by my faculty to shoot my shot.) I maintained a regular visual art submission practice until around 2020, often (and I mean often) paying submission fees in the range of $25-$50 for (mostly) juried exhibitions and publications that often didn’t send even a form rejection. More seasoned peers and mentors of mine told me that setting aside money for these kinds of calls was something that should be regular, like paying a bill. I became accustomed to it and sent work out regularly. I broke the previous year’s submission record every year except 2018 (I took some time off after graduation). A visiting artist showed us their tracking spreadsheet, which I mimicked and have since made an essential part of my submissions process.
Here’s what I also know: I started sending writing out in 2021 with a similar fervor, except I was lucky enough to fall into the writing world through a friend who edited an indie lit magazine. In 2021 I shattered the previous year’s submission record and spent half as much money as the previous year. I published nineteen pieces that year, which was more yeses in a year than submitting visual art to galleries and publishers had ever yielded. I also found a community—not that I didn’t have an artistic community, but I seemingly settled into a pocket of the lit world that wasn’t competing for anything. It felt like a place I could see myself.
Here’s what I also also know: About two years ago, I burned myself out shooting for the stars. Really. I’ve always been a juggler of too many plates. I’ll never fault anyone for being achievement-oriented, but after that happened? It’s not me anymore. I’m literally just here for the vibes. I’m here to form community, for the excited posts from a person whose first published work is in my press’ anthology or from an author whose chapbook shipment just arrived. As an editor, that’s my ultimate goal—I guess it’s the part of me that found that community right after I burned out and needed it badly. That part of me wants everyone else to feel as heard as I did.
Here’s what else: I sent my work out over 250 times in 2022. Of those, over 90% were indie publishers (probably over 95%, but I’m bad at both math and classifying publishers). That tripled the number of places I’d sent my work the previous year. The fire in me stayed lit because I was genuinely excited at the idea of potentially being included everywhere I submitted. I spent a lot of time researching and finding publications whose ethos resonated with me. I persisted through rejections and sent work again, partly because I’m now the editor who means “submit again” when I say it.
Here’s where I am now: I probably won’t submit to 250+ places in 2023. I’m thrilled with how last year ended, but frankly, it was a lot to keep up with! I’m moving forward motivated by this energy, though, and only submitting when I feel excited about it. This means I’ll probably continue to linger in the indie lit world, where I feel like I’ve found a community, as well as an array of publications I admire. I still may choose to shoot my shot with bigger, established publishers, but I don’t feel like the rejections are going to break my career the way I did as a budding artist. And I’ve reached a place with my creative practice where I understand how essential it is for me to continue making regardless of who is watching—don’t get me wrong, I am honored when my work resonates with someone on a level that inspires them to publish it. But when something is this ingrained in me, it’s hard not to keep at it no matter what, and to ensure it remains a delight for myself. So I think what I really have to say is that I don’t agree with any notion that being published in indie lit doesn’t count as career progression. I’ve learned there’s a lot of ways to define progress.