I love writing. It gives structure and meaning to my life. It makes me happy. It’s who I am. Unfortunately, writing is only half of the process. If I want people to read what I’ve written, I have to get my stories into the potential readers’ hands. Enter the publishing business with its submission requirements, agents, and financial concerns. The very thought of dealing with all this inspires dread, so I tend to avoid the whole thing. It’s been several years since I last submitted anything to a literary journal or queried an agent, even though I have a few short stories and a novel manuscript ready to share.

This summer, however, I was inspired by all the book inc writers posting on our group Slack about their submissions and acceptances, and I decided to start submitting again. By a happy coincidence, one of my book inc colleagues, familiar with my interest in fairy tales, suggested a new Substack publication, The Orange and Bee, and I decided to start there.

According to the guidelines, the deadline was four days away at Midnight EST, August 14. That was 9 p.m. for me in California. I had just the story! Actually, the deadline said Midnight AEST, but I ignored the A. The story needed some work, but four days was plenty of time. Motivated by the looming deadline, I went about the business of revising it until August 13, when, with a few hours of work left, I decided to google AEST. It came back as the time zone of Melbourne, Australia—17 hours ahead of California. For me, it was 9:50 p.m. on Tuesday night, August 13, but in Melbourne, it was 2:50 p.m. on August 14. Nine hours to their midnight deadline. I felt a mixture of panic and relief. Panic because I knew it would be challenging to meet this new deadline. Relief because I was given a perfect excuse not to submit. And so I gave up and went to bed. The Melbourne midnight came and went while I slept.

Looking for something of value in this experience, I decided to focus on the lessons it taught me.

First, an old one: never wait until the last minute to get things done. Time moves in mysterious ways.

These days, however, so does space. The Internet speaks to everyone and brings us messages from everywhere, sometimes literally at the speed of light. This plays with our sense (or at least it plays with mine) of distance from “our group,” especially since belonging to a group used to be based on geographic proximity. The fact that a magazine is in English is of no help either. As in the case of the British Empire (and not by coincidence), the sun never sets on people who use English to communicate. In short, “our people” and “our” lit magazines can be anywhere, which I find absolutely thrilling. Even without the help of the major publishers and their fancy translators and international sales departments, we can potentially speak to people all over the world! (We just have to bear in mind that their location sometimes changes the parameters of the conversation.)

But, most importantly, I learned that my fear of submission was seriously impeding my ability to function as a writer and that I’d better do something about it. Acting as my own personal therapist, I poked around my psyche, trying to understand my discomfort. Obviously, I was terrified of being hurt by rejection. But what caused this extreme reaction? After some reflection, I decided the problem was that I approached submitting the way I approached writing as something deeply personal, attached to my very soul. That is, I was entering the submission battle with the most vulnerable part of myself exposed. Of course, I dreaded it! But then I caught that word, battle, and realized I had another problem: I saw agents and editors as my opponents.

Both of those things had to change. One, I must approach the submission process with professional detachment, that is, think and behave like a salesperson with no emotional ties to the work I am selling. A good way to reach “our people” everywhere was to think of them like the publishers do—as a potential market. Two, and for me this was a more radical move, I must view agents and publishers not as opponents, but as “my people” too.

Equipped with this new mindset, I signed up for the Philadelphia Stories Virtual Pitch Fest. I’d never pitched my work before, and I was terrified, but I didn’t let the fear stop me. Two of my book inc colleagues helped me prepare. I forced myself to see the pitch as just another business meeting and the people I was pitching to as potential business partners. When the time came, I sat up straight, I smiled as if I knew what I was doing, and I pitched my novel, Celeste Pursues Happiness, to one editor and to one assistant agent.

The experience was amazingly positive. They were both very friendly, and the conversation was pleasant and informative. They asked pertinent questions and made suggestions that I learned from. The editor asked for the first three chapters and the synopsis (she asked most authors she met with, I think, but that still felt good). In short, I got a glimpse of the world on the other side of the mirror and of what that world might see in and look for in my work—and I lived.

Encouraged by this, I finally started opening my Sub Club emails. I had signed up last spring, but I’d mostly experienced them as messages from the enemy camp and left them unopened. Now, suddenly, I saw their senders not as ogres and opponents but as professionals with whom I might conduct business and possibly even become friendly.