How so for editors? Because this provides an overview of what we're all saying. How we're talking to our communities. And I don't think any of us take the rejection letter lightly, but some ways we have languaged rejections may become outdated over time. Speaking as a writer who has been receiving rejection letters since 1997, I haven't noticed a significant change in the way they read. That's almost 15 years. Certainly something could change by now? With this resource, we can start to share what works and what doesn't, start to identify "best practice" letters, start a dialogue about how we communicate with each other.
But that's a big project. For now, I've just been using the resource to help us here at Versal to improve our practices. So in the run-up to Versal 10's reading period, a few of our editors and I read through all of them and made a list of the ones we like.
["Like" being a big bucket obviously. It might be that one letter has a respectful, kind closing note, but the rest of it is dismissive. Or another has a nice way of thanking the submitter. Often it just comes down to tone, I think. And of course personal preference. In general, our team seems drawn to those letters that assume that the submitter is a three-dimensional human being who knows what they're doing. Unfortunately I felt that a lot of the letters had a demeaning or patronizing undertone, harking back to a now (I would argue) outdated perception of the relationship between writer and editor. Anyway.]
So we rewrote our letters. I assume at some point these will get posted up on the Wiki (an old one is there now), but in the interest of all things holy here they are in all their glory.
We have three "template" letters and one blank one that we can write from scratch.
The first "tier" (to use the language of the wiki) letter is sent to folks whose work is read by 1-2 editors. This letter indicates that we feel the work is not yet strong enough for continued consideration. Clearly this judgment is subjective, but all such judgments are, and like all journals we must make a distinction between what work is really "ready" for serious consideration for our journal and what work has too many weaknesses.
The second and third tier letters are sent to folks whose work is read by 2-3 editors (at our "second read" level). The letters encourage the writer/artist to submit again next time because there's something about the work we are drawn to, or strengths in the writing or artistic style we see developing over more time. It can thus include a personal message to elaborate on our reading of it (essentially this could be considered the "third tier"). This work is discussed between editors at length, via our system and possibly over drinks in a bar in Amsterdam or elsewhere.
The fourth tier letter is sent to folks whose work made it to our editorial round table. This means that it was "escalated" up to everyone in a particular editorial team (poetry, prose or art), considered by each team member individually, then discussed during a team meeting. Sometimes it takes us two meetings to come to a decision about a piece. In any case, we read the piece or parts of it aloud (or, in the case of the art team, beam it onto a big or high-res screen), those who "sent it up" talk about their reading of the piece, and Robert, Shayna or I lead a discussion around it until we come to a decision.
I'm not the final round. I don't have veto power, nor does Robert or Shayna. But it's not consensus we aim for, either. And we don't see our editorial table as jury duty. Rather, we work to listen to each others' enthusiasm or frustrations, we seek to educate ourselves on a piece's inner workings, we try to impart whatever knowledge we have about the piece to our fellow editors. It's a giving, thoughtful, excited process.
And though most intently seen during our round tables, it is one that filters through every level of our reading.
The latest fray in literary America, which like most I am watching from afar, has me thinking a lot about best practices in publishing.
If you haven't been keeping up, start here, where writer Brett Ortler shares his recent but seemingly conditional acceptance from BlazeVOX. Then head over to HTMLGiant, which picked up the story rather quickly and where, true to form, the comments threads exploded. There are some heated responses out there, too. And last but not least, BlazeVOX's own Geoffrey Gatza responds here.
I'm following the fray closely because I am interested in what is between the lines of this discussion. There's actually quite a lot between the lines but I'm focusing on where it touches issues of business models and (business) practices, transparency, the changing relationships in the literary economy, what we "should" do, how we're/it's all changing, and the much-discussed "future of publishing".
These are each big discussions in and of themselves, which is probably in part why Mr. Ortler's blog catalyzed such a huge debate.
If you've been following our own blog over the last month, you'll know we're struggling with these very issues. Trying to find and implement a new business model for our journal has been an exciting but scary road, and I've tried to share as much about that road as I can, and will continue to do so. And foremost on my mind has been how to continue to be the honest, transparent and respectful journal that we started as and have grown more into. Which is why I'm thinking so much about best practices.
What are best practices? Wiki has a pretty good summary on them. In short, they are generally accepted things that work. For example, we could study what kinds of rejection letters are the "best" using certain criteria. Once you define what is "best", you can determine what practices will lead to it. So in the case of the rejection letter, we might define "best" as being respectful, non-demeaning, encouraging but honest. We could harness indicators like repeat submissions to determine how effective a letter is at its intended goal (some letters, e.g., may want to discourage a writer from sending work to the journal in the future, while others may want to encourage a writer to try again). The practice of writing such letters will have to do with things like the quality of the writing, the diction of its vocabulary, the signature (i.e. signed by an editor or by "The Editors"), the time lapse between submission and rejection, etc. Hard to imagine, maybe, but these things are actually measurable...
It wasn't too long ago that a situation in publishing led to the establishment of a best practice. Foetry's whistle blowing and the subsequent attention that bad contest practices got prompted CLMP to develop a contest code of ethics, which many contests now employ. This latest eruption has underscored a lot of things, but for me as Versal's editor while Versal undergoes a change, I am interested in some of the best practices for small publishers that are coming to light. Like: 1. Grammatically correct and well-structured correspondence 2. Transparent business models 3. Transparent and upfront publishing terms In a way these seem very obvious, and almost stupid to write down. But I think a letter that I write to someone who has entrusted me with her work should be well-written and not have spelling errors. I've spent nearly 10 years now with Versal thinking about these things, and assuming I was just a total nerd, and in an early instance having to argue with a fellow (now gone) Versal editor about why he should write emails that had complete sentences, and feeling then like I just was too uptight and generally not cool while his slightly manic emails were "cool" because they were "natural".
But this post isn't because I feel vindicated now by the crowd. It's because I want to continue (here and elsewhere) talking with writers and editors and everyone interested in what we can all do to make this better. And sometimes the best place to start is somewhere really simple. Like correctly spelled words in sentences.
Feel free to share what you think are "best practices" in small publishing down there in the comments. And also other thoughts. Already this big debate is starting to move "forward". Part of that can be about how in this major transitional time for publishers, we can be "best" at what we're doing.
Yesterday I received an electronic rejection email from The Kenyon Review. The generic aspect of the rejection surprised me; not because I expected that they would take a special interest in my work (the number of submissions they receive precludes such a thing except under very unusual circumstances), but because I had noticed that someone from Kenyon college had, two days before, looked at my website. So I went online to see other rejections sent by Kenyon Review, to see what rejection letters they usually send.
In searching Google, I noticed a number of other sites, including a blog site that rated rejections (http://awritingyear.blogspot.com/). The not-so-surprising thing about the rating of rejections was that the writer (to a large extent, rightfully so) expected that the rejection slip would convey a sense of care and respect. That is to say, an ideal letter, short of including personal information about a person's work (always, always a good sign), succeeded in making the writer feel a combination of hope, admiration, and respect as well as a general support for the act of writing itself.
I'm not saying that journals should be cold, callous, or unprofessional. I'm saying that even a good rejection slip (again, short of a personalized letter) is presenting the illusion of personal attention, and we might be better off if we understood that.
Why? First, the cold truth of quantity. Given the number of submissions a journal receives (hundreds or thousands per month), very, very few people will receive personal attention, and while a rejection letter may allow the writer to feel loved, chances are they skimmed your piece, or, at most, had a few editors read it. Second, because rejections are mass produced, the attributes of a "good" rejection letter such as properly cut pages, handwritten signatures, a mention of care, appreciation, and thanks do nothing but fall within a fairly recent discourse of professionalization.
The writer wants to feel that in rejection, the institution has taken as much care with their work as they have in writing it, but that can never be true - you spent hundreds of hours in that story (I hope). Accordingly, the writer receives reasons to alternately feel hopeful or bitter, consoled or inconsolable, instead of taking the rejection for what it is: which could be almost anything. When there's a black hole of information, the rejection slip offers a locus for the rant of not knowing.
What I'd like to suggest, however, is that a rejection slip could provide not just emotional support, but actually useful information. I'm not arguing that each letter be personalized - however, journals can and do have more than one rejection slip which, coupled with either transparency on the side of the journal or a collective sharing of resources, could help both writers and journals become more efficient.
Let me explain what I mean by explaining - this may be especially handy for non-editors - how the electronic submission system, at least the Submission Manager designed by Devin Emke, is set up:
When rejecting a work, I have a choice of four rejection letters which can all be customized with canned text or personalized information. In general, journals can choose to use any or all of these four letters (if they are extremely technically savvy, they can create more than four). Generally speaking, one of the four is reserved for a purely personal note without canned text, and so most journals will use between 1 and 3 rejection slips.
This is also true for Versal. We use two canned text rejections, which differ by their level of encouragement, and one hybrid, which allows us to add customized text to the more encouraging of the two canned notes.
And this is where, with the option of multiple notes, efficiency comes in. While we love the fact that people are writing, and we want to encourage them in their writing practice, we don't, given our workload, necessarily want to encourage every single writer to resubmit to us the year after a rejection. Normally this would be because we don't see enough merit in the work, and we don't see that at this point in time, the writer has potential enough to improve their craft in a year. That is to say, very rarely does a writer go from nothing to everything. (This is, at this point, all about (perceived) quality, and has nothing to do with aesthetic - although of course quality is equally subjective).
In a brutally cruel world, we might write, "Hi, we appreciate the fact that you are writing and submitting to us, but this work is really far away from what we're looking for in terms of quality, so maybe you should just concentrate on your craft for a bit, or consider some less restrictive journals." Or: "Hey, we don't accept 10,000 word stories about robot vampires, but you sent us one anyway, so please don't send another." But that's not very nice, so we write a neutral-toned canned text that offers little encouragement, and we hope that that dissuades people from resubmitting at least for a year or two.
This also, of course, can be of help to the writer, who, it would stand to reason, would want to be told, nicely, that their work has an extremely small chance (far less than the "normal" extremely small chance) of being published by this journal at this time - saving the writer time, money and heartache.
In Versal's case, the canned text rejection that offers encouragement is just that - we don't think this work is good enough, but it has plenty of merit, and we believe that you are capable, next year, of submitting a work that is good enough - so keep trying.
As a writer receiving the rejection letter, you have very little information with which to decipher the letter. Without understanding Versal's process, or having access to all three rejection letters, you don't know if we're just sweet-talking you or if we really want you to resubmit. The problem: if the institution does not make their processes clear, then the writer has no way of knowing what the letter might mean. The writer doesn't know how the letter is produced, what system, how many letters there are, and so forth.
Naturally, a journal wouldn't want to make the letters too hierarchical (i.e. you made it to the second round), because you then encourage people to imagine a linear scale, whereas the complexity of submissions (the quality of the work, the aesthetic, who reads it (and in what mood), how many pieces they are taking, changes in editors) precludes any kind of pathway for a writer to follow. It's completely common for a work to be rejected with some love, and then to have the next work, which might be "better," receive no love at all.
What I envision is a journal that makes public and transparent both their reading process and modes of rejection. It helps the writer, by giving them a focus on whom to submit to, and it helps the journal, who will receive a greater percentage of submissions that correspond to what they want. As complement, I would support a web site (Duotrope?) that stores copies of rejection letters sent by the institution. This would further encourage journals to be up front with their processes.
I'm trying to think of ways in which the public revelation of rejection letters compromises the journal, or forces the journal to spend extra resources on rejection letters. I don't believe that it would. On the other hand, it would give some (not a lot, but some) clarity to the writer on where they, at this moment, with this work, stand.
The second and third tier letters are sent to folks whose work is read by 2-3 editors (at our "second read" level). The letters encourage the writer/artist to submit again next time because there's something about the work we are drawn to, or strengths in the writing or artistic style we see developing over more time. It can thus include a personal message to elaborate on our reading of it (essentially this could be considered the "third tier"). This work is discussed between editors at length, via our system and possibly over drinks in a bar in Amsterdam or elsewhere.
The fourth tier letter is sent to folks whose work made it to our editorial round table. This means that it was "escalated" up to everyone in a particular editorial team (poetry, prose or art), considered by each team member individually, then discussed during a team meeting. Sometimes it takes us two meetings to come to a decision about a piece. In any case, we read the piece or parts of it aloud (or, in the case of the art team, beam it onto a big or high-res screen), those who "sent it up" talk about their reading of the piece, and Robert, Shayna or I lead a discussion around it until we come to a decision.
I'm not the final round. I don't have veto power, nor does Robert or Shayna. But it's not consensus we aim for, either. And we don't see our editorial table as jury duty. Rather, we work to listen to each others' enthusiasm or frustrations, we seek to educate ourselves on a piece's inner workings, we try to impart whatever knowledge we have about the piece to our fellow editors. It's a giving, thoughtful, excited process.
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