Subscriber Letter

Context: Below is a letter I wrote as the Fiction Editor at Southeast Review on behalf of the fiction team, which I oversaw. It was sent out to a group of subscribers who were partaking in the magazine’s Writer’s Regimen, and this letter was composed with the hope of both explaining what our team looks for when publishing prospective writers and encouraging our clinets to submit their work to us after finishing the Regimen.

Dear Writer’s Regimen Attendee,

Hello from Southeast Review’s fiction team! We’re so pleased that you decided to join us here, and we hope these materials will be helpful for you, wherever you find yourself on your writing journey. No matter how long you’ve been writing or how confident you feel about your craft, there’s always more to learn, and we’re thrilled to contribute to your experience in any way possible.

The purpose of this letter is to tell you what we tend to look for when evaluating submissions for publication. The problem (and it’s a good problem, really) is that there’s no one, specific thing we as a team tend to be drawn to. There’s no magic way to be published at the Southeast Review (or any other literary publication, as far as we know). There’s no one subject matter, no particular thematic material, and no type of narrator that makes something automatically “publishable.” In fact, if we feel that a story has been written to do one exacting, obvious thing just to “do it,” to “make a point” maybe, we’re probably less likely to be drawn to it, for the simple reason that when stories attempt to prove something to us, to have one singular thesis, to be only “about” one thing, they tend to come off a bit limited and flat. Rather, the stories we feel especially drawn to balance many different elements with nuance and leave the responsibility of “about-ness” and even theme up to the reader. This all comes down to trust. If the author has enough faith in their reader to understand the point of their piece, to let them walk away with their own meaning, the writing will likely be much more successful and interesting to us. However, since that’s a pretty vague answer, we’ll try to identify some patterns and particular things we’ve noticed in our past discussions. We’ll also bring in an example of a story we’ve published to try and be as clear as possible about what’s been compelling to us in the past.

At the core of every piece selected for publication is the quality of its writing. This in and of itself is hard to pin down because it means many things at once. Some questions we might ask ourselves while reading are: Is the draft relatively free of basic spelling and grammar errors? Is it formatted correctly? Is there word and sentence variation? Is it clear that this piece has been edited many times over to eliminate any awkwardness in the prose? If these things seem to be in order, we’d move on to more advanced ways of evaluating quality. Does the dialogue feel natural and specific to the individual characters? Does it do more than simply reveal information? Is it more than first-level dialogue (meaning that it does bigger things than simply informing the reader of the basic circumstances of the story, things that one could probably infer from more advanced dialogue)? In terms of the characters, are they complicated and dynamic? Do they have desires, wants, and motives? Do they actually interact with the world of the story? Are they active, rather than passive? Although passive characters are not always the kiss of death in terms of publication, they often reveal other problems in storytelling, and thus should probably be avoided when possible. In general, characterization is one of the most important aspects of any piece we publish. We don’t need characters to be likeable or relatable, necessarily, and we don’t need them to be important or special figures in their worlds, but they need to want something. They need to have problems to solve and an identity that has informed their worldview. This leads to structure, as in most situations, the characters in your story will drive your reader through it, in an attempt to get what they want. Although this isn’t always the case, generally, the stories we select have an appropriate balance of scene and summary, don’t rely too heavily on backstory or telling, and do a lot of work to escalate tension and conflict through different situations. These stories keep the reader entertained, keep them wanting, and keep them invested in what happens to the characters in question. None of what I’m saying is especially unique to Southeast Review, perhaps, but these are central aspects of good storytelling in general, and as writers ourselves and students of fiction, it matters to us a great deal, and it always comes into play when we read submissions.

Beyond these basics, in general, we’re drawn to stories that move us. This doesn’t (and shouldn’t, really) mean that stories have to be melodramatic or focus exclusively on the trauma of their characters. Rather, it means: do these stories make us think? Do they make us pause and wonder? Do they stay with us long after we’ve read them? Do they express a viewpoint or situation that isn’t often considered? This doesn’t mean that stories have to be about crazy circumstances or superhuman characters, but rather that we can tell the author in question has something unique and interesting to say and is saying it in a way that feels unfamiliar while demanding our undivided attention. The stories that do this for us don’t fit into one specific category or type. They’ve centered on singular events with retrospective narrators; they’ve been coming-of-age tales over a series of days, weeks, or months; they’ve depicted fast-paced, in-the-moment, days-in-the-life, and so on. Whatever the story is, what matters is that there’s a purpose for telling it. There’s a reason it’s this day, these circumstances, this narrator, and we’re almost forced to stay along for the ride because we can’t bear not to finish.

Looking at one of our previously published stories, Wilhelm Sitz’s “Sans Souci” (published in 40.1 and available online at southeastreview.org) is a story that was relatively easy for us to choose, not only because it’s an absolute pleasure to read, but also because it’s beautiful, strange, meaningful, complicated, and deeply memorable. At its most basic level, “Sans Souci” is a second-person, present-tense short story about two men who go to a mysterious retreat because of their relationship issues, but it’s so much more than that. We don’t want to give away the plot, because it’s absolutely worth reading for yourself, but there are many things we can talk about to illustrate why we chose it for publication.

 To begin with, the very first sentence of this story, “He asks, ‘What brings you to the estate?” and you know that you and your boyfriend are going to say different things,” immediately tells us so much about our narrator, the dynamic with his boyfriend, and the basic circumstances of this situation. We’re placed in-scene right away, and we have more than enough to get our bearings and keep going. There are many fantastic moments of dialogue throughout this story that give us important details about what’s going on and where we are, while also moving the story forward (e.g., “’There is someone at the desk at all hours except between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m., so please plan your lock-outs accordingly,’ Crows says and hands Gregory the door keys. ‘We advise against the use of psychedelics at this elevation and encourage an open mind and healthy diet. If either of you have any questions—'). Along with that, this story is structured incredibly well. Each section break brings us more escalation and more interesting scenes. In essence, there’s no room in this story to grow bored. Beyond this, the writing is of an impeccable quality, not only technically competent but full of interesting language, humor, and pleasing imagery (e.g., “There is also the problem: will you be able to recognize the feeling of being back in love? Or are you only aware of what it’s like to be in love-love, the fresh kind of love that’s as obvious and immediate as a brick to the nose? Back in love seems more complicated. It could feel like anything. It could feel like hot moss growing inside you.”). The ending of this story, to put it plainly, is strange, but it’s earned because of how much work the author has put into getting us to this point. Every turn in the narration, every bump in the road, every individual moment leads us to this point, and the world we’re left with has changed significantly. The problems the narrator faced at the beginning haven’t been neatly resolved (as they shouldn’t be, really, in any story), but they’ve been addressed in some way or another and not in the way we thought they would be. It’s surprising, it's strangely touching, and it leaves us with vivid and visceral images to walk away with. In short, this story had to be told. This narrator needed to tell it, and he needed to stop telling it when he did. It feels complete and whole and in some ways, it leaves us wanting more (without leaving us unsatisfied). It also refuses easy answers to the narrator’s problems, and it resists moralizing or telling us what we “ought” to take away. Rather, it allows each reader to form their own conclusions and enjoy whatever meaning they choose to make.

Obviously, not every story can or should be like this one. Only “Sans Souci” is “Sans Souci.” One of the reasons we enjoyed this story so much is because it felt so original and new. But like we’ve said, to be published, a story doesn’t have to be about something surreal and unusual. Many of the stories we publish are about relatively “ordinary” things that feel extraordinary because of the writer’s prowess and effort. It all comes down to how these different fundamentals balance out and what impression they leave us with while reading and afterwards. There are no explicit rules, really, for what a story has to be about. It just needs to work.

We hope you’ll consider submitting to us whenever you’re ready. Thanks for reading, and best of luck with your writing!

Sincerely,

The Fiction Team

Southeast Review