Beginning writers often imagine publishing their short story to be a
glamorous event, Hemingwayesque in a wear-your-sunglasses-and-knock-back-the-grappa-as-agents-ring-your-phone-off kind of way.  But for most writers it's an experience on par with, say, folding laundry.  Unless you make one of the slicks- The New Yorker, Esquire, Atlantic Monthly, Harper's- most likely your payment will be two copies of the magazine.  These will arrive in your mailbox in a plain brown envelope.  Some editors jot a thankyou note, but most don't bother.  Chances are, your friends and family will not have heard of the magazine.  Even the best literary journals often manage only a modest circulation- 500 to 5,000- and may not be available for sale except in a very few widely scattered off- beat independents.  In short, if you want money, you'd do better to flip burgers, and if you want attention, go fight bulls.  Knock back
that grappa, heck, wear a spangled pink tutu and splash in the Dupont
Circle fountain during lunch hour.  Scream obscenities in Swahili.
Whatever.

So why try?  Because when your story is published it is no longer one
copy printed out from your printer, but 1,000 or more.  Perhaps one is
lying on someone's coffee table in Peterborough, New Hampshire, or on
a poet's broad oak desk overlooking the beach at La Jolla, California.
Maybe one sits on the shelves at the University of Chicago's
Regenstein Library, or on a side table in the lobby at Yaddo.  Perhaps
a dentist will read your story, or a retired school teacher from
Winnetka.  Perhaps one day, a hundred years from now, a bizarrely
tattooed highschool student will find it on a shelf in the basement of
the Reno, Nevada public library, and she will sit down Indian-style on
the cold linoleum floor and read it, her eyes wide with wonder.  Your
story, once published, lives its own life, sinking some deep, strange
roots.  Potentially forever.

And of course it is validating

(i. e., gives one's ego the warm & fuzzies) to have your work
published.  It also helps to mention it in your cover letters when you
try to get other work published, or apply for grants and fellowships,
or to attract the attention of an agent, and so on.  Indeed,
publishing one's stories in literary journals is (with a very few
notable exceptions) y a prerequisite to securing a publisher for a
collection.

If you can keep your focus on the story, however, and what the story
merits- rather than the warm & fuzzies for your ego- the process will
be easier.  Expect your ego to take some punches.

First, Rejections

It may appear that we live in a nation of "Leno"watchers, throngs of
Gladiator"-goers, Stallone fans, Brad Pitt groupies and the like.
From a breezy foray through the local mall's bookstore, one might
guess that America reads nothing but brand-name bodice-rippers, shiny
red foil paperbacks with nuclear warheads on their covers, or those
teensy gifty "books" with angels and cats on them displayed at the
cash register alongside the chotchkes and chocolates.

Mais non!  Secretly, millions of Americans are scribbling, and bravely
(if often furtively) thousands and thousands are sending their work to
literary magazines.  Yes, thousands and thousands (and say that again,
out loud, à la Carl Sagan).  The Paris Review receives over 10,000
submissions a year.  My own Tameme, a bilingual literary magazine with a mere two issues out, has received over 200 submissions.  Most
litmags publish only 2-3% of the manuscripts they receive.  As for the
"slicks"- GQ, Esquire, Atlantic Monthly, Harper's, The New Yorker-
getting published in one of these, even for the most outstanding and
recognized writers, even National Book Award winners, is like winning
the lottery.

In short, you've got some competition.  So when you receive the
unsigned xeroxed form rejection note that says "Sorry" it could mean
your story sucks and you should do yourself a favor and burn it, but
it could mean that it's a fine story and they simply didn't have room
for it.  Or they already had a story about a dying alcoholic
gradmother, the heartbreak of losing the family dairy farm, or for
that matter, a flying monkey in a business suit.  (You'd be amazed.)
Equally, it could mean it's one of the best short stories ever
written- better than Chekov's "The Lady with the Pet Dog," better than
Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find," better than A.
Manette Ansay's "Read This and Tell Me What It Says"- and the editor,
or more likely some flunkey/ wannabe / slush pile- squeegee, is an
aethetically blind/ dispeptic / Philistine / pinhead.  Who was
probably hung over.  Or jealous.  Who knows?  The point is, the little
unsigned xeroxed rejection note means nothing except that this
particular magazine's editor at this particular time has chosen not to
publish this particular story.

Sometimes editors write personal notes explaining why they didn't take
your story.  Indeed, anything handwritten and/ or signed by an editor
can mean that a distinguished literary personage has taken an interest
in your work, and you should, gratefully, with a zing in your heart
and Jell-O in your knees, interpret this as both validation and an
invitation to send more.  It can also mean that an inexperienced
graduate student/ assistant/ whomever as yet unacquainted with the
toughening rigors of plowing down towering slush piles felt guilty
saying no and was merely attempting in a flakey and time-consuming way to be nice.

Thus it behooves you to do your research about the litmags and editors
you are sending your work to.  A personally signed rejection letter
from the Editor-in-Chief of The Kenyon Review, for example, would make
my day.  On the other hand,even lengthy letters from an assistant of a
minor new litmag would no more impress me than the comments of a
commuter randomly collared at the bus stop.  (Who might be a very
perceptive fellow, but who knows?  He could be coke-addled lunkhead.)
Keep in mind that anyone- yes anyone, including the flying monkey- can
found a litmag.  Compared to, say, making a feature film, or casting
bronze sculpture, publishing a litmag is dirt cheap.  All of which is
to say, unless they are from the likes of the editor-in-chief of The
Kenyon Review, don't take letters from editors too seriously.  For
that matter, don't take editors themselves too seriously.

So you send again, and again.  And again.  She who spends for the most postage wins.  As does she who does her research.

Research, Research, Research

The most basic level of research is to get an overall feel for the
"market" for literary short fiction.  You can usually find a
reasonably interesting selection at your local library.  If you can
afford it, however, I recommend you go to a bookstore and buy a bunch
- at the Georgetown Barnes & Noble I've spotted Chelsea, Calyx,
Witness, The Paris Review, Southwest Review, Tin House, Potomac
Review, all of which would be worth your while to read.  Read all you
can, and read the contributors notes.  If you read a story by, say,
Bob Doe, that you admire, and you read in Bob Doe's bio that he's also
published in Seattle Review, High Plains Review, and DoubleTake- check 'em out!  Another good way to spot worthy litmags is to pick up prize- winning short story collections - anything that wins the AWP, Iowa
Prize, Flannery O'Connor, Bakeless, National Book Award, etc- and look
on the acknowledgments page to see where stories have been previously published.

Then have a look at the web for guidelines.  Litmags without a website
will usually send guidelines in exchange for a SASE (self addressed
stamped envelope).  A great place to look for links is on the website
of the Council of Literary Magazines and Small Presses, www.clmp.org

Reference books like Writers Market can be helpful, but in my
experience they are often too quickly out of date.  There is no
substitute for actually seeing - and reading - a magazine and its
guidelines before you submit.

Guidelines not only give an idea of the types of writing the editors
are looking for, but reading periods.  Many litmags read only during
the fall, or during the winter.  Some read Sept - May, others Oct -
June.  Oftentimes litmags have special issues, e.g., "The Body",
"Mothers and Daughters", "Love in America", "Overcoming Loss",
"Borderlands."  Your manuscript will have a better chance if you can
aim it at a special issue.

2007 Update: an increasing number of litmags accept on-line (e-mailed) submissions.  Nonetheless, many editors refuse to read e-mailed submissions.  Be sure to check the submissions guidelines before zapping out that attachment.

Calls for submissions are often listed in the classifieds in Poets &
Writers, a publication I strongly recommend that you subscribe to.
(For more information go http://www.pw.org) For those of you in the
Washington DC metropolitan area, consider joining The Writers Center.
Their publication, Writer's Carousel, also inlcudes numerous calls for
submission.

Contests can be tricky.  These invite you to send a story with an
entry fee of anywhere from $5 to $20.  The fees are often used to fund
the litmag, and/or to pay a judge for her time reading manuscripts.
For book contests- especially for poetry, but also for literary short
story collection awards such as the AWP, Bakeless, Iowa, Flannery
O'Connor, and others- reading fees cover the honoria for the judge,
and as such I think they are fair and fine.  For individual stories,
however, I would not enter a contest that requires a fee unless it
includes a subscription or anthology that I would have bought anyway.
There are too many litmags that don't request a fee to consider your
work, and given your chances, you might as well lay down your bucks on
a lottery ticket.  In short, be sure you know where and why you are
sending before you start writing checks.

The Mechanics of Submission

First, your cover letter.  This should have your name, address, tel,
and e-mail.

Address the letter to a specific person if you can- "To the Fiction
Editor" is a red flag that you don't know the magazine.

Tell them what you're submitting,

e. g., "Please find enclosed for your consideration a short story,
"Down the Well").  Do not explain the story, e.g., "this is a story
about a young girl who falls down a well," etc. You are not selling a
nonfiction article

- the literary short story is art, and you must let it speak for
itself.  Explaining and introducing is blather, it annoys the editor
and it makes you look silly.

Editors are human however, so it helps- if you can do it honestly- to
say something about their litmag, e.g., "I bought a copy of ABC at the
Bethesda Book Festival and I really admired the story by Bob Doe".  If
you can't say anything, don't.  Brief and business-like is fine.

Include something about yourself- a few sentences, a paragraph at the
most, that could be used as your contributor's note if your story is
taken.  I find them easier to both write and read in the third person.
(I put mine at the bottom of the page, under the title "Brief Bio".)
This is your opportunity to signal that you're serious-

e. g., "Bob Doe's stories have been published in ABC, PDQ etc" or "Bob
Doe was recently awarded a scholarship at the Bread Loaf Writers
Conference and is now in his second year at the Johns Hopkins MFA
Program".  If you don't have literary "credentials," not to worry, a
simple note will do, e.g., "Bob Doe is a statistician who lives in
Grand Forks, North Dakota with his wife, four children and pack of
seven Alpo-guzzling Huskies.  He is at work on a novel."  Anything
more- your five page resume, a previously published poem, a newspaper article about your amazing recovery after being simultaneously hit by a cement truck and an estimated 397 volts of lightning- is clutter. The editor has limited time and attention, so don't take it up with the nonessential.  End the cover letter with a "thank you for
considering my work" and sign it.

The manuscript itself should have your name, address, tel and e-mail
in the upper left hand corner.  If you can, include a word count,
preferably in the upper right hand corner.  Double space the text (or
else!).  Fasten the whole thing- manuscript, and cover letter- with a
paper clip.  (Don't staple, because if they do seriously consider your
story they may need to make xerox copies for other editorial readers.)

Finally- crucially- enclose a self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE)
for the reply because without it you may not get one.  Unless your
manuscript is short enough to fit in the 39 c stamped envelope, expect
them to (ahem) recycle it.

The Question of Multiple Submissions

A dismaying number of litmag editors say that they either do not
accept multiple submissions, or that they insist on being informed.
My view is, they're shouting into the wind because so many writers do
it anyway.  According to my own informal poll, 90% of serious already
well published short story writers multiple submit, and without
compunction.  With the odds so stacked against even the best writers,
to expect a one-at-a-time submissions is not only unrealistic but
grossly unfair.  If you submit your story to one litmag at one at a
time, it may take years, toe curling, shoulder sagging years, to find
it a home.  Even the most distinguished litmags can sometimes take as
long as a year to reply.  That's right, a year.  Rather than get
steamed about that, keep in mind that litmag publishing is not a
profit generating business, but a labor of love.  Most editors are not
paid for their time, and if they are, only poorly paid.  They're only
human, they have to take the kids to the dentist and grade papers and
water the lawn and walk the dog and write their own short stories/
poems/ novel, and in any case the slush pile is very tall, and growing
ever taller what with all these multiple submissions...

If you do have a story accepted, you should immediately inform all of
the other editors that you are withdrawing it.  A simple postcard will
do: "Dear Editor: This is to let you know that I am withdrawing my
story "Down the Well".  I hope this has not caused any inconvenience.
Sincerely, Bob Doe."  To do otherwise- to wait in hopes of a bigger
bite from, say, The New Yorker- is both dishonorable and unfair to the
editor who has taken your story.  The literary world is small, and it
seems to me that in a somewhat random but inexorable way, what goes
around comes around.

I think submitting to three or four litmags or slicks is a good number
to start with.  With each rejection, send out another.  If after three
months you haven't received a reply from a given journal, this may
mean your story is under serious consideration, although, it may mean
your story is sitting behind some junior assistant's couch who still
hasn't read it and by the way the cat pissed on it.  Who knows?  So
it's a tough call whether to withdraw the manuscript or not.  All I
can say is, go with your gut.

Aside from the secretarial hassle and expense of postage, another
reason not to send out more than three or four submissions of a given
story at a time is that most likely, with a fresh look a few months
later, you will want to revise it.  You may even want to take it out
of circulation.  Again, go with your gut.

Keep Learning, Keep Writing

I doubt there are many serious short story writers who don't have a
thick file of rejections.  It's part of the game, and so don't let
them fluster you.  Some of the best short stories have five, eight,
even fifteen rejections behind them.  One prize-winning story by a
major contemporary writer racked up 48- that's right, 48- rejections
before it was taken.  Some genuinely amazing stories are never
published- until they show up in a collection.

As writers we must continually work to balance on the razor's edge of
arrogance and humility- and we do that with a dose of both: arrogance
to continue sending out work when it has been rejected and rejected
and rejected; humility to recognize when we need to rewrite, or re-
envision, or even (ah well) to discard.  Trying to publish can be a
discouraging and disorienting experience, like entering a dark forest
full of noise.  The trick is, keep your chin up but your ego in check,
and stay focused on maintaining that balance, and making your writing
the best you can.

When your story is accepted for publication, let your ego, for a few
private minutes, tingle and shine.  When, some months later, your two
contributors copies arrive in their plain brown envelope, sit down and
read one.  Get to know the company your story is in.  Write the
editors a thank you note.  Be generous- if you honestly can- with kind
comments about the other contributors' work.  Update your resume and
bio.  Smile wistfully as you wish your story a bon voyage.  And then,
at last, you can plunk the thing on a shelf and get back to the fun
stuff: writing.