Submission Fees and Their Discontents

Every January, it seems some number of literary journals resolve to implement paid submissions where up to that point there had been none. A journal I've submitted to for years (alas, to no avail) recently announced that there will now be a $3 submission fee for all submissions. This journal is run out of a prestigious private American college, not someone's basement or home office. This is merely my latest example, and every year the list grows a bit longer.

As a poet with a personal policy of not paying submission fees - except for a good cause or the rare contest fee - the number of journals open to me steadily grows fewer and fewer, not to mention those which have gone defunct. Of course, there are always new journals cropping up to replace them, and while many of them are promising, there is nothing quite like a long-serving journal, one that has survived the storms of time like an old ship, weathered and battle-scarred.

I identify primarily as a poet, though I also read poetry submissions for a journal which has - miraculously - been at it for nearly thirty years without charging fees for general submissions. I don't know the ins and outs of how they have managed this, but they have. It is possible, is all I'm saying.

Many journals have a number of readers who read what they can, when they can. They are likely not paid for this work, which may range from a handful of minutes here and there to multiple hours a week, depending. It's an imperfect system, and we do it (I do it, in any case) because we feel we're giving something back to the literary community in which we coexist with a great many others, all of us involved in the perpetuation of this thing called 'the literary community'. We are writers, editors, readers and publishers who benefit from each others' work and commitment. We are a kind of ecosystem.

Very few of us in this ecosystem are making a living off of it. Money is nice, but it's besides the point. A writer will write even if it means living in a garbage bag in Tompkins Square Park (extreme example, but you catch my drift). Writers are the very heart of this ecosystem; without them none of the others could exist. There would be nothing to edit, publish, promote or read. (It’s probably fair to point out that most - hopefully, all - of us are also readers in the more general sense, giving each of us multiple, overlapping and non-exclusive roles to perform.)

The beautiful thing about writing is that almost anyone can do it. It's not like painting or music (both of which I tried before writing), requiring a basic investment in materials which may be prohibitive. You can write with a pencil on paper, on your phone or computer, or with a stick in the dirt. All you need are basic literacy skills and - voilà - you, too, can try your hand at it. Now imagine all those writers - basically any human with access to writing materials, meaning almost everyone - start sending their work to lit mags. That's a lot of work to sift through: hours and hours, hundreds or thousands of submissions in order to find a few publishable pieces. At times, something truly astonishing will appear in the queue and you don't want to miss it, bleary-eyed and tired from reading less impressive efforts. This is the hard work of reading submissions, and it is rooted in the vast experience of reading and writing, as well as various levels of education. You have to know what good work is so you're ready for it when it shows up.

There is an additional problem of more recent vintage: AI-generated writing. I’m no expert on this, and have so far resisted the impulse to dabble in it. Mostly, as a writer I’m just uninterested in it. But it poses a conundrum for editors which may only grow more pressing: how to deal with increased submissions of AI-generated material? When ChatGPT can create a fairly convincing replica of a Petrarchan sonnet about the Philadelphia Eagles written in the style of Emily Dickinson in under ten seconds, it’s clear that slush piles will reek with refuse of this sort muddying the purer snow. Just ask any high school composition teacher.

Many journals have a clause in their guidelines cautioning that AI-generated work* will be discarded unread, or requiring full disclosure upon submitting AI-enhanced work. But in reality, how is a reader to know if the work they are reading is human or AI-generated or - [clears throat] - ‘enhanced’? Trust is the gold standard of our ecosystem. But there are always those who hack systems, and we must defend against them in order to protect our common interest. Implementing paid submissions may be an effective way to discourage such behavior, as fewer people would ostensibly pay to submit unserious work. But is there perhaps another way which doesn’t penalize those who produce serious work?

Serious writers persist. Those who don't have the right stuff, such as the tenacity to manage uninspired intervals of time or a continuous stream of rejections, peter out. They may continue writing, but with less or no active participation in the ecosystem. It is those serious writers who interest me here because they are the ones around whom the ecosystem revolves.

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I made 70 separate submissions in 2024 via Submittable, with probably another 20 to 30 via other submission methods. That's about 100 submissions in a year. If every journal charged a $3 fee, that would be $300 a year in fees just to get my work into the queue. I had between 15 and 20 acceptances, of which probably two were paid, likely totaling somewhere around $20. Hypothetically, that comes to $280 in rejections--not to mention the countless hours of writing and revising, preparing submissions and keeping impeccable tabs on the entire bookkeeping operation. I'm not complaining, because I understand that this is the way the game is played.

Like many writers I have a personal website, for which I also pay. I could just publish my own poems there, or open a Substack, and maybe make a small income privately publishing poems and long-form reflections like the one you're reading, subverting the submissions system altogether. Some writers are doing that. I don't think I'd get too far down that path, however, because one basic truth governing all of the above is that whatever path you choose, it becomes another job. All your time is then spent creating 'content' and promoting it, taking away from the time you could spend doing the actual work of writing. It all becomes a time suck, in the end. But that's the internet, for you.*

And that would also be a bit like hacking the system, wouldn't it? So I, like most others, remain a part of the constantly evolving ecosystem and its discontents. These days we see that ecosystem tending towards a monetization model, like social media and many other platforms. A journal must make enough to sustain itself, or risk shuttering. We all understand this. But I'm not convinced that money needs to come from the writers who provide the raw material with which the ecosystem perpetuates itself.

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It requires a great deal of work to run a literary journal, and it is work for which we should all be grateful. But is the work and dedication of editors and publishers any greater than that of writers? We all hold down day jobs and have families, yet somehow find time to get the work done. Most or all of the work of writing is done without pay, largely in isolation, and often in conflict with more important matters such as economic strain. It is done consistently over years, with little or no guarantee one’s words will ever be read by a single reader anywhere in this world. Sounds fun, right? On top of this, we are increasingly being asked to pay to have our work considered by journals which, in many cases, don’t offer compensation beyond publication itself. For the most part, we are paid in glory.

In the real world, those who submit writing via submission managers like Submittable are a cross section of society. Some have means, others have less. Some come from historically marginalized communities, others don’t. Some can afford to pay hundreds of dollars a year to have their work read, and some can’t.

There are a number of ways allowing writers who wish to chip in to do so, while continuing to offer free submissions to those who - whatever their reasons - are unable or unwilling to pay. Many journals offer a choice of free and paid options, sometimes in the form of free submission months or faster turnaround, or even a costly critique of one's work. All of these are perfectly acceptable options, allowing for a diversity of needs and wallet sizes. Crucially, they allow the writer to choose a tier without being forced into a pay-to-play model. Those who desire more than long-shot publication after an indeterminate waiting period often extending to a year or more, can pay for it. Let the rest of us simmer for free.

There must be a way to keep the playing field level while ensuring that journals are sustainable. If there isn’t, maybe we’re all doomed and AI will prove the most ‘cost-effective’ solution to all of the above. Then we can just sit back, relax and float downstream once the machines have taken over. Enjoy the trip.*

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*There is much more to say about AI and its effects on the ecosystem, but this is not the place for it.

* I begrudge nobody their choices in how they deal with the perplexities of the ecosystem. What doesn't work for me might work for you. That's as it should be.

*Lyrics from the Beatles’ “Tomorrow Never Knows”

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About The Author

Marc Alan Di Martino’s books include Day Lasts Forever: Selected Poems of Mario dell'Arco (World Poetry, 2024 - translator), Love Poem with Pomegranate (Ghost City, 2023), Still Life with City (Pski's Porch, 2022) and Unburial (Kelsay, 2019). His poems and translations appear in Rattle, iamb, Palette Poetry and many other journals and anthologies. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Currently a reader for Baltimore Review, he lives in Italy.