How Do I Choose Which Of My Best Stories To Submit To Magazines First?

Reading fees. Ugh. Some magazines, especially for contests, charge a small reading fee ($3-$5). This is a hot-button issue. Proponents say it helps fund the magazine and pay their editors. Critics say it creates a pay-to-play barrier. My personal rule: I'll occasionally pay a fee for a contest with a substantial prize or a magazine I truly, deeply admire and want to support. For general submissions, I prioritize the many, many excellent magazines that don't charge. It's a personal calculation. Don't feel like you have to pay to play, but also recognize that for some small presses, that fee is what keeps the lights on.

Getting a short story published in magazines feels like chasing a lightning bolt — thrilling but unpredictable. I started by obsessively reading my target magazines to understand their vibe. 'The New Yorker' craves literary nuance, while 'Clarkesworld' wants speculative fiction that punches you in the gut. I tailored each submission like a love letter to the editor’s taste. Rejections? Oh, dozens. But one editor scribbled, 'Try us again,' and that scribble became my lifeline. Networking at writing workshops unlocked secrets too. A guest editor casually mentioned preferring stories with 'unfinished edges,' so I revised my piece to end ambiguously — and bam, acceptance. Now I treat submissions like a game: study the rules, then bend them just enough to stand out.

Anthologies run by indie presses can be a fantastic home for a cohesive collection. Some smaller presses have open reading periods for short story collections. Research presses that have published books you feel are kin to your own.

The world is full of 'good' ideas. The one you should write is the one that demands to be written by you. It aligns with your obsessions, your fears, your sense of humor, your philosophical questions. It feels less like a choice and more like a compulsion. When you find that idea, the question of 'how to choose' becomes moot. It has already chosen you. Now your job is just to show up and write it.

I get a little giddy talking about submissions—there’s something about polishing a piece and sending it out that feels like mailing a tiny, hopeful letter into the world. My process starts with research: I read recent issues of magazines I like (I keep a little stack of print issues and a folder of PDFs) so I know their tone, length preferences, and whether they publish the kind of weird/quiet/hard-boiled things I write. Then I check the submission guidelines on their website or Submittable page—this is sacred. If they want double-spaced 12pt Times New Roman, that’s what they get; if they want single-spaced or a particular file type, I follow that exactly. When it comes to formatting, I treat the manuscript like a professional artifact: title centered on the first page, word count at the top or in the file name if requested, no name on the manuscript if they ask for blind submissions, and I usually upload a .docx unless they say otherwise. My cover letter is short—two to four lines. I say hello, give the title and word count, mention a relevant previous credit if I have one, and thank them for considering it. If a journal uses email, I paste the story into the body only if they explicitly ask; otherwise I attach. I always declare if it’s a simultaneous submission and withdraw promptly if it’s accepted elsewhere. Practical tools keep me sane: I track submissions in a spreadsheet (title, date sent, response time, simultaneous allowed?), and I use Duotrope or The Submission Grinder to find markets and estimate response times. Rejections burn for a second and then I revise or send elsewhere. After a few rounds you learn to match story to journal better, which feels like leveling up. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, but every accept is the best kind of caffeine.

Dialogue tags become a minefield. 'He said, she said' can feel repetitive when every line is filtered through 'I heard him say...' You have to get creative with action beats and internal reactions to break it up. 'John slammed his fist on the table. 'Impossible.' I flinched, my own coffee sloshing over the rim.' The 'I' is still central, reacting to the dialogue.

Hey, does the writing style itself matter to anyone else? I tried one where every sentence was so short and choppy it felt like reading a grocery list. Couldn't get into the love story at all.