News From The Slush Pile
So, how does an editor turn 1597 submissions of fiction, poetry, art, and reports into a finished magazine of 200+ pages?
First of all, she can't do it alone. She needs those submissions to keep coming into slush. She needs the webdev who keeps the whole intricate but slightly creaky submissions management system working. This system enables people living in California, Connecticut, New Hampshire, and the United Kingdom to work together on the magazine without ever meeting, swapping pieces of paper, or losing a single submission. From virtual sub to physical print, it's all done via the internet.
The editor also needs to know that further down the line there'll be a brilliant copy-editor who'll work with the authors, and her, to make their work the best it can be. And that, finally, there's a layout editor committed to presenting all that work in a handsome .PDF and a beautiful print edition. It's a team effort, and the team are all volunteers, working in their spare time because they believe in what they're doing. It's GUD.
GUD Issue 3 was envisioned as a themed issue, the magazine's first. The theme decided upon by the editor in charge--known as the instigator--(or as me) was Mechanical Flight. A theme has advantages and disadvantages. One big advantage is that it reduces the number of submissions--although not by as much as you'd think, given that many people either don't read the issue guidelines, or live in La La Land where they don't apply. But it's significant that Issue 3 received a total of 1597 submissions, whereas Issue 2 had 1632, and Issue 4 (which has just closed to submissions so 5 can open) a mind-boggling 2561.
One disadvantage, which I didn't anticipate when I ventured into creating Issue 3, is that you have to turn down a lot of excellent submissions whose only flaw is that they don't fit the theme. That can be painful.
Issue 3 opened to submissions on the 6th November 2007. It took a little while for word of the theme to get out, and many of the early submissions were unsuitable. But then the themed submissions started to come in. That's when the real work started.
So, what was I looking for?
In stories over 1000 words, a definite connection to the theme. In Flash fiction (under 1000 words), anything I liked, basically, themed or not. For poetry, again, the theme wasn't mandatory. In art, I was looking specifically for themed submissions. And I had a definite idea for the issue cover in mind.
Reading slush is a matter of application. You sit down, you read or look at everything that's come in since the last time you sat down in that same chair. Day after day. It becomes mind-numbing after a while. A routine that you have to go through, because if you don't, it all piles up into a daunting slush Everest.
When you run across submissions with file formats you can't open (and there's always a few), you write to the GUD list for help--and you get it. There doesn't seem to be anything someone can't convert (oh, brave words! but slush is kaolin's problem, now :D).
You get a lot of submissions that don't meet your standards for publishable. How to define "publishable"? Every editor has their own ideas. I can put up with a few typos and/or spelling errors--but not a consistent demonstration that the English language is a bit of a puzzle, really, and one the author has decided not to bother unravelling. If the author shows me that they don't read, I'm not reading either. Usually these bottom-tier submissions make themselves plain in the first paragraph. Sometimes in the very first line--I think I had two easy first-line rejections overall. Trust me, I know when my readers aren't going to read on--so there's no need for me to.
I don't mind a diamond-in-the-rough--unless it comes from an author I've worked with before and who proved to be the major obstacle to the cutting and polishing process. At least one piece in Issue 3 (I'm not naming it!) arrived with its potential evident but not yet realised, and with author, editor and copy-editor working together, became shiny. That's a process I love. If I'm reading someone's work, and my mind starts designing the edit, I know I've found something I want.
Then there are the submissions that arrive almost perfect, complete. The editor leans back in her chair and relaxes, enjoying the read, because the author has demonstrated that they know what they're doing, and it's all going to be great. Darja Malcolm-Clarke's A Song, a Prayer, an Empty Space was like that. A gem. An instant YES!
So, the ones you definitely want and the ones you probably want and the ones you might want all go into the "Maybe" pile, releasing them from slush. The ones you don't want (for whatever reason) go into, well, the reject bin, to give it a nicer name than its actual one.
From the "Maybes", you start assembling your issue in your mind. Which art pieces might complement which fiction or poetry? How to keep the first person narratives apart? One solution: ask the author to rewrite in third person. Success in one case, disappearing author in the other. It happens. Move on. Bunch the poems up a bit, because it's a whole 'nother type of reading from reading prose. Suddenly realise that a story you had Maybeed has been withdrawn by the contributor. Shock. Horror! Rearrange.
An artist submits, then vanishes. All attempts to contact fail. Rearrange again. At this point, the issue has a shape in the editor's mind. Everything has a place. It all flows (at least, you think it does. You hope).
You ask all the contributors who are still talking to you to confirm that they'll let you publish. Amazingly, they say yes. It's almost too much to hope for at this stage.
Then the copy-editing. I could write a whole post on that alone. Each story and poem is formatted according to house style. Headers, footers, and other extraneous material, all stripped out. First edit. Second edit. Third edit. A lot of other edits that weren't scheduled but are still needed. Discussions with authors. Discussions between instigator and copy-editor. Ideas requested from the GUD list. More edits.
And then the proofs. More back-and-forthing--this time with the layout editor. Proof versions pile up on the hard disk. One of the contributors (who shall be nameless) changes their mind about their byline at the last minute. More proofs. Hardly anyone has a hair left on their heads by now.
Until finally every contributor has hit that "approved" button. Yay!
And then, suddenly, it's done. The final proof comes through with the beautiful cover you thought you'd never have. There are the stories and poems and art and the one report you plucked out of the slushpile. It's almost ready to go to print.
Months of work. One magazine.
Any questions? :D
First of all, she can't do it alone. She needs those submissions to keep coming into slush. She needs the webdev who keeps the whole intricate but slightly creaky submissions management system working. This system enables people living in California, Connecticut, New Hampshire, and the United Kingdom to work together on the magazine without ever meeting, swapping pieces of paper, or losing a single submission. From virtual sub to physical print, it's all done via the internet.
The editor also needs to know that further down the line there'll be a brilliant copy-editor who'll work with the authors, and her, to make their work the best it can be. And that, finally, there's a layout editor committed to presenting all that work in a handsome .PDF and a beautiful print edition. It's a team effort, and the team are all volunteers, working in their spare time because they believe in what they're doing. It's GUD.
GUD Issue 3 was envisioned as a themed issue, the magazine's first. The theme decided upon by the editor in charge--known as the instigator--(or as me) was Mechanical Flight. A theme has advantages and disadvantages. One big advantage is that it reduces the number of submissions--although not by as much as you'd think, given that many people either don't read the issue guidelines, or live in La La Land where they don't apply. But it's significant that Issue 3 received a total of 1597 submissions, whereas Issue 2 had 1632, and Issue 4 (which has just closed to submissions so 5 can open) a mind-boggling 2561.
One disadvantage, which I didn't anticipate when I ventured into creating Issue 3, is that you have to turn down a lot of excellent submissions whose only flaw is that they don't fit the theme. That can be painful.
Issue 3 opened to submissions on the 6th November 2007. It took a little while for word of the theme to get out, and many of the early submissions were unsuitable. But then the themed submissions started to come in. That's when the real work started.
So, what was I looking for?
In stories over 1000 words, a definite connection to the theme. In Flash fiction (under 1000 words), anything I liked, basically, themed or not. For poetry, again, the theme wasn't mandatory. In art, I was looking specifically for themed submissions. And I had a definite idea for the issue cover in mind.
Reading slush is a matter of application. You sit down, you read or look at everything that's come in since the last time you sat down in that same chair. Day after day. It becomes mind-numbing after a while. A routine that you have to go through, because if you don't, it all piles up into a daunting slush Everest.
When you run across submissions with file formats you can't open (and there's always a few), you write to the GUD list for help--and you get it. There doesn't seem to be anything someone can't convert (oh, brave words! but slush is kaolin's problem, now :D).
You get a lot of submissions that don't meet your standards for publishable. How to define "publishable"? Every editor has their own ideas. I can put up with a few typos and/or spelling errors--but not a consistent demonstration that the English language is a bit of a puzzle, really, and one the author has decided not to bother unravelling. If the author shows me that they don't read, I'm not reading either. Usually these bottom-tier submissions make themselves plain in the first paragraph. Sometimes in the very first line--I think I had two easy first-line rejections overall. Trust me, I know when my readers aren't going to read on--so there's no need for me to.
I don't mind a diamond-in-the-rough--unless it comes from an author I've worked with before and who proved to be the major obstacle to the cutting and polishing process. At least one piece in Issue 3 (I'm not naming it!) arrived with its potential evident but not yet realised, and with author, editor and copy-editor working together, became shiny. That's a process I love. If I'm reading someone's work, and my mind starts designing the edit, I know I've found something I want.
Then there are the submissions that arrive almost perfect, complete. The editor leans back in her chair and relaxes, enjoying the read, because the author has demonstrated that they know what they're doing, and it's all going to be great. Darja Malcolm-Clarke's A Song, a Prayer, an Empty Space was like that. A gem. An instant YES!
So, the ones you definitely want and the ones you probably want and the ones you might want all go into the "Maybe" pile, releasing them from slush. The ones you don't want (for whatever reason) go into, well, the reject bin, to give it a nicer name than its actual one.
From the "Maybes", you start assembling your issue in your mind. Which art pieces might complement which fiction or poetry? How to keep the first person narratives apart? One solution: ask the author to rewrite in third person. Success in one case, disappearing author in the other. It happens. Move on. Bunch the poems up a bit, because it's a whole 'nother type of reading from reading prose. Suddenly realise that a story you had Maybeed has been withdrawn by the contributor. Shock. Horror! Rearrange.
An artist submits, then vanishes. All attempts to contact fail. Rearrange again. At this point, the issue has a shape in the editor's mind. Everything has a place. It all flows (at least, you think it does. You hope).
You ask all the contributors who are still talking to you to confirm that they'll let you publish. Amazingly, they say yes. It's almost too much to hope for at this stage.
Then the copy-editing. I could write a whole post on that alone. Each story and poem is formatted according to house style. Headers, footers, and other extraneous material, all stripped out. First edit. Second edit. Third edit. A lot of other edits that weren't scheduled but are still needed. Discussions with authors. Discussions between instigator and copy-editor. Ideas requested from the GUD list. More edits.
And then the proofs. More back-and-forthing--this time with the layout editor. Proof versions pile up on the hard disk. One of the contributors (who shall be nameless) changes their mind about their byline at the last minute. More proofs. Hardly anyone has a hair left on their heads by now.
Until finally every contributor has hit that "approved" button. Yay!
And then, suddenly, it's done. The final proof comes through with the beautiful cover you thought you'd never have. There are the stories and poems and art and the one report you plucked out of the slushpile. It's almost ready to go to print.
Months of work. One magazine.
Any questions? :D
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Nick on -
Now come, come, Debbie. We know it's the cat wot did it all!
Joking aside, I think you have given a pretty good demonstration of why the process to wade through is called the Slush Pile!
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Permalink Reply by Debbie Moorhouse on -
Ah, yes, nothing happens around here without the cat's approval!
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Permalink Reply by Nick on
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It is a truth universally unacknowledged about cats - Sixth sense sentient little blighter that they are!
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Permalink Reply by Kaolin on -
And that's not even getting into promotion, socialization, printing (well, barely), review copies, ... (and you forgot about making blurbs for all of the pieces on the website ... and then making new editions for Fictionwise and Kindle) and, umm, erm. Yes. I'm forgetting, too, I'm sure.
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Permalink Reply by Debbie Moorhouse on
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kaolin dear, you are right of course :) but the post had to end somewhere!
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