63 Lit Mags That Give Feedback on Submissions (Free & Paid)
With a guest essay by Lucianna Chixaro Ramos that challenges the stereotype of writing as a solitary pursuit.
This week, Lucianna Chixaro Ramos shares an essay that challenges the stereotype of writing as a solitary pursuit, illustrating how it often involves creating connections and community. Read about her journey working in a cramped shared space to participating in and eventually forming a writing group, emphasizing the importance of collaboration, diversity, and shared creative spaces in the writing process.
People often say that writing is lonely work.
When you ask a non-writer, what does writing look like to you?, they might answer with that tired trope of the cloistered, possibly alcoholic genius tapping away on an old typewriter. These days, maybe a janky laptop is more realistic, even in the midst of fantasy and stereotypes. There might be intervals of staring pensively out of windows, though I can say that this part is true—my family frequently points out that a large part of my writing practice is looking out of our apartment windows, which, thankfully, have a great view. But, like so much else in life, actual writing is both better and worse than our feeble imaginings. For me, and I’ll venture to say, for the majority of writers, our craft is as much about fostering connections as it is about closing the door to the home office—if you’re lucky enough to have one.
Maybe it’s because last year I moved halfway across the world to a small apartment, and now my desk consists of a sliver of real estate carved out from the dinner table, but ever since, I’ve been thinking about creating space. My dining table desk is in a highly visible part of the house, so throughout the day, I am visited by the other inhabitants of the small apartment. The giant dog nudges her head under my arm periodically (“nudge” is really giving her too much credit, she’s a bit more aggressive than that), my husband has a habit of scampering through rooms while singing, and my daughter, well, she’s often quiet, but more often than not she wants to show me something, and that’s great—except when I’m mid-sentence. At first, I often thought, I need an office, a desk at least. Some silence. But learning to work with the space I was given without wishing for more helped me remember that creating space isn’t just about having a bigger office.
A few months after the move, I decided to start going to a weekly writing group. It’s the kind where you meet up at a bar and write for an hour or two, making the other patrons mildly uneasy with your silent presence. People often find this helpful because it creates a sense of accountability. And then, of course, people share their work, and new friendships arise. Once, an academic shared that she was researching how living conditions affected homeowners, so I shared a poem I was writing about homeownership and possession. A woman shared with us that she writes utopian science fiction—and don’t we all need some more of that? I am always grateful for the hosts of these events and all of the attendees. Someone has to be the person to make time—and space—for the rest of us to fall in line, stop staring out of windows, and actually sit down and write. And more than that, to connect with other human beings who have chosen the tedium and the excitement of the writing life.
This group was also where I met a fellow writer and friend with whom I began trading drafts. He managed to publish and sell his book and even snag a reading funded by a local bookstore. After giving and receiving feedback a few times, I realized I missed the camaraderie and the regularity of creating and reviewing work I’d had during my MFA. I suggested we start a monthly feedback meetup, which, over the course of a few months, became a monthly generative and feedback workshop. Part of the idea is to deconstruct the traditional, outside-of-the-MFA workshop format. Typically, you apply, wait to get in, and then pay a tuition fee. Others are more informal groups of writers, usually in a single genre, who have banded together and formed a closed, committed group. Both of these models have their merits, but both are still essentially exclusionary. First, you are limiting attendance to writers who can take time off work and pay for travel and tuition. This squashes diversity. I passed up many of these workshops because I could not take time off work or would not be able to attend without childcare. So, I aimed to create a space in which people felt supported whether they could attend every session or not. The second workshop format, the closed group, is often limited to writers you already know and doesn’t offer flexibility for those of us working in multiple genres. This was the second pitfall I hoped to avoid when creating a new workshop structure—I wanted people to feel free to bring in whatever work they needed the most support with, whether it was poetry, fiction, memoir, or something else entirely, and get feedback from a variety of writers. Do you have a photo essay? Bring it in!
Soon, we had our workshop up and running. We meet in a small room above a tea house, and sometimes, when they are booked, we gather around a few crammed together tables by the kitchen. We can hear the cook bantering with the waiters and the noises of joyful food-making, another creative endeavor. Inevitably, someone has to move a teapot or a plate to make way for a notebook. We hit some bumps in the road those first few sessions. But after a couple of months, we hit our stride. Every workshop was either full or had a waitlist. A core group arose out of the attendees, but new faces—and therefore fresh perspectives—are always showing up. Some of the feedback I have received from this group has been game-changing. But more than that, creating this small, supportive space has been one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve had as a writer.
As the new year approaches, I encourage you to reflect on ways you can make more space for your writing while also shining a light on others’ work. Even if your physical space is limited or if you feel discouraged, reach out, connect, and share your ideas, even if you’re the newbie on the block. It is in these small spaces of connection that our true work is done.
If you are craving community in your own creative pursuits, join Lucianna’s monthly WriteFlow: A Hybrid Generative and Feedback Lab with Write or Die!
This unique workshop offers a blend of generative and feedback sessions, suitable for any genre, where participants can create new work using diverse prompts and refine their works-in-progress through constructive peer feedback. Drop in for one session or book one each month.
Now for 63 Lit Mags That Give Feedback on Submissions (Free & Paid)
Get ready for a huge Indiana Jones style grain of salt…feedback is subjective. Some magazines offer paid feedback and suck at it. Some offer free feedback and are absolute heroes. Some offer great feedback but not for you. Also, you might be an asshole who doesn’t take feedback well. We don’t know. We do not know how good or bad the feedback is here. That would be expensive. So proceed with caution. Prices range from $3-5 to over $100.
*Also, please don’t pay for this list if you’re hoping for loads of free feedback options. There are only 7. Many are inexpensive, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you becoming a paid subscriber if that’s all you’re looking for.
This is one of our paid subscriber lists this month. Our paid subscriptions are what give us the ability to gather all of this information and maintain our database. If you have the means, you can upgrade here.
Of course, we are always happy to comp those in need, just let us know. Every subscription comes with comped access to premium features on Chill Subs.