Get Thee To A Slush Pile, Part Three

In part one of the article I talked about what a slush pile was, and how attaining a position as a slush reader for a small or amateur press editor can be a great learning experience for a writer; helping him understand the submission game from both ends of the process. In part two I presented a few ideas at how to network yourself to editors and publishers, and how to gain some useful experience outside the slush pile that might help you once you get there. For this article, the last of the series, I want to talk about just what it is you will be doing with all that slush, and offer a few tips I learned the hard way that might make your experience a bit easier and more rewarding.

Do What They Tell You to Do

So you’ve been put in charge of all those manuscripts, maybe after a stint as a proofreader, maybe right off the bat. Now what do you do? The easiest thing in the world would be to answer that question with “whatever your boss tells you to do,” because that is at the heart of your new role. Different editors will have different needs, and follow different procedures, so it is important to tailor your work processes to meet the needs of the people you are volunteering to help.

Also, keep in mind, as a new slush reader you will more than likely have less latitude for independent action than you may some day achieve. If your new boss (with so many titles for various editorial positions, it’s hard to use anything beyond a catch-all term like ‘boss’) wants to see every submission that comes over the transom and just expects you to rate each one, then that’s what you’ll be doing. If he trusts your judgment enough to get rid of the obviously unsuitable stuff as soon as you see it, then you’ll do it that way instead. With every editorial team you’ll find a slightly different process, and it’s important that you realize immediately that your role is to give your editor exactly what he asks for.

The Good, the Bad, and the Absolutely Flippin’ Insane

You’ll learn a lot about your fellow man wading through the slush pile — or, at least, about that strange sub-species calling itself ‘writer.’ For every great story there are twenty good ones, for every good one there are a hundred mediocre ones . . . and the mediocre ones are far outnumbered by the bad ones. And then there is a special category all to itself — the manuscripts from crazy people — a segment for whom I hesitate to brandish any statistical estimates, as they tend to be far more memorable than they are common. But they are out there in abundance, so brace yourself to be amused, exasperated, and not, perhaps, more than a little bit scared, when you finally run across one.

The usefulness of thinking of all these stories as falling into broad categories is to get into the slush readers’ mindset of rapid assessment. Not every story is worth your time. I’ll say that again — not every story is worth your time. There is an old and rather pathetic trick dating from the time of purely hardcopy submissions that has the submitter turn a page in his manuscript upside down, or in some other way mark it, the idea being, of course, that in that way the submitter will be able to tell if an editor bothered to read that far in his manuscript. If you are under the mistaken impression that editors are supposed to be doing just that, then slap yourself hard across the face and come to your senses. Better now?

Give ‘Em a Page

You should be able to tell a lot about a manuscript in one paragraph, and certainly in one page. But if you tell most writers you give their submissions one page to catch your interest, they shudder in horror, wrongly assuming that they are being evaluated only on that page. But that isn’t how it works. With one page you can tell what sort of category your submission fits into — is it a possible great story, a mediocre story that could work with help, or the work of a possibly incarcerated lunatic? The point of such quick judgments is always a negative one — you don’t go ahead and declare your winners after one page, but the losers will stick out big time.

A good slush editor should be able to thin the slush pile in just this way, by separating manuscripts in minutes into the very broad categories of ‘maybe’ and ‘no way.’ You’d be surprised at just how many submissions — whether completely off-topic or badly written or offensive or crazy — can be culled with an efficient read-through of the first page, or even just the first paragraph. The test here is the search for basic competence — if the manuscript fails, move on.

Appropriateness, Prose, Narrative, Spark

That’s the easy part of evaluation, and can almost be done mechanically. The hard part is telling a great story from a good one, or deciding if a borderline story fits the theme you are looking for, or whether it’s worth working with a particular author on a rewrite. It’s quite likely that a beginning slush reader will not be making all these decisions, but often they are expected to pass on their recommendations to a higher-up, and should be able to judge for themselves what stories are worth investing in, and which ones are best cut lose.

Appropriateness is one of those things writers don’t think about enough, but that editors think about all the time. The truth is, sometimes it’s just bad luck that a good story does not make the cut because of factors completely outside the submitter’s control. A slush reader has to be aware of these factors, has to not only be able to judge if a story broadly meets the guidelines for their publication (such as those for genre, world count, theme, etc.) but also how well the story fits in the overall shape of the publication. Has a glut of one kind of story meant you are hungry for something different? Has an accidental theme for an issue developed that you now want to take advantage of by accepting similar stories? Has a trend in popular entertainment pointed you in an unexpected direction? Always the needs of the publication are of paramount importance, moreso than the quality of the story.

The way a story is written is often a quick give-away as to its overall competence, and it can also elevate a story above others in its class. While prose is never the sole basis of evaluating a piece (or, at least should not be) it is among the quickest to pick up. Poor grammar, constant misspelling, incorrect and imprecise word use are the hallmarks of a bad story — and the notion that these are purely mechanical surface characteristics and shouldn’t be held against the story itself is a false one. They are, in fact, indicators of an inability to write well and a lack of concern for the writer’s product — a clear red flag to an editor to expect little from the story itself.

Prose is like appropriateness however as, while all bad prose is just plain bad, there are lots of styles and textures of good (or merely competent, which in the world of slush reading can be considered ‘good’) writing. The goals of the publication dictate the style of the writing, and it is entirely likely that an editor may reject one of his best submissions if the prose does not match the overall aesthetic of the book or magazine he is assembling.

Narrative, in the way I am using it, is the story itself. It includes the bones of the piece, the setting, plot, and characterization, as well as theme and voice. This is the biggest, broadest, and most subjective category I’m using for this discussion — in fact it could quite easily be broken down and analyzed piece by piece, in a discussion of its own. I won’t be doing that, or even offering much in the way of concrete advice on just how to dissect narrative, but I will say that if you have what it takes to be a slush reader, and you take the time to read those submissions that have real potential attentively, then you should have no problem finding things like plot holes, unconvincing characterization, or inconsistencies of environment or usage. A big part of an editor’s job is in figuring out just how these story elements can be better, and it’s a skill that primarily comes from the broad experience of reading similar stories from published authors.

Finally, there’s the intangibles about a story that separate the truly great stuff from the ‘merely’ good or, more often than you might think, graduate a purely average story into the realms of the good. More instinctual than any of the above categories, finding spark in a story is a real clue that you, the editor, need to sit up and take notice. Such verisimilitude is genuinely described as rendering a story more than the sum of its parts, and it’s another area of ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’ Just make sure that, when you do see it, you pay utmost attention. Stories with an original and appealing voice or other persistent quality are the best of the best, the stories that get remembered by readers, and are worth whatever time investment you can make as an editor to get them in top shape — even if it means bending over backward to work closely with a writer in rewrites.

Business or Pleasure?

Volunteering to do the amateur press thing isn’t a business, and it isn’t a hobby, it’s in a nebulous gray area somewhere in between. Since it mirrors the actual world of publication, which is a real business, and can potentially morph into it, it’s expected that people act professionally when conducting their affairs. But, since it is staffed by volunteers, paid for with personal money, and primarily of interest to writers who do not make a living writing and of certain highly dedicated fans of a particular genre or style, the whole feels more like a hobby at times. And, like a hobby, it’s often the first thing set aside when real world issues of work and family interfere — only, unlike a hobby, it also feels a good deal like work, so much so that it isn’t the sort of thing one eagerly jumps into on the weekends to blow off some steam. What it comes down to, at the volunteer level, is a shared discipline of craft, and ‘discipline’ needs to be the byword in all your dealings.

In this case, when we talk about the need to be professional and the importance of professionalism, we are not talking about money. It’s about respect, about respecting the craft, the writer, and the work being done. Just as some beginning writers make the mistake of throwing temper-tantrum responses to an editor’s rejection email, so some editors make similar mistakes dealing with writers. At the end of the day, it isn’t about the person you are corresponding with or the issue being debated, but about the work. Respect the work — it is the only way anyone will ever take you seriously.

Stay on Top of the Pile

The real key to the actual process of reading and evaluating slush is organization. The slush pile is like a perpetually dripping tap poised over a bucket — with time the bucket steadily gets heavier and harder to pick up, and will eventually overflow and cause a mess. But if you empty the thing regularly, once a month, once a week, even once a day (!) you’ll find it only takes a little bit of your effort spread out over time. Staying on top of slush is the secret to having a successful stint as a slush reader — something that reflects well not only on you, but on the publication itself. Does anyone really think it takes nine months or a year to evaluate a submission? Or is it more likely that publications with these kinds of lengthy replies are ignoring their slush piles for long chunks of time — whether for reasons of overwork, or disinterest, or pure laziness it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the job isn’t being done, and no one is bothering to admit it and call for a temporary halt to submissions so they can tackle the problem. Their neglect has turned a hobby-level commitment into a major job of work, and it is no wonder they do not want to do it and keep putting it off for ‘one more week.’

Figure out what sort of commitment you can give your job as a slush editor, but realize it is easier to do in little pieces than to save up for big sessions. Reading a manuscript a day, or all your manuscripts over the weekend, will keep the pile in manageable portions.

Make a List, Check it Twice

Another part of being organized is having a master list. This is indispensable, and you shouldn’t try to approach the pile without one. As soon as you receive your submission take down the cogent details — author name, email and website address, story title, and the date. Have an area on your list that denotes whether the submission was rejected, or passed to your boss (or accepted, depending on how much control you have). Not only will this cut down on embarrassing mistakes such as lost manuscripts, it is invaluable in building contacts. Part of your job as editor is to spot and cultivate new talent — a list like this lets you remember potential authors and their stories, and will assist you in contacting them and keeping tabs on their career. You never know when you may wish to solicit someone for a story, or even ask to see a story you’ve rejected in the past if a new opportunity for that piece opens up.

Finally, having a list is a visual representation of your workload, and you can tell at a glance if your slush pile duties are getting away from you.

Naughty or Nice?

No one other than a sociopath actually enjoys giving rejections. However, dealing with writers can be tricky. Depending on your personality, you may be tempted to oversell your own enthusiasm for a story by sweetening a rejection too much — by taking great pains to point out this or that in the story to prove you read it, or lamenting the closeness of the decision for selection when this was not so. The two things you want to be are honest and tactful — if it is true that you found the story fantastic and were hopeful it would be accepted, then say it, but never lie about something like this to assuage your own sense of discomfort. If you cannot articulate with some precision your reasons for liking or disliking a piece it’s better to say nothing — for quite often an editor seizes on whatever reason seems plausible for rejecting a piece, where in fact the real reason is something more vague or fundamentally difficult to express (or for the writer to hear).

I am not, however, in the camp that thinks ‘brutally honest’ — generally a term that means deliberately rude — rejections are an editor’s right. While it may be true that many writers should not be wasting our time and theirs with incoherent and hopeless submissions, an editor that thinks it is somehow his duty to discourage them with ‘tough love’ is guilty of too much self-regard. It is not the editor’s role to judge a writer’s career on one submission, or presume for a moment that what they say will have any persuasive effect on the writer.

If you see talent, however, you should try to encourage it. While an editor’s power in this sphere is less than he would like to think, taking the time to give detailed personal critiques to writers that show genuine ability can lead to some of the greatest rewards of editing. It can also be frustrating when you take the time for a reasoned personal critique and are blown-off or argued with by the submitter. Pick your projects carefully, and don’t be surprised by whatever outcome. While it may seem a contradiction for me to say, on the one hand, that it isn’t an editor’s job to try to discourage writers and yet, on the other, to recommend that they encourage talent when they see it, it comes down to choice. If you choose to go beyond your editorial duties in an effort to help a writer that is commendable generosity — whether it blows up in your face or not. If you choose to go beyond your role as editor to deliver needlessly harsh or insulting criticism, that is an abuse of your position to gather ego-sacrifices to feed your own vanity. It’s only ‘tough love’ if neither party enjoys it, what some of the snarkier editors out there are really practicing is sadism.

Merry Christmas – You Suck

Rejections should be tactful and to the point — generally every press will have a form letter email you can use as the basis for yours. However much you decide to augment your rejection is up to you, though sending at least some form of a useful, personal response is a worthy goal. Getting a reputation for fairness and attentiveness by maintaining a good percentage of thoughtful personal responses will reflect well on the publication you are reading for, and it also means you are respecting the discipline of the craft. Often, time dictates that you cannot reply as fully as you wish, but resorting purely to form rejections, regardless of the quality of the submission, and at times when you can afford to invest in them but are too lazy to do so is, in my opinion, a sign that perhaps you should not be evaluating slush as your commitment to the task is on the wane.

Finally, don’t reject anyone on a holiday. Perhaps arbor day is acceptable, but most anything else is fairly inconsiderate. You may even decide certain days of the week are verboten — for example, I disliked sending rejections on Sunday or Monday, reasoning that the beginning of the week is hard enough without getting a big NO in the inbox. I was reluctant to ruin someone’s Friday for similar reasons. Obviously, these represent more my own quirks than some sort of rules of courtesy, but the important point is that you possessing the power of yea or nay over someone’s manuscript does not mean you are above showing them consideration and respect as human beings.

What Is All This Really About?

Slush reading will help you as a writer, especially as a beginning writer, probably in more ways than I can quantify. But it is also worth doing in and of itself — at least for a while — and the ‘other side of the fence’ perspective you gain will be at least as valuable and the contacts you make and the practical skills you acquire. But more than that it’s about stretching yourself to do something more, to get away from the writer’s tendency to be locked-up in his own head, and to start seeing the publication game as a larger phenomenon, and not just one writer’s struggle against the world. It can be a lot of work but, after all, it’s only through work that we achieve anything. In the end, a stint as slush reader could lead to greater editorial duties or open completely unexpected new avenues for you to explore, bring you new friends and get your name in front of valuable contacts, teach you some of the realities of publishing and let you be a part of a collaborative project, and, if you are lucky, you might just get the chance to help a few other writers achieve their own goals and look as good as possible while doing it.

• Get Thee to a Slush Pile, Part One
• Get Thee to a Slush Pile, Part Two