The Paris Review Submissions Novels & Stories

Submission deadline: 18:00 today. She checked the time. Less than two hours. — Across the city— Cami sat on the floor of her new apartment. Back against the wall. Laptop open in front of her. Not working. Just… waiting. Because this part— Didn’t require action anymore. It required patience. And she had learned that too. — Her phone lit up. Notification from the review board. No content. Just status. Pending submission. She stared at it. Then set the phone down beside her.

I looked at the coffee machine. "Walden," I said. "His name isn't on it," Lauren said immediately. "It wouldn't be." My voice was flat. "There's nothing connecting it to him directly." "That's the point." I turned back to her. "Who filed it?" "Anonymous submission through the board portal." She uncrossed her arms. "Which is technically allowed under the review policy, which means we can't dismiss it on procedural grounds alone." I nodded slowly. "They'll be an informal review, they want a written response within fourteen days." Lauren said, breaking the silence. "If the response is satisfactory it doesn't go further. If someone on the board decides it warrants a closer look..."

I sat, crossing one leg over the other just as Ashley came to stand beside me. She began reading. "First submission. Daniel Hargrove. Age twenty-nine. Trained in Florence. Specializes in oil realism. Exhibited twice internationally—" "Rejected." She blinked. "You haven't seen the portfolio yet." "I’ve seen that résumé a hundred times." I replied evenly. "He paints beautifully. But he paints like someone asking permission to be admired." Ashley made the note. "Second submission. Lila Moreno. Mixed media installation artist known for—"

I was standing in his kitchen with my coffee going cold and my mouth slightly open and the words on my screen rearranging the shape of my morning. Dear Ms. Ellis, We're pleased to inform you that your feature essay "The Women Who Love in Silence" has been selected for our spring spotlight. The piece will run in our April issue, both print and digital... The literary magazine. Not the campus one – the real one. The regional publication with actual subscribers and actual distribution and an editorial board that had rejected three of my submissions before this one. They'd taken the essay I'd written at 2 AM on Sienna's floor after the worst week of my life – the one about women who carry love l

I said and disconnected the call as I sighed "How am I to tell her all this now? I shake my head negatively , I can't tell her about this I just can't tell her, this is my battle I don't want anybody getting involved with it I continued walking slowly as I was lost in thoughts My mother went out of town? All the days I was with her she knew no where outside the town so where could she had gone to? I bump into someone making my phone and that of the person to fall "Am sorry" I apologized as I picked it up "Is okay" He replied as I hand him over the phone He smiled and collected the phone "Am Manson, your husband's colleague" I scoff at the thought of husband I nodded "Am Sera" I says to him a

An invisible parasite that clogged my head with a dull pain which got triggered every time I thought about the million ways I failed and fell. I picked up the brush and pulled through the knots in my hair, relishing in the pain as it tugged on my hair. It made the soreness clinging all over my body feel less painful as well as the tiresome and compulsively necessary process of tidying myself up into a little bearable clump.

Ernest said. "Last night," Don said. "After you were asleep. I did the final revision in the afternoon. I printed it and read it one more time. I made two small changes—a comma, a word choice. Then I attached it to an email and sent it. The submission process is online now. It used to be by post. I submitted by post for the kitchen garden piece, the one they rejected. The Portugal piece was online. This one was online. The process is different but the waiting is the same."

The world outside was dark and still, but inside, the glow of her laptop cast a pool of light across the desk. Sarah sat cross legged in her chair, the fabric of her nightgown brushing against her knees as she carefully typed each word of the email. Her heart thudded louder with every keystroke. To: Margaret Windsor Subject: Paris Fashion Week Submission Dear Margaret, I’ve reviewed the proposal for Paris Fashion Week and would like to participate anonymously under my brand, Mountain Rose. Let me know how to proceed discreetly. I'll pass by the workshop during the weekend. Best regards, Sarah Blake

the host smirked and handed the paper to a young man. Trying not to dwell on thoughts, I watched the serious expressions on the editors' faces as they began examining the submissions. The host announced into the mic "Sorry for the delay, but the editors and judges are carefully examining the submission." I tuned out and watched the editors hovering over the papers and comparing lines. My heart dropped to my stomach when the judge picked up the mic. "The lady's work looks remarkably similar to the submitted article. It's uncanny. The phrasing, the style—it's a match."

THE THIRD BOOK SUBMITTED ELENA'S POV The manuscript goes to the publisher on a Friday in October. Not the same publisher as the first book — the third book is academic press, the correct destination for a work that argues a moral position through evidence and requires the peer review process to establish the argument's credibility before the book enters the world. Professor Marsh recommended the press. The editor who responded to the initial submission inquiry wrote back within a week with the specific enthusiasm of someone who had read the first two books and understood what the third one was trying to do.