Photo by Yan Krukau (Pexels)
I took part in a nasty email exchange recently. I didn’t start it, and I certainly didn’t want to continue it.
This dust-up began when I submitted a CNF essay to a print journal. I had received one of those “Open to Submissions” digests through email. You know the kind. It’s similar to the sidebars we include in each monthly WOW! Markets newsletter, alerting writers to open calls for submissions.
* This round-up I’m referencing was not, for the record, included in the WOW! Markets newsletter.
Anyway, this particular round-up noted that one journal—a name I was not familiar with, a print magazine—was open to original work, as well as reprints. It’s rare to find journals open to reprints, so I immediately took notice. I have a CNF essay that is very dear to me, published three years ago in an online journal. I always keep my eyes open for reprint opportunities because I’d love to hold this essay in a print publication. It’s about my sister-in-law’s suicide, and it’s one of the most bittersweet pieces I’ve ever written.
I sent my essay to the print journal on a Monday morning. I clearly noted at the top that it was a reprint, and cited where and when it had been published online. Three days later, I got an email from them. I was surprised at the speed of the reply, and wasn’t sure if I should take it as a good or bad sign that they were getting back to me so quickly.
Prior to submitting my reprint, I had visited the journal’s website to see if they published any pieces online. Some print journals have been known to post a few sample pieces, to help give writers a flavor of what they publish. With print, it’s sometimes harder to get a sense of what a particular journal likes when one does not have a paid subscription.
Their website did not have any sample pieces posted. I also did not see in their submission guidelines where they said they accepted reprints. I wanted to cover my bases to show that I was not randomly spraying out essays without reading guidelines. As an online journal editor myself, I appreciate the importance of following guidelines to the letter. I pointed out in my cover letter that the submissions round-up email had indicated reprints were accepted.
I opened their reply with my usual expectation of a 50/50 coin toss. They were either going to thank me for considering them and tell me they were not interested in my piece, or they might surprise me and say that they wanted to republish it.
What I was not expecting was the sarcastic reply I read:
Print magazine editors are weary of junk submissions from people who have not read an issue.
“Junk” submissions? Ouch! Where the hell did that come from?
This editor—as it turns out, when I Googled him—is white and male and older, judging by his photo. Not a good look, this email reply of his, especially in an industry that has a history of literary gatekeeping. An industry that consistently and unabashedly valued male (and almost always white) writers and all but ignored, well, everyone else: females, people of color, the LGBTQ community, neurodivergent writers, and on and on. For, um, centuries.
But, this is not a discussion about white male privilege. It’s actually just a discussion about rudeness. About sarcastic, conceited dismissal. Stick with me. We’re getting to that part.
He went on to scold me that they do not accept previously published work, and that the digest that included that guidance was clearly in error. What I read between the lines was that he, in his haughty wisdom, dismissed them as well for being sloppy.
He continued:
Visit our website. And read the magazine.
Though I found his email off-putting, and though I rarely respond to editors when I receive a rejection, I felt this called for some kind of reply. I let him know that I had, in fact, visited the journal’s website before submitting and I had tried to read some of their published work, but that I could not find any writing in any shape or form published on their website. (The only thing I saw was instructions on how to purchase back copies, or sign up for an annual subscription.)
I also apologized for sending my reprint in error, then mentioned in closing how I’ve seen some print journals publish samples, which helps those writers who may not have money to buy subscriptions to every publication.
I’m pretty sure that’s the point where our email conversation went from unpleasant to ugly.
His reply, a half hour later:
Like other magazines, XX receives many submissions from people who have not read it. When I call this fact to their attention, they reply as you did that they cannot buy every magazine to which they submit. Why not? If a magazine is good enough to publish your work, it is good enough for you to buy a copy. Please save your advice on how to run the magazine, and what to put on the website. Editors rarely welcome such comments from writers.
I sat there, stewing over his condescension. I thought about how I had apologized to him and was sincere in owning up to my mistake. The onus was on me after all, as the submitter, to fact-check what I’d read in an erroneous third-party round-up that said this particular journal did accept reprints.
I’ll be sure to file your emails in my Pompous Ass folder, I replied. Get over yourself.
I was not proud of my snark. OK, who am I kidding, you’re damn right I was proud. I assumed that would be the end of it. It was not. Minutes later, I got another scorching email.
And I’ll be sure to pass your name to other editors as a writer to avoid!
I'll do you one better, I wrote back, and share with the journal for which I am an editor to keep your name in mind as one to avoid.
I hit the Send button, but soon regretted engaging in a juvenile tit-for-tat with some gray-haired, bespectacled man who oozed grandiosity. While Googling him, I saw that he crowed about his Ivy-League education, and listed a handful of what he considered higher-tier—and therefore worthy, in his esteemed opinion—journals in which he’d been published.
My Inbox dinged five minutes later. He’d apparently also Googled me, because he called out by name both the literary journal where I volunteer as a Flash CNF editor, and the WOW! Women on Writing community where I write newsletter columns. His comments about both put his ugliness on full display.
Barren Magazine? Are you kidding me? Women on Writing? Am I a woman?
He rattled off a few more insults and closed his rant with the question: Who do you think you are?
I was floored. And, done. I filed his nasty-grams away in an archived folder, and reflected on what had gone down. I’m not sure I have any answers, certainly not any that can excuse this person’s overblown response to a legitimate mistake in thinking their journal accepted reprints. I regretted stooping to his level, as he baited me with his hostility.
Even more so, I regretted sending him my essay about my deceased sister-in-law. An essay he in all likelihood never read, but felt compelled to call "junk." The whole experience left me feeling a bit brokenhearted.
When writers and editors can’t or won’t respect one other, when someone like this boor dismisses another writer and editor, when he stoops to lording it over other journals and lashes out with a sexist comment about an entire community, it sucks the joy out of this thing we we all work so hard at capturing. How to relate to each other. Getting to universal truths.
Here’s a truth about that editor. He is, indeed, a pompous ass. And if his journal’s mission in any way reflects his own ugliness, it’s not a journal I’d ever want to be in.
