My Own Personal "Ranking" of Literary Journals for 2012

It seems like nowadays, every single literary blog has a ranking of literary journals, often interconnected somehow with Pushcart Prizes or O. Henry Prizes or Best American Stories 20##.  And while I can both understand + even appreciate those metrics, I don't think prizes tell the whole story, for like several reasons:

1.  It's impossible for the above prizes to have objective judges since art + artistic merit is intrinsically subjective by nature.  The proof of this is the way one novel is rejected by 200 agents + then passionately embraced by the next, only to get published + becomes a NYT bestseller, or the way one short story is rejected 40 times by 40 journals, only to finally get published in a tiny lit journal that ends up winning one of these above prizes for nominating that story.  Either there was some cosmic psychic shift that took place that changed everyone's minds or that story that had been rejected by 40 journals was probably already kinda awesome, so how could 40 readers fail to see that?  Or conversely, maybe that story really did suck, but then how could a group of tough editors elect it to one of the highest prizes in literary fiction?  Either way, we have to agree that objectivity is probably pointless + probably impossible for evaluating art.  So let's acknowledge that some of the stories that win prizes are simply fucking awesome + others are, well, not as good as your shit.

2.  I could be wrong about this, but I have a strong feeling that each prize has its own filter bias that separates stories into yes + no camps, almost unconsciously.  By that, I mean that readers/editors for Best American Stories, for example, are reading the New Yorker with the assumption that they'll find something  that will win another prize whereas they probably read Santa Monica Review not actually knowing if they'll find anything there or not, which is a damn shame let me tell you.  Ditto with the Pushcart et al.  I'm sure the readers + editors of the Pushcart Prize read Agni + Ploughshares + Prairie Schooner + the New England Review + Tin House with the expectation that they'll find something worthwhile.  But with the other journals, I'm sure those readers have to be convinced first, which means stories outside of the literary Parthenon can't simply be as good as stories in the New Yorker, they would have to be actually better in many ways to stand out + meet that burden of proof.  In other words, readers for prizes are looking for new prize winners in a small list of journals, whereas they're reading other journals skeptically, trying to find stories that are worthy of their prize in the first place.  And I'd argue that simple paradigmatic difference of reading totally prejudices their reading.

Again, this isn't to say that the pieces included in those anthologies aren't awesome, because honestly, I've read quite a few of them + many times, they're as awesome as advertised.  But sometimes, you wonder if stories get selected in part because the author is already well known, thereby proving how smart the editors are.  I mean, they must be smart because they picked yet another story by this famous author who has published a shitload of books + who has a first-choice clause with the New Yorker, so they must be awesome writers.  Of course, they really are sometimes.  But how does anyone funnel 3,000 stories into a goddamn 12-story anthology?  I don't have a fucking clue, but I can see the temptation to include writers who have already proven themselves because the literary establishment has already decided how talented they are.  But I digress.

So, here are my own rankings of literary journals with the following caveats:

1.  These rankings are totally subjective, but at least I can admit it.
2.  My only methodology is answering this question:  Have I read a short story/essay in this journal that I loved?  How often did that happen, holistically, speaking?  In other words, this ranking privileges fiction because that's what I do.  I can envision an entirely separate ranking for other genres, I'm just not qualified enough to do so
3.  They're not actually rankings.  In fact, I'm going to list them randomly in order to deprivilege the journals that are listed earlier in the list
4.  This list is intentionally incomplete.  I'm not comfortable including journals I haven't read, but I encourage all of you to make our own "ranking" that fits your own personal experience if you have a blog, or a friend who can't talk back

Here they are:

My 2012 "Ranking" of Literary Journals


Narrative
New Yorker (they don't need a link)
Slate (okay, just for poetry, but they do publish some great shit)
Yomama's Literary Journal  Okay, I just made that last one up to see if you were paying attention.


2nd Story Accepted in 2012

I was at Argo Café, the one near the Water Tower when I checked my email on my iPhone + saw this message today:

Dear Jackson,

I am writing to let you know that Bob Fogarty, the Antioch Review editor, is trying to reach you.  He sent you an email and called as well.  Perhaps you can try to reach him at ***-***-****.

Thanks, M*****

Now, Bob sent me a nice rejection letter last year for a story I'd sent him + also told me to give my regards to Aimee + Tom the next time I saw them since he'd published stories by both of them both in the 80's + also more recently.  So I called him, my heart beating madly in my once-sticky t-shirt (typical Chicago summer, man).  I figured he just wanted to talk to me about my story + tell me the things that didn't work for him, a sort of gracious rejection.  But he was out, so I was left in complete suspense.  As it turned out, he'd sent me this email that never made it to me until a month later (5 August 2012, to be exact), which would have cleared up a lot of things:

Jackson:

Thanks for the call. I read your story and want to take it for AR.  I will call this afternoon.

Bob Fogarty

Later on, he called me + we did talk for a good twenty minutes about David St. Jean, who was the former poetry editor at the Antioch Review (my first year at USC, I took this amazing interdisciplinary graduate seminar with David St. Jean + Frank Tichelli, a class where poets wrote a series of poems, ending in a complete poetic cycle, +  then composers set those lyrics to music + finally MA + PhD musical performance students performed the music with your words--fucking amazing).  Then, we talked about Tom, Aimee, Rogers Park (where I live now, what I called a little Berkeley + Bob called a little Brooklyn), how walkable Chicago is, how great its mass transit is + about how creative programs are slowly being devoured by English Departments (Read:  Columbia College).  And then at the end of all of that, Bob told me he really liked the energy, voice + intensity of my short story "The Blue Men inside My Head," + thought the length was appropriate for the subject matter + that he'd be happy to publish it in the Antioch Review.  Again, if I'd received the above email, the suspense wouldn't have suffocated me so much!  Still, I was so excited I almost came in my pants.  Fortunately, I recovered + told him I was really flattered/excited/happy to finally get a piece in his journal.

To give you an idea of how badass this journal is (if you already know, feel free to skip this part), the Antioch Review is one of the oldest literary journals in the country + has published luminaries like:  Ralph Ellison, John Dewey, Philip Levine, Sylvia Plath, William Trevor, TC Boyle (holler!), Gordan Lish, Raymond fucking Carver, Edith Pearlman, Aimee Bender, Bret Lott, Ha Jin, among others.  It's just such an amazing honor to get a story accepted in this journal.  I've sending stories to this journal off + on for over 7 years. And now, it's all worth it.    

Because I Just Don't Know How To Listen

I'm a stubborn motherfucker. It's true. I don't think you can make it in this industry unless you're equal parts stubborn/delirious/delusional/suicidal/short-sighted. And even though I know that only 10% of Graywolf Press's accepted manuscripts are unsolicited, most of it, probably poetry, (which, obviously also means that 90% of it is agented--ho hum), I truly believe--because I'm stubborn/delirious/delusional/suicidal/short-sighted--that I have enough talent to burn to be part of that exclusive 10%, even if it's a long shot. That's why I just sent them my collection of short stories that I've been working on for five years now now called $67 for My Favorite Dictator.

What I've got going for me:

1. I've already published stories from this collection in the Kenyon Review, Quarterly West, ZYZZYVA, Stand Magazine, 3:am Magazine, Connecticut Review + the Notre Dame Review, so at least I've got that going for me.

2. Graywolf publishes a number of translations + likes writing that is both part of + is also conscious of the greater world surrounding the story + my stories take place in:

Kansas
Paris
Mexico City
Tokyo
Buenos Aires
Chicago
Portland
Burkina Faso
Los Angeles
Encinitas
New York
Lima
Toronto

3. My collection is mostly straight-up narrative, but there's also some flash fiction, conceptual/experimental short stories + two interlocked, language-driven pieces, so my collection has an amazing aesthetic variety.

4. Graywolf seemed to appreciate BLANK, so maybe, just maybe, they'll remember me.

Do any of these things guarantee a single goddamn thing in terms of getting published? Fuck no! Am I deterred? No! Should I be? Fuck yeah!

But that's just how I do.