Publishing Field Report 4 – Online Literature (Part 2)

How getting involved in online publishing and starting my own mag opened doors for me both creatively and professionally, alongside finding an agent and failing to sell my first novel

Having found acceptance for the first time publishing online, my entire world began to open up. I became immediately obsessed with writing all over again, in a quite different way than I had than just writing on my own in relative silence—not only from feeling capable, now that someone else had seen merit in my work, but from finding countless others in a similar position all over the world. The world of online indie lit presented a whole host of other methods of approach and style that would have likely never made it past a jury armed with guidelines, and suddenly here was a direct pipeline to the sorts of people who found relief in that, inspired to make work without an immediate need for anything but the thrill of it, unbound.

The procedural effects were manyfold. Rather than spending all my time on novels, which would take years to ever take shape, I began making work that satisfied something else in me and gave me rope to continue branching out my identity outside my head. I started sending short stories out to all levels of venues, aiming each at the range of places they might have a chance to fit. I saved my best work for the magazines I really wanted to get into, quickly assembling a wish list in my head that would motivate me to break through, but also considered the stories that I felt were good and didn’t land to be like ammunition, still seeking their purpose. Smaller venues allowed more freedom in experimentation, and I latched upon that too, feeling more free to write whatever I wanted and figure out where it belonged later—whether that be a spot like Zoetrope All-Story or McSweeney’s, which could get a writer a book deal right out of the gate, or any of a zillion micro presses, where you wouldn’t even get paid, but that still widened your terrain of having been a part of something.

I realized a writer of ambition sometimes had to wear two hats—not just the creative side, from which the work came, but also as a kind of business manager, keeping track of progress, sending work out, doing research, fielding email, and the like. The existence of these two poles didn’t have to be in conflict, presuming that any whiff of learning the ropes and seeking opportunity must be the result of secret handshakes or nepotism—in fact, a big part of discovering success seemed not just a lucky draw, but rather the result of showing up and throwing one’s hat in the ring over and over—right place right time, yes, but stemming often from one’s effective association and awareness of the scene, no matter how bitter it might make you in the short term to not be stamped a genius from day one. The whole idea of ‘being a working writer’ was much more than just scribbling some words down and sending them off—you had to hustle. Luckily for me, this came pretty naturally, especially when I began to think of publishing in general as a game, one that you could handle like an MMORPG, where you worked to level up through minor tasks while honing your craft alongside it over time.

In the present, I often come back to this realization when I get irritated with the seeing in the short term what seemed like unearned praise being granted to someone who has yet to ‘earn their stripes,’ as it were—though it’s a feature of the system that some get lucky early and get to have access to things that others work a life for without a stitch of recognition, the history of literature isn’t a straight line. You might skip to the head of the line without doing the long game grind, but once the print is on the page, and after the bells and whistles of a publication’s launch subside, the work is all there is. The love you put into your work, or lack thereof, can very often be felt—if still not always parsed—by those who also create it; and in the end, no one sneaks through for very long. The history of literature isn’t written in concrete overnight, and part of maintaining longevity to get to the next hurdle is accepting that the down strides will always outnumber the moments of glory 100 to 1. If you don’t love to do the work, or aren’t willing or able to make time for it in sacrifice, the passing thrill of publishing isn’t going to save you; in fact, it might make you so bitter you give up and call it bunk across the board, blinded to the forest by the trees. 

Likewise, there’s little worse of a feeling than publishing something you don’t really care about, whether as part of a learning curve or as a ruse. I’d learn this quickly as my mania for writing and sending work out quickly became a frenzy, especially the more acceptances I stacked, mostly at very small micro pubs. As I started keeping track of all my submissions in a file, noting how long the response time took, I became addicted to having dozens if not hundreds of lines in the water at all times, turning my email inbox into a lightning rod of sorts, through which at any second I might receive good news. Eventually, this sometimes turned into sending out work before it was finished, or whether I even felt excited about it or not, and though usually this would result in rejection, it felt even worse with an acceptance, realizing that the publication itself truly mattered less than making something I could be proud of. Given the bounty and variety of publication venues springing up all over, it seemed like anyone who wanted to publish could eventually do so—something I still believe—and therefore, access to such freedom underlined the necessity of not putting the cart before the horse by rushing forward into fleeting aspects of success on the fumes of having space to. Rather than being slowed by a rejection, every lack was another opportunity to grow, reach even further, and a challenge to do so—a side of the game that could be nourishing rather than damning if you approached it right.

Meanwhile, inspired by the enterprises of so many others with similar designs to mine, I got it into my head to start a web mag of my own. This came as much from the rush of excitement I felt reading the strange kinds of work the internet provided as it did a deeper drive to connect with the actual people behind the links. I built a simple website, registered a URL opened a new email addy, and began soliciting other writers whose worked I liked on other sites, letting them know that I admired what they were doing and would love to see more. I felt surprised, too, to find how far a bit of direct attention went in just this way; for, as rare as tangible success is with most creative work, even a brief note from someone else who’d taken the time to reach out and say they’d admired it went maybe even further than an acceptance letter in manifesting resonance.

One by one, I began to build a little network in my mind of artists I’d connected with—many of whom I’m still friends with to this day—while also establishing a site I could use to share the kinds of work I liked and wanted more of. A rising tide does indeed lift all ships, as it turns out, and if I was playing to the long game, then taking time to admire and acknowledge others’ work who you saw faith in could serve in some small way to expand the landscape of the possible for all involved. Some might want to call this effort ‘networking,’ and therefore backwards, though I think most people who have worked for independent publications would agree how much there is to learn from seeing the system from the inside, and how great it feels to bring eyes to others with whom you feel akin.

Like writing itself, starting a magazine or press is simply not something most people tend to do in bad faith, and yet as a source of professional traction, I’d argue it’s the most effective way not only to build a reputation and a scene, but to find a common ground through which the voice you might have been hunting all this time can find real soil in which to lay roots and actually flower. Being isolated and alone as an artist has its obvious necessities, and from afar any socially based pursuit may seem (rightfully) suspect, but no matter who you are, these days building a career or even a rich hobby in the arts—unless you’re fine being Henry Darger, which is cool too—requires at least some degree of collaboration and conversation, if only ever via email. Finding the proper people with which to gel, if you’re willing, then, becomes its own work, separate and lesser from the thing itself, but still a tool—and one that these days, given how blurry and bullshit the corporate locked down the interweb and its outlets have become since, might be even more vital than ever. It costs you time and effort, plus web hosting fees, but the returns are tenfold if what you’re after is establishing a sense of sense from which to build. The same can be said of starting up a reading series in your city, hosting others in Q&A at events, writing reviews or interviews for other pubs, or simply reaching out to writers you admire to say you liked their book or story—especially ones who rarely get attention. Give a man a fish etc.

What appears to be the bottom line throughout all of this is that you never know where or when you might find firm land amidst the mush. Not all effort gets paid off directly, and that reflects again on why relying on commercial success to come and discover you as a result of your natural talent or will to pander is a losing play. Taking a stand and being bold, whether it results in being understood or seen or not, sets a bar by its example, ideally both nourishing your practice and providing doors that might come open any time.

For me, this came true when a short piece I published on Word Riot (RIP), turned into a blind query from an agent in the UK who’d been reading web mags to try to find potential clients. Just like that, after having tried and failed over and over to get a rep, one had found my work and asked for more, and because I’d kept up working on a novel alongside the shorter work all of this time, I had something to send him right away. He read the draft and liked it, and suddenly I found myself booking a flight to NYC for the first time ever, to meet him for a drink and discuss. Without telling anyone, I went and met him and listened while he explained the process of sending the book out—ideas he had for fixing it up a bit, and where it fit.

I was elated, of course, without any real idea how this would work. It all happened very fast—a round of submissions, and even a near miss, so it seemed, from Aimee Bender’s editor—but eventually, having exhausted all possible venues for what my agent admitted was unusual work, I’d come away empty-handed yet again. I took it hard, of course, still not yet understanding the high odds even agented work often met with, but still felt renewed by the agent’s will to make further strides next time—in other words, write another one, now with the idea in mind that I could have that kind of eyes on what I did, and maybe then we’d nail it down.

Being naïve, I think I thought this meant that I should go even harder into the fray. My rejected manuscript had been admittedly pretty slapstick, I realized, and flighty in a way compared to what I’d learned about myself from publishing regularly online. Many of the rejecting editors had mentioned they loved the writing but found the content too ridiculous to sell—an easy fix, my agent supposed, and I agreed, more hungry now than ever to gain entry after such a close call. I threw myself back into a new novel draft, writing as fast as I could to try to meet the demand of my agent and strike while the iron remained hot—still working in the style I’d established thus far, but probably worrying more about what I’d do with it when I was done than what it was. If I didn’t get it together now, I might never have another chance, I thought—which made it hurt all the more when six months later I sent the new novel to the agent and they replied along the lines of, “I thought we agreed you were going to try to be less weird with this one! Unfortunately, I’m afraid there’s little hope we won’t meet the same fate as the last one. Try again, and I’ll be excited to read when you are ready.”

Slowly but surely, at the same time, as I wrote more and more in my ambition to keep grinding, I began placing stories in higher-end print mags like Ninth Letter, New Ohio Review, and Willow Springs. Some of those publications had come from sending blindly into slush, and others had come from connections I’d made from publishing elsewhere, or soliciting others who solicited me in turn—not so much as insider trading, like I’d imagined must be going on everywhere, but from an inside track, developed by showing up there and continuing to deepen my own work.

In fact, I realized, I had almost a full collection of stories already, most of them written in a concentrated time and therefore sharing innate qualities that made them click together, even though I hadn’t realized it as I wrote. I wrote a few more stories and felt I had a book suddenly, somehow one much closer to what I was actually interested in doing than my original novel ever was. How lucky I had been, I realized with burgeoning hindsight, to not have found acceptance in the former, which could have completely altered my approach to fit a model I didn’t even admire or understand besides my own potential placement in it. I felt a much different kind of natural confidence this time, too, based on that awareness and the simple traction that I’d gained from building an online presence and rapport with others much the same.

I sent what would eventually become Scorch Atlas to my agent with great zeal, certain that I’d finally cracked the code and broken through. The agent agreed; this was my best work, and truly accomplished as an extension of where he’d imagined me heading all along. In the same breath, he said unfortunately he didn’t think he had the contacts or expertise to get it sold, and therefore he probably couldn’t help me with it. If I felt like writing something closer to expectations, please drop him a line, he said, and he’d be excited to read it anytime.

By now, though, I’d seen enough. The rejection of my earlier attempts had all made sense to me—still learning, after all—but now, after having found acceptance elsewhere, amongst work and with editors I could actually see and interact with, I felt I’d made something I wasn’t willing to toss away and call an exercise. Also, in spreading deeper into indie publishing and having discovered as a reader the explosion of small presses that put out much wider breadth of work, I no longer felt as if I required his help to find a home. It wasn’t what I envisioned, necessarily, but rather than be discouraged by ‘settling’ for anything but a major press, I told the agent I agreed we didn’t need to work together; that this book was more like me than anything I’d ever be able to write for him from hereon. I did this with the same blind faith I think I’d held myself up to in feel attrition in MFA—that if I believed in what I was doing and approached it honestly, down to brass tacks, it didn’t matter what anyone in particular thought. What mattered was the work itself, the experience of making the work itself, the energy it manifested through creation over time—a fact I’d never felt so clearly as now, having grown and been asked to shrink. The business hat bullshit could only follow after the actual horse, taking traction from those who really felt it, beyond the grift of landing headlines, doing numbers; otherwise, it might as well be all for naught, no? What good has ever come from anything otherwise? What real feeling of accomplishment comes at the cost of the actual accomplishment itself? Better yet, what else would come for me if I stopped holding back based on the merely administrative conceits of others?

Next time, I’ll write a bit more about how I moved off from the agent approach for bookmaking into seeking publication at indie presses. I’ll also explore a bit more how the online publishing community fostered a basis to build off from both in having comrades and developing an identity among peers. After that, I’ll move straight into more nuts and bolts style posts about the presses I ended up working with, what I learned I wanted, and how it went. Thanks for reading.