Poet Frank Bidart, in an interview in a recent issue of Tin House, addresses the satisfaction one can get in giving meaningful feedback. Referring to his closeness to Robert Lowell in the late years of the poet’s life, Bidart says,

The fact that I, a kid from Bakersfield, could make comments to him about his poetry that seemed to him useful and helpful was an enormous event in my life. It was really transformative. There’s immense pleasure in being of use, partly because it says something about one’s own capacities. [italics mine]

I feel the same thing whenever I manage to give really good feedback, especially when I believe the writer to be a stronger writer than me. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy commenting on pieces by all levels of writers, because it’s very rewarding to help beginning writers avoid the common missteps and see them progress in leaps and bound through intermediate skill levels rather than the slower learning curve of trial-and-error.

But the reasons that they are rewarding are different. I feel that one informs the other. By striving to help improve writers that are ahead of my own progress as a writer, I am working harder and thinking more critically, and becoming a better writer for it. And when a writer takes a suggestion to heart, there’s a validation and vindication for me – a sense of, “Hey, I can do this. I know what I’m talking about.” Every time I comment, I feel a little more sure of myself, and I want to do it more.

It’s nice to say nice things, and it’s important to – it’s important to remember that any creative person putting their work forward is brave and vulnerable, and they also are looking for the same sense of validation for encouragement. But doing that alone will not make either of you better writers. As a commenter, don’t be afraid to critically tackle something you think might be better than anything you could ever write, just because you don’t think you should be qualified to do so. If you can say anything about it, you’re qualified. And as a writer, be open to suggestions from readers of all levels. You might find out things you take for granted, and you’ll be better able to put yourself inside the minds of your audiences, whomever they may be.

I finished a short story this week. I think. Actually, I thought I did twice. It’s probably not really finished yet, but it’s close. All writing is constantly a work in progress – some authors will even rewrite sections of their books after they’ve already hit the shelves, just for their own satisfaction. So how can anyone really know when something is done?

The answer is, briefly, you can’t. But you can know when it’s almost ready. You can know what external things are in the future that might impose finiteness to something that one could, theoretically, continue writing and rewriting until you drop dead (and some writers do).

You can be writing for a class or a weekly group. In these cases, you might have a page requirement, or not, or you could have a specific assignment, like a theme or setting or structure, or not, but you probably have a deadline. Check, of course, if you got the size right and if you hit the assignment, but get it in on time. The same thing goes for publishing – contests and journals both have specific windows during which they accept submission. Some of them have themes, and if you submit something that doesn’t fit, you’re simply not going to get published. Likewise, almost all of them have length guidelines as well – maximums are the standard, but many have a minimum length as well; very few are open-ended.

However, don’t write with these things in mind. This can only hurt the creative process. Rather, write what you’re going to write, how you want to write it, and then take a look at it and figure out what it is. Once you know what it is, look through all the possible places where it could be sent and see which ones apply to your story. If you have an 8,000-word fantasy satire, don’t rewrite it as a 3,000-word essay simply because the prize is really big and if you hurry and get it in the mail in time, you might just win it.

There are as many contests and publishers out there as there are kinds of stories (or poems, or essays, etc.). Spend a little time, do the research, and you’ll quickly enough find dozens for which your writing will easily fit. Here’s a few resources that I’ve found.

http://www.pw.org/literary_magazines?apage=*

http://www.pw.org/content/deadlines

http://www.writermag.com/wrt/default.aspx?c=wm&id=109

What I’ve started to do with this and other information is to make a list – or, in my case, an Excel spreadsheet where I can change and sort and add things more easily – where I put down all the contests or journals for which I could qualify. That means that even before I write any of them down, I’m eliminating the ones that I don’t fit – for example, no sense in a male fiction writer from New Hampshire taking note of the contest for previously published poetry by women living in Maryland, especially if the deadline was two months ago.

When I see one that might apply to me, though, I take note of the deadline, the maximum and minimum word counts, if they apply, the prize, the entry fee, if there is one, the website or other contact information that will tell me how to submit, and any other miscellaneous notes; for example, some publications will include a subscription with your entry fee. Then, using Excel’s handy dandy sort function, with a few simple clicks I have them all arranged first by deadline, then by biggest prizes, then by lowest entry fees, so that I know which contests are priorities and which ones aren’t a big deal if I miss.

A typical contest for which my material could qualify might have a $1000 top prize and maybe two more runner-up prizes, a $15 entry fee, and a 5000-word cap. A few are longer, a few are shorter; a few have bigger prizes, a few are free to enter but have smaller prizes. But those are what I’m looking at.

So, do you just stick your story in an envelope and stuff it in the mail? No! Not yet! Double-check everything. Again, this goes back to knowing when your story is done.

I thought mine was, and I was wrong. I sent it to a few people to read, and I got some comments back. They were very helpful, and I made some changes that I felt were very good. Then a day or two went by, and I rewrote parts, and then rewrote it some more. When I clicked the word-count button, I found that I had gone up to 5,067 – too high! I needed to get back under 5k, in the butter zone, where I saw so many contests had capped it.

I nearly made the mistake of line-editing to get it to just under that 5,000 level. I fixed a few lines that I found to have a few too many fatty adjectives, and after each one, I recounted the word. 5,051. 5,039. Getting there, but slowly, I thought. Then I realized what I was doing. If I was finding words to cut that easily, then I should probably do this for the entire piece.

And that’s what I did. Line by line, I looked at every single sentence and clause and word and letter, and I fixed what I found that needed fixing. And I did it without recounting each time. Sometimes, I even added a little something where I felt it was needed. In the end, when I was relatively happy with it again, I hit recount, and I came in at 4,967. I got the result I needed, but I did it the right way and I made my story better. And if it had needed to get longer to get better, I would have done that, and I’d have found contests with a 6,000 cap instead.

So, is it ready to go in the mail? Almost. Another important thing to know is the provenance of your submission. Some places will take simultaneous submissions – that is, sending the same piece to different contests or publishers during the same deadline period – and some won’t. If they do, you need to alert them if and when it’s accepted elsewhere, and if they don’t, then you have to wait until you get that rejection letter before sending it somewhere else.

Or, in the case that you get an acceptance letter and a big fat check, there’s sometimes a third option of contests for previously published material. But “previously published” can mean different things to different publishers, so you need to be aware of their definitions. Some places will consider a piece that was previously published in a periodical with a circulation of only, say, 3,000.

Other places won’t take anything that has appeared in public in ANY FORM – and that, unfortunately, includes the internet and places like the Writ Workshop. (I still, of course, advocate posting in the workshop as a great way to improve your writing, but if you have something that you think is really good and you want to use it for as many submissions as you can get, then show it to some readers privately instead. You can even e-mail it to me, if you like.)

Once you’ve got all that covered, and you’re sure that your piece qualifies for the intended submission, check their other guidelines. Do they want the pages stapled or loose? Double-spaced lines? A particular font size? Bear in mind all of these things, and don’t feel that they’re finicky – remember, there’s someone on the other end that’s going to be reading this and hundreds of others. You want your story to stand out on its merits, not because of pink curly bold font. And you don’t want the judge reading it to go blind, either.

Then, before your pages are printed up, see if they want your name, as the submitter, on each page (so they don’t get lost and separated) or nowhere on the piece at all (so the judge can be objective if they may have read other work by that author). Get all the contact information they require, and put it on a cover sheet or whatever they ask for. Write the check for the entry fee, and make sure you have enough postage.

And if this is all an internet submission, take it just as seriously. Don’t assume that just because they have it as a file that your font size doesn’t matter. You want them to take you seriously; you should take them seriously.

Once all that is said and done and the story is in the mail, take a break. Relax a little. Give yourself a pat on the back and cross your fingers. Nothing you can do about it now. You might remember a comma you misplaced. Fix it for the next submission. If you end up winning in spite of that comma, don’t worry, they’ll have proofreaders.

If you’re rejected, don’t be discouraged, because it might be accepted elsewhere. But don’t just sit there waiting for a letter in the mail. Keep writing, either way. If it never gets published, you’ll need something better to submit. And if it does get published, it’s always a good idea to have something else ready to go to keep the ball rolling.