Submitting

Meg smoothed the pages of her newest story and slid it across the oak table to where her uncle Walter sat.

"What's it about?" he said.

"A writer trying to get their short story accepted for publication."

"Sounds like a real page-turner." He took a sip of coffee. The kitchen was a relic from another era, with linoleum floors and avocado-green appliances. Walter adjusted his thick glasses and returned to the first page, reading closer.

"It's what I'm living right now," Meg said, sinking into the chair opposite him. "I thought you'd get a kick out of it."

Walter shrugged, gently putting the manuscript aside, suggesting he knew the effort that went into it. He poured himself another cup of coffee from the percolator, the aroma mingling with the scent of old paper.

"Does it have a title?"

Meg paused and glanced out the window. "Untitled."

Walter groaned. "That's so pretentious, Meg. Why don't you just write a novel?" he said. "Isn't that where the money is?"

Meg sighed. "I need to build a portfolio first. Get some credentials. Besides, short stories are an art form in themselves. It's not just practice."

"But you need to have a plan. Just writing a good story isn't enough."

"I have a plan," she said, sitting up straighter. "I'm going to send it to The New Yorker first."

Walter barked a laugh. "The New Yorker? Jesus, Meg. Why not shoot for the moon while you're at it?" He leaned back, scratching at his graying stubble. "Art form or not, you've got to eat. How long does it take for these magazines to get back to you, anyway?"

"Depends," Meg said. "Some are quick—like a month. Others can take up to a year."

"A year?" Walter's eyebrows shot up. "Jesus, kid. You'd think we were still in the typewriter age. Why so long?"

"They're swamped. Places like The New Yorker and Granta get thousands of submissions every month. They have to sift through all of them."

Walter grunted. "In my day, if an editor took more than a week to get back to you, you'd give him a call and light a fire under his ass."

"Journalism is different," Meg said, wistfully taking back the manuscript and thumbing through it. "It's faster, more immediate. Fiction has a longer shelf life."

"Have you tried calling them?"

Meg laughed. "You can't just call The New Yorker and ask them what's taking so long. It's all online now, anyway. You submit through their website and then… wait."

Walter shook his head. "Sounds like a racket."

"It's just the process. Everyone goes through it. If they pass, I'll send it to One Story. And then maybe Tin House or The Atlantic."

Walter raised an eyebrow. "All big names. No smaller markets?"

"I thought it was better to start with the top tier and work my way down."

"What if you wait a year and get a form rejection? Will you be able to handle that? Sounds pretty disheartening."

Meg stood and walked to the sink, looking out the small window at Walter's overgrown garden. "I want to try."

***

The market bustled with Saturday morning energy, a mix of artisanal stalls and vintage shops housed in a converted Victorian arcade. The glass ceiling loomed above, a canopy of translucent panes, as the tiled walkways teemed with life. Meg and Walter weaved through the crowd, each carrying a reusable tote stuffed with produce and knick-knacks.

"I read the story," Walter said, pausing to inspect a display of antique typewriters.

Meg fidgeted with her hands. "And?"

"It's clever. Maybe too clever. The kind of story that writers like, but I'm not sure about readers."

"So you didn't like it," Meg said, deflating.

"I didn't say that." Walter set the manuscript down and regarded her. "It's well-written. You capture the frustration nicely. The dialogue rings true."

"But…"

"But it's very inside baseball. A story about submitting stories—it's a niche subject."

"I thought it was relatable. Everyone has to deal with rejection."

"True," Walter said. "But readers want to be entertained. They want to escape. This is a bit too much like reality."

Walter picked up a typewriter ribbon from the vendor's cluttered stall, the spool encased in a brittle, translucent shell that bore the patina of decades. He turned it over slowly, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate, as if he were cradling an artifact from a lost civilization.

"So, how many rejections is that now?" Walter asked.

Meg hesitated. "For this story? Six. But I'm not counting the ones for my other pieces."

"Let me guess—'We regret to inform you that your story is not a good fit for our publication at this time.'"

"Something like that," Meg said, biting her lip. She pulled her phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen. No new emails.

"They could at least give you some feedback," Walter said, setting the ribbon down and moving on. "How are you supposed to improve if you don't know what you're doing wrong?"

"Some places do. Most just don't have the time. It's not personal."

They halted at a flower stall, its offerings a gaudy parade of color and fragrance. Meg's eyes lingered on a wilting bouquet of roses, their petals bruised and curling inward. She reached for a sprig of lavender, its modest purple buds standing in fragile contrast to the rest.

"Why not submit under a pen name?" Walter said. "That way, when you get famous, you can publish all these early works and cash in."

Meg frowned. "I'm not doing this for the money, Uncle Walt. I just want to be read."

Walter stopped walking and turned to face her. "I'm not trying to be a pessimist, Meg. I just want you to be realistic. You're putting in a lot of effort for something that might never pay off."

"I know," she said, clutching the lavender tighter. "But nothing worth doing is easy, right?"

Walter opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, shrugging in a gesture that could have meant anything. They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the market filling the space between them.

Meg's phone buzzed. She looked at the screen, and her heart skipped. "It's from Ploughshares," she said, stopping in her tracks. Walter turned back, his expression unreadable.

"Well? Open it."

Meg hesitated, her finger hovering over the screen. "I submitted to them six months ago. I almost forgot about it."

"Don't draw it out, Meg. Rip the bandaid."

She swiped to open the email, her eyes scanning the text at lightning speed. Her shoulders slumped.

"They liked it, but—" she started.

"But it's not a good fit for their publication at this time," Walter finished for her.

Meg stuffed the phone back in her pocket. "At least they said they liked it."

Walter put a hand on her shoulder. "You're tough, kid. I don't know if I could take this kind of punishment."

"It's not punishment," Meg said, though even she didn't sound convinced. "It's just part of the process."

***

The forest trail was a favorite of Meg's, a winding path through ancient pines that stretched to the sky like cathedral spires. She and Walter walked in companionable silence, the only sounds the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds.

"I was thinking about your story," Walter said. "I think it needs something more. It can't just be two people talking about some banal submission process. I’m falling asleep just thinking about it!"

She walked back to where he stood, the path narrowing around them. "I was making some edits last night. It won’t just be about that. It’ll have more emotional impact. Lush descriptions that will transport the reader. They'll walk through a marketplace. Pithy dialogue interspersed with poignant imagery. Maybe there's an encounter with an animal—a symbol that will make the reader stop and think about what it means to make art in a world that wants to eat you. They’ll under that there's subtext. Substance. Oh, and the ending. They won’t see it coming. And yet, when you re-read it, it'll be so obvious."

"Meg, you can’t cram all these things in without—"

A stir in the underbrush. A deep, earthborn growl. Meg and Walter turned as one, their eyes stretching wide as a hulking shape loomed from the forest's edge. The bear stood on all fours, its brown coat a wild tangle of fur, each strand quivering like leaves in a storm. Meg's breath stopped cold in her lungs.

"Don't move," Walter whispered. Meg's body went rigid, her mind a maelstrom of thoughts too frantic to coalesce. The bear took a lumbering step forward, then another, its black eyes dull and unseeing, like the depths of an ancient well.

Meg's hand found Walter's, squeezing with a force of unfiltered terror. "What do we do?" she breathed, her words almost inaudible against the pounding of her heart.

Walter didn't answer. He was calculating and remembering, his journalistic mind sifting through a lifetime of facts and experiences. The bear rose on its hind legs, towering above them like a god of the forest, its maw opening in a cavernous yawn. Time stretched and distorted, each second an eternity.

"Slowly," Walter said at last. "Back away. Slowly."

They took a step, then another. The grizzly bear dropped to all fours with a thud that vibrated through the ground and into their bones. It sniffed the air, then the trail, then took a swat at a nearby sapling, its claws slicing through the tender wood like a hot knife through butter.

Meg's mind raced through her stories, each one a child left orphaned, to the towering pile of rejections, to the Ploughshares email that had briefly lit her world. She saw the writer in her tale, struggling yet undaunted, the well-meaning uncle, the interminable waiting, the rare and fragile sparks of hope. She imagined all the unwritten words, the silenced characters, the plots and dreams that would die with her if this were the end.

"Run," Walter said, and Meg didn't process the word until her legs had already started to comply. They tore down the trail, the forest blurring into a green-brown smear of motion. The bear roared, a sound of primal fury, and Meg dared a glance back to see it giving chase, its massive body undulating with a terrifying grace.

She and Walter veered around a bend, the trail dipping and curving like a roller coaster track. Meg's lungs burned, her legs screamed, but she pushed harder, faster, fueled by an animalistic will to survive. Walter lagged behind, his years catching up to him in an instant.

"Go!" he shouted. "Don't wait for me!"

Meg's mind rebelled, but her body obeyed, sprinting ahead as she fought back tears. The trail opened into a small clearing, and Meg's heart sank as she saw it was a cul-de-sac of nature, a dead end surrounded by sheer rock faces. She skidded to a halt, turning just in time to see Walter stumble into the clearing, his face a mask of exhausted determination.

"We're trapped," Meg said, her voice cracking.

Walter looked back down the trail. "Maybe it'll lose interest."

As if in response, the bear rounded the bend, its pace unrelenting. Walter stepped in front of Meg, his stance defiant, his hands balled into useless fists.

"Get behind the rock," he commanded. "If it takes me, you might have a chance."

"No," Meg said, but Walter was already pushing her toward a large boulder. She resisted, then relented, her body moving with the numb compliance of a puppet.

From her crouch behind the rock, Meg watched in horror as the bear closed the distance. Walter stood his ground, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on the advancing beast. Meg wanted to scream, to plead, to do something, but she was frozen, paralyzed by the scene playing out before her.

The bear was upon Walter now, its breath a hot, putrid wind. It rose again on its hind legs, swiping with a casual malice.

A deafening crack split the air.

The bear's roar morphed into a tortured howl, and it staggered sideways, collapsing onto its haunches. Walter ducked and covered his head, the sudden violence knocking him to the ground.

Meg's eyes darted around the clearing, her ears ringing. A figure emerged from the tree line, rifle slung over one shoulder with the nonchalance of a farmer surveying his crops. The man was tall and gaunt, his face a weathered landscape of creases and hollows. He moved with a deliberate economy, with each step a calculated investment.

Meg rushed from behind the boulder. "Walter!" she screamed, her voice raw with fear and hope.

"I'm okay," Walter said.

The bear wheezed and struggled, a titan brought low, its life seeping away like a slow-draining reservoir. The old man unslung his rifle, checked the chamber, and aimed with a practiced hand. Another crack and the bear's struggles ceased, its body sinking into the earth with the finality of a felled oak.

"Jesus," Walter muttered, pulling himself to his feet. "You could have killed us."

The old man shrugged. "Could have. Didn't." He walked to the bear and prodded it with the rifle's muzzle as if expecting it to rise for an encore. Satisfied, he turned his attention to Meg and Walter, his eyes a piercing blue that seemed out of place in the rest of his sun-bleached visage.

"You're lucky," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "Bear this size, usually don't leave much behind."

Meg's knees gave out, and she sat hard on the forest floor. "Thank you," she said, her hands trembling. "We didn't know what to do."

The old man studied them for a long moment, then started to walk away.

"Wait! At least tell us your name," said Meg.

The old man stopped at the edge of the clearing, turning just enough for his profile to catch the light. "A friend of writers," he said, and with that, he disappeared into the forest.

***

The next day, Meg and Walter sat in silence, lingering over their coffee, both still processing their near death experience. When Walter finally spoke, his voice was gentler than usual. "I just don't want you to get discouraged. You have talent, Meg. Maybe more than I ever did. I just want you to be smart about it."

"I appreciate that," she said. "Really. But this is what I want to do, even if it means years of waiting and a hundred more rejections."

"Remember when I got that internship at the Tribune?" Walter said. "I thought I was hot shit, a real up-and-comer. Then, the industry changed overnight. Jobs like mine are nearly extinct now."

Meg nodded. She'd heard the story many times, but it was different hearing it now, in this context.

"All I'm saying," Walter continued, "is that you need a backup plan. Something to fall back on."

"I'll teach," Meg said after a long pause. "If it comes to that. But I'm not giving up yet."

He took a sip of coffee. "Teaching's honorable," he said. "You could inspire the next generation of writers."

Meg turned to him, her eyes searching his face. "Do you think I'm wasting my time?"

"I think," he said, choosing his words carefully, "that it's only a waste if you let every rejection crush you."

"I can take it," Meg said, though she wasn't sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.

***

The call woke her from a fitful sleep. Meg fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, knocking over a stack of books in the process. The screen flashed "Walter," and she squinted at the clock. It was just past midnight.

"Hello?" she said.

"I've been thinking," Walter said. He sounded wide awake, almost manic. "You should just post it online."

Meg sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Post what?"

"The story. On your website. Or any website. Get your work out there."

Meg's mind struggled to keep pace. "I thought you said—"

"I know what I said," Walter interrupted. "But I've been reading up on this stuff. The industry, the way it's all changed. Do you know how many people made their names by just posting? By building an audience?"

Meg was silent, processing this new turn.

"Think about it," Walter continued. "You could be waiting years for these magazines to give you a shot, and in the meantime, no one is reading your work. If you put it online, you can get immediate feedback. You can see what resonates with people."

She lay back down, staring at the ceiling. "It's not the same as getting published."

"No, it's not," Walter said. "But it's something. And who knows? Maybe an editor will stumble across it and offer you a spot. It's happened before." He paused. "I just want you to be read. That's the important thing, isn't it?"

Meg closed her eyes. "Yeah," she said softly. "That's the important thing."

"So you'll do it?"

"I'll think about it," she said, though she already knew the answer.

"Okay," Walter said. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

Meg hung up and placed the phone back on the nightstand, then rolled over and hugged her pillow. She tossed and turned. Finally, she marched to her desk and turned on her laptop.

She opened her story and highlighted the word “Untitled.” Then, slowly pecking out one letter at a time, she replaced it with: "Submitting."