It’s been a couple thousand submissions since we last blogged. Guess we’ve been taking care of priorities first—which means reading all the stories, poems and essays writers have been sending our way. One can get wonderfully lost in the slush pile. We recently accepted a poem by an unpublished Brooklyn poet. That was a good day here at LitMag.
Oh, about slush. We just read somewhere something by an editor from one of the other journals, perhaps in one of the reviews named after a state, but don’t hold us to it, something about the need to stop calling it slush. Something about slush being that ugly dirty concoction of impure snow on the streets of northern states long after the storm has passed. But slush isn’t a dirty word at all. It just depends how you tend to it. We can’t say how others tend to theirs. But we dive in, and we do our best to respond within two months, and we dance ourselves silly when we find something we didn’t know we were looking for and it makes our heads spin. Guess we think of slush more the way kids think of snow. You just want to get your hands in it, lie in it, bring some of it home.
Here at LitMag, we’re got basically two goals—imperatives really: (1) respect writers; (2) publish a smashing literary magazine.
We’re working hard on the first print issue. We’re so grateful to all of the contributors. And to all of you who’ve submitted. And to all of you who’ve subscribed.
We’re excited, revved. According to the radio, it’s “crazy windy” in NYC today, gusts to sixty miles per hour. That’s kind of how we feel.