All of our content is downloadable to whatever the most recent form of technology is because this is fucking America.

Yes, we charge a submission fee. Our time is worth money, and this is era of plastic and PayPal. Pay up. You don’t bitch about paying for stamps, print cartridges, and giant envelopes for Zoetrope.

We will take a certain number of submissions each reading period, read half of them, and then publish our friends anyway.

Don’t write us a cover letter. If we don’t know you, we don’t care who you are, we only care about how you write. Did you write this poem while taking care of your cancerous mother? Are terrorists killing people in some malaria-ridden country? That matters less than your use of an Oxford comma.

We read submissions blind so that we can treat you like the inconsequential flesh-attached-to-a-pen that you are. Some of our editors still have the tendency to treat others like real persons, but we’re working on that. Which is why:

We will send you one-sentence feedback stating the real, actual reason we didn’t accept your work, such as:

“I saw the title and in the vast pile, yours looked depressingly boring.”


“Hey, you probably have something there, but you used a grocer’s apostrophe and I just wasn’t having it today.”


“I’d publish this, but if anyone is going to get published for writing about my exes, it’s me.”

Genre divisions are stupid and for booksellers. We are writers. Do you write? Send us your stuff so we can mock it or publish it. We don’t give a shit if you want to call it a lyric prose flash short short or a novella in sestina form. We’re just going to call it writing.

We don’t have a word limit or minimum because good books are good books. How many words was The Old Man and the Sea? ENOUGH WORDS TO IMPRESS US.

We basically started this mag because we think McSweeney’s is a big fat sellout and we hate the Paris Review for still living in the stone age and only taking paper submissions.

This magazine is all about stroking our own egos and amusing ourselves, so fuck off if you don’t like it.

We don’t take work that’s “good” or “conforms to literary conventions” or has “the old verities and truths of the heart.” We love that speech, but William Faulkner is dead and he certainly doesn’t run this magazine. We take work we fucking like. Our selection process is totally subjective and we don’t have to justify it to you. This is American writing.