You get hundreds of submissions, and you wonder where to begin.
Lesson one for anthology contributors: Figure out just who the prospective editor is. Google her. Is she young? Old? A poet? A journalist? An agent? A magazine editor? This may give you some clues about what she likes, hates, and needs help with. Hey, let’s be honest: if she were a big-time prize-winning novelist, she probably wouldn’t be editing an anthology.
First you cut out all the total crap, which is about half of it. You eliminate anyone who can’t spell, and anyone using a really stupid font, with drippy letters or clipart. You feel a little guilty, and worry that you might be trashing something great, but you need to find some way to thin the herd, and so you do this.
Lesson two for anthology contributors: Send only your best work, and send it out as perfect as possible. If you write in your cover letter, “I know this is rough, but…” or “This is only a first draft but I thought you’d like to see…” your editor is unlikely to read your submission.
As you go through like a thresher, chewing up and spitting up anyone who uses the word “irregardless,” you also notice trends in the work, common themes. But not good themes. Easy themes.
In the case of my book, I found that nearly everyone who submitted an essay to me (about growing up in a half-Jewish home) wanted to write about either Christmas trees at Chanukah, or summer trips to Israel. And since I wasn’t editing a book called “The Chanukah Bush” or a book called, "Getting Laid: Kibbutz Style!" there was no way I could take more than one of each.
Lesson three for anthology contributors: Read your submission aloud to yourself and imagine you are telling the story at a party. Are other people shaking their heads up and down vigorously and murmuring things like, “Yes, yes… I know just what you mean -- the same thing happened to me!” If so, tear up your essay. You want to write a story that rings true, but is not a commonplace occurrence.
Next you read through your pile and you realize that most of the submissions are from New York, from MFA educated women in their early thirties. If your anthology is shooting for any kind of breadth, this is a problem. You need to find some men, some folks from Idaho, some old people. So you force yourself to cut some good work (not great work, but solid writing nonetheless) because otherwise, your contributors list will read like an alumni magazine from Barnard.
Lesson four for anthology contributors: Try submitting your work to a market in which you’ll stand out. If you’re a 32-year-old MFA grad named Emily, try submitting to something that is going to attract your opposite, older men, for instance -- maybe an anthology of stories about old guns, or the rural Southwest, or boats on the Ohio River.
So now you have a fairly reasonable pile of solid work and you’re busy waiting tables too, and you get a little behind sometimes. You appreciate the writers who follow up nicely, “I don’t mean to rush you, but I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to read my essay, ‘Essay about something cool’ by me, Emily Cohen, which I sent you on August 10, 2005.”
You will like Emily, remember Emily, and respond to Emily.
But when Emily’s friend, Sarah, writes to check on the status of her submission, it goes like this: “My name is Sarah Shapiro and I’m writing because it has been 17 hours since I sent you my essay and I haven’t heard from you yet. If I don’t hear from you soon, I know there are plenty of places that would love to publish it, since I did get nominated for a Big Award by the West Northern Southeastern State College Review in 1995.” You reply quickly, “Dear Sarah, Please bite me.”
Lesson five for anthology contributors: It is good to follow up a submission, and bad to pressure an editor. Do not try to impress an editor. However unimportant the editor may be, she is more important than you, because there is only one of her, and there are hundreds of you. Sorry to be the one to tell you this.
