*The following is likely to offend primarily because everything that doesn’t have a vegetative state-level of conviction offends. But I am not here to soothe easily ruffled feathers with dulcet tones and false assurances.*
In the “modern age,” it’s widely accepted that the artist can no longer be just that. They have to be everything. Their own one-man self-promoter—a barker in this carnival of horrors called “Selling Yourself”—in addition to doing what’s actually most important: the work itself. For writers, such an unpleasant reality has never been more burdensome/inciting of the question, “What am I doing this for?” as fewer and fewer opportunities to make money from this “career” arise. And yet, to those who do manage to carve out a capitalist mold for themselves within the literary realm, it quickly becomes easy to regard all other “failing” writers and literary magazines as “lesser than.” “Failing,” of course, always means: not making money (to boot, not breaking even). But it’s in the U.S. in particular that this rings truest. And it is, somehow, also in the U.S. that the most “legitimate” literary magazines are deemed to exist (at least from their point of view). This is why The New Yorker and The Paris Review remain stalwarts of the (dying/dead) industry.
In the wake of SPD’s (Small Press Distribution) closure, never has it been clearer that relying on the financial support of others is not the way to sustain a literary business (this being one of the biggest oxymorons of the twenty-first century). Nor is counting on a literary “enterprise” to be profitable at all.
That much was also manifest in the statement made by SPD regarding its shuttering: “Years of declining sales and the loss of institutional support from almost every foundation that annually supported SPD have combined to squeeze our budget beyond the breaking point” (even though they were emotionally and financially abusing their workers long before that breaking point). Those still living in the delusion that literature of a non-blockbuster (e.g., James Patterson) nature can ever be profitable are, of course, quick to blame the former “sponsors” of such an enterprise for abandoning it when it needed their financial help most. They would be mistaken to do so, for financial support, even when based upon the promise (side note: there’s no such thing) of some kind of profit, is fickle. No, it’s not the “individuals” themselves who once provided monetary support that are responsible for SPD’s demise, but the system itself. One that does not provide for anything like “sustainability” as it is based on the increasingly defunct notion of making money within the publishing industry (which is, at this juncture, by no means much of an industry at all).
Yet it seems, more than ever, capitalistic “ideals” are increasingly infecting the literary realm (and there is no greater example of that than the many MFA factories of America), making it easier and easier to discount the actual content itself. Instead giving what amounts to “kickbacks” for those who would contribute to the “successful” lit mag’s real cause: making money. Consequently, the author’s name and/or “pedigree” is what comes across as helping to secure a profit. Because to be unprofitable is far more sinful than to publish subpar, ultimately status quo “art.” A phenomenon that reminds one of how everyone seems to have incurred collective amnesia about the genuine purpose of a literary magazine: to curate divergent, against-the-grain writing. Or at least that was the case in non-U.S. countries (with, as many people know by now, an alarming number of lit mags in the U.S. being funded by the CIA). Take, for example, the iconoclastic country where the first known literary journal was printed: France. Founded a century before the French Revolution came to roost, the debut issue of Nouvelles de la république des lettres was printed in 1684. Tellingly, the publication, run by Pierre Bayle, didn’t last past 1687. Perhaps Bayle knew when to “cut his losses.” Or maybe he preferred to focus his time on more rewarding endeavors (because any editor being honest with themselves will have to note the minimal rewards of their profession). Like creating what was effectively the first encyclopedia (Dictionnaire Historique et Critique) before such a word or concept was in wide use.
By the 1800s, the Brits had entered the fray with their own slew of lit rags, from the Edinburgh Review to The Spectator. Its traitorous “cousin” (or is it more like sibling?), the United States, would also give birth to many a literary magazine in the nineteenth century, including the North American Review and Poet Lore. But it wasn’t until the twentieth century that the literary magazine, as the U.S. views it, would start to settle into its antithetical-to-the-original-reason-for-its-existence purpose. And that is: to actually maintain the status quo. Perhaps that’s why zines ascended in popularity (particularly in the 70s with the advent of copy shops and punk)—to counteract the corporatization of the lit mag. They were a genuinely democratizing force long before the internet, allowing people of any stripe to publish what they wanted and disseminate it. But back to how lit mags have increasingly come to represent softness and upholding the status quo due largely to letting notions of profit corrupt them.
You might say it all started in 1953, with the founding of The Paris Review. Yes, that still beloved, overly lauded publication that remains one of the sought-after rags for a writer to be published in. But so many seem to either ignore or dismiss its roots in CIA funding—as though such a concession wouldn’t color its tincture today. The first managing editor, John Train (who died in 2022), indeed, actively cooperated with the CIA throughout his tenure. In Finks: How the CIA Tricked the World’s Best Writers, author Joel Whitney goes so far as to state that it was Train’s role in backing the mujahideen in 80s Afghanistan during the Soviet-Afghan War that aided in birthing al-Qaeda. And he backed the rebel extremists because the CIA was betting on them as a “lesser” evil compared to the spread of communism. Ergo, Train financed a movie about the war with an anti-Soviet stance. Because to be anti-Soviet was to be anti-communist. Capitalism’s biggest nemesis and phobia. For, even to this day, people assume, for whatever reason, that the only alternative to capitalism is socialism. And the praised, fêted lit mags of the 60s glory days played an integral part in assuring the “right” message about socialism got across.
As Whitney phrases it, “These little magazines, the television crews instrumentalized for warfare and other secret propaganda instruments played an important role in erasing—and collectively forgetting—these [CIA] mistakes.” But, of course, the CIA makes no mistakes, right? That’s why they were crafty enough to get their tentacles into the arts via the ironically-named Congress for Cultural Freedom. An entity that The Paris Review and many other prominent magazines of the era were willing to work with in exchange for the patronage required to run a “successful” (read: at least semi-profitable) magazine. So, as you can see, oh how loose “liberal” ideas and “steadfast” morals can become when the dangling of money enters the picture.
To be sure, defenders of The Paris Review might say that the people running it today have nothing to do with what happened then. But has the magazine ever really “reconciled” with its origins? Definitely not. And let’s not pretend that its origins aren’t utterly sinister in implication. As Whitney also writes, founding a literary magazine was an “… idea [that] start[ed] with well-intentioned men who agreed, winking and invoicing, to promote an anti-communist ideology through secret patronage; it ends with a totalitarian system where secret agents spy on the media and sabotage free speech and press freedom.”
Nonetheless, in the inaugural issue of the magazine, writer William Styron stated (while unaware of his status as a stooge), “I think The Paris Review should welcome these people into its pages: the good writers and good poets, the non-drumbeaters and non-axe-grinders. So long as they’re good.” That sentence can surely be amended today to read: “the so-so writers and adequate poets, the woke and the well-versed in conforming to just the right ‘anti-conformist’ rhetoric.”
Indeed, the most shocking thing about writers now is their fragility. Something I’ve encountered more often than not in my dealings. So much so that it’s elicited within me an anxiety-ridden feeling about the potential for even the most minimal of interactions to go somehow awry. To be deemed offensive. To be deemed “insensitive” or “not caring enough.” As if!—caring (too much) is the only reason I keep enduring. People seem to forget that I am a writer before a publisher (as is the case with many publishers), so I somehow get flak for “talking shit” about the breed when I have every right to. I know the kind all too well. Except for this ever-mutating kind. This sniveling, self-censoring kind. I mean, can you imagine someone like Bukowski or Hemingway wading into the comments section of this article? They’d probably need a stiff drink at the sight of what an easily offended pack of pussies the writing community has become (but then, they might also need a stiff drink about having to pay a submission fee, such as the current writing landscape has made necessary—not for “profit,” mind you, but principle; a ceremonious gesture…like tipping a bathroom attendant a quarter).
Not to hold the Bukowski/Hemingway ilk on a pedestal either (after all, they were misogynists living in a time when misogyny went unquestioned), but it just goes to show that the shifting “temperament” of writers is a direct result of their “marketplace”-imposed need to reflect the flaccid mediums through which they may or may not be published. No one wants to say or write “the wrong thing,” after all. It could result in, at best, ostracism and, at worst, never getting published. Or worse still, being accused of plagiarism.
Which is why it’s more important than ever for a wide array of different, not necessarily “profitable” literary magazines, such as The Opiate, to keep soldiering on. Even in the face of being spit at and demeaned for not “falling in line” or “being polite.” Here’s a friendly reminder: artists are not supposed to be “polite.” As Baldwin put it, artists are here to disturb the peace (including, apparently, the peace of other “artists”). Even in their “business” dealings. And politeness, these days, has become a very arbitrary term. Yet, evidently, it’s not impolite to belittle a publication for continuing to exist just because it’s not making money. Because of that, you’ll be deemed deliberately demeaning things like a “hobbyist” for your lack of skills at capitalism. Already difficult to implement in an “industry” such as literary magazine production.
Of course, it’s easy for people to say, “Your magazine must not be very good if you can’t get better circulation.” Uh, no. Just didn’t lick the “right” assholes or “hobnob” with the “right” people. And also, I’m not a rich person, so there. It’s not that difficult to compute. And, of course, what’s actually good is never going to make it past the censors who do have the bread to get things “circulating.” All of which leads to the invariable charging of submission fees, my stance on which is what caused the writer outrage alluded to above. Writers assuming their two-dollar (but really $1.64 after the submission manager takes its cut) contribution is being pocketed for me to live it up in the Caymans or some shit. But no, the fee is, to me, a show on the writer’s part that they’ve taken the time to do a little digging on what the magazine publishes, and cares enough to see if their style is a good fit. What’s more, it shows some modicum of understanding that what a publisher does is, in fact, a service. Do you see other people jumping at the chance to read for free? Let me answer: no, you do not. Reading is, increasingly, an art. And having the eye to detect talent in a writer should not be underestimated or undervalued.
But maybe some of the outrage and entitlement about how submitting work should be free (while also still expecting to be paid) comes from the fact that a large bulk of aspiring contributors to literary magazines in general are in the baby boomer demographic. No shade to the BBs, but they come from a time when people were still paid for their work (crazy, right?). In contrast to how the millennial was raised: to believe that every opportunity had to be “earned.” With the investment of one’s own time and money. It’s nothing new to this generation. They’re so accustomed to everything they want to participate in costing them in some way (whether through time or money) with little actual yields. It’s all part of a gambling process they were told would certainly pay off. As we now know, for most, it did not. And another thing that hasn’t paid off for the diversity (content-wise, at least) of literary magazines is kowtowing to the “need” for profit. The surest way to kill creativity.
Not only has it killed freedom of expression without overthinking, it’s also definitely fortified a callow writing scene. I am appalled by the fear and flaccidity of editors and writers alike who are too afraid to say anything that can be used against them in the Court of Public Opinion (though I must sidebar here to clarify how that doesn’t include touting racist/misogynistic rhetoric under the guise of free speech). Again: artists are here to disturb the peace, to wake people up. Even if, apparently, one has to wake up their own kind and remind them to stop being so afraid to “make waves.” Which means saying just about anything “off script” at all.
This is the part, naturally, where the question gets asked, “Why are you doing this if you ‘hate’ writers so much and you’re so unsupportive? You ‘look down’ on them.” Um, I don’t “hate” writers. I simply have no patience for people who 1) just don’t fucking get it and 2) think they’re entitled to some kind of “being published” silver platter. How do they not see the reality of how much easier it is to talk shit about publishers (especially unprofitable, non-paying ones) when all they have to do is click “submit” and wait for an answer? Totally blind to all that goes on behind the scenes in order to take their work from “item in inbox” to published prose?
And then, when the magazine isn’t assessed as “worthy” of their talent because of the circulation number, you’ll get comments like, “You can’t run a business.” Would you like to come in and offer to run it? Because I guarantee you would say I should charge more for submission fees and the magazine itself. Then there’s that tired suggestion, “Why don’t you try fundraising?” Ha! There would probably be more success in posing as a homeless person to incur a few pennies that could then be refunneled toward “the arts.”
So, in fact, what people are really saying when they declare a magazine shouldn’t continue if it’s not profitable is this: let’s make the already bubble-like nature of the lit mag and publishing “business” even more homogenous and safe. Curated by all the faux-woke, hyper-sensitive automatons that churn out MFA-style writing in terms of everything being based on formula (and a desire to make this a “career”) rather than feeling. Careful consideration of what’s “correct” versus the oh so scary potential for “feather ruffling.”
And so, I would argue, in the end, that my “lack of profit” is what will make me among the last standing. Not exposed to the vagaries of so-called sponsors’ whims. And not because I have my own “fat sack” to buttress it, but because there is little to no money involved in this non-enterprise whatsoever. Too many people, writers and editors/publishers alike, still think, “Oh, we need to be taken seriously, this should be a career, we should be allowed to live on this, blah, blah, blah.” The reality of this world, the one all artists have the misfortune to live in, is that writing and publishing is not going to be profitable, nor enough to sustain oneself monetarily. The people that do finagle such a coup are simply lucky, privileged (and, frankly, a sellout, because the introduction of money will always come at the sacrifice of content). The idea that we can all achieve this rare set of circumstances is bullshit. For more of us to actually be a part of an enduring writing community, it should be thought of, in the most reductive terms, as something done “on the side.” An “amateur” project. Because trying to make it our main source of income is not the way to longevity. Which is why you will continue to see more entities like SPD fall as the years go on. People are still looking at things as though literature and lit mags have the clout of their mid-twentieth century heyday. Let it be officially declared: they do not. Which is exactly why surrendering to the “volunteerism” of the “job” is what’s required to keep it going for the niche group that still cares about its existence at all.
I’ve never been motivated to keep publishing a lit mag for financial reasons. I am unprofitable and proud (though not averse to an angel patron randomly deciding to give me the roughly $6,000 a year it would take to cover the costs of publishing and paying contributors). Not for profit in the purest sense of the meaning. In other words, not a fucking 501(c) organization. Though, as I’ve said, putting out a literary magazine does start to feel like running a charity after a while. Complete with all the complaints about how the soup isn’t hot enough, so to speak. Well, then, go drink some other soup. Because this cup of condemnation already runneth over.