To be honest, I’m not someone who cares for traditional publishing. Maybe it’s a fear of rejection, maybe it’s my anti-authoritarian streak. Regardless, I’m not somebody proudly within the CanLit landscape or on any CBCReads list.

The First Time Someone Said Yes

One of the only times I was published by others was in a chapbook nobody read. Grainy photocopied pages with a saddle-stitched binding, a stapler that left rust marks on the cover. I don’t have any links to a copy, I don’t even remember the names of the people involved. I imagine the publication was printed in a basement that smelled like mildew and burnt espresso.

Instead, I choose to independently publish through distribution channels like Kindle Direct Publishing and Lulu Press for softcovers and hardbacks, and Gumroad for digital ebooks. During my tenure at Write Club, I was president with two anthologies being published this way: A Collection of Filth and A Collection of Community.

Getting your first work published is the hardest threshold to cross. Seeing your name in print, even in a publication with a circulation of twelve copies, changes something fundamental about how you see yourself. You stop being someone who writes. You become a writer. An author.

The piece I submitted to that first chapbook was bad. I know that now. Overwrought imagery and borrowed metaphors. Emotional exhibitionism that a fifteen-year-old could mistake for depth. I was accepted anyways.

I’m not one to revise, either. I usually move on as soon as I finish the first draft. But this? I rewrote it. Published the revision. And in doing so, I began showing up. Met other writers. Learned from their work. Got better because I was given the chance to be worse first, in public, with people who cared enough to help me improve.

The Art of Rejection

Let’s talk about the ivory elephant in the room. Publishers would have room in their schedule to explain rejection if they wanted to make room. Most of the time, when you submit writing you end up with a phrase of polite fiction, a way of saying no without saying why you were rejected. Vague dismissals offer no learning opportunity, no path forward, just the sting of rejection without understanding. Commercial magazines use it because they receive thousands of submissions—they can’t possibly provide feedback to everyone. Right?

Your work is bad, but we won’t tell you why.
You failed, but we won’t explain how.
Try again, but we won’t help you improve.

How many writers have we lost to vague rejections? To being told their work doesn’t meet editorial needs without being given the tools to understand what those needs are, whether they’re reasonable, whether they’re even real?

When we published our anthologies at Write Club, out of all submissions across both years, maybe one piece was declined, another I fought for to be included despite disagreement from the publication team. Not because everything was brilliant—far from. But because the mission was never to curate excellence. It was to create a place where writers could practice being writers.

Where someone’s first attempt at a short story or their fumbling exploration of form could exist alongside more polished work, all of it given the same dignity of publication. I like to think we existed in a different economy. The currency wasn’t money or prestige. It was growth. Development. Community.

The rejection rate in traditional literary magazines hovers around 90–95%. Student magazines matter precisely because they can be someone’s first publication, there’s no terrifying barrier to entry, but rather the beginning of a career rather than another closed door.

Writer and educator Khalisa Rae identifies a fundamental problem in literary communities, that “there’s so much not just gatekeeping, but there’s also this like secrecy in the writing community that only the elite get to know about opportunities like fellowships and grants and awards.” Not only are certain voices excluded, but the mechanisms of access remain deliberately obscure.

The Harvard Crimson argues that gatekeeping operates through institutional inertia, where “educational institutions have provided clear evidence that the canon is largely inaccessible to readers without a fancy degree.” The very spaces meant to foster literary appreciation become barriers to entry.

The Cathedral & The Tent

To me, there are two ways to build a literary community. Choices of architecture.

The Cathedral. Tall doors, vaulted ceilings, stained glass filtering light into reverent colours. Beautiful. Imposing. Designed to make you feel small. Entry requires the right credentials. Proper demeanour and fluency in the architectural language of high art. Gatekeepers will argue they’re protecting quality or maintaining standards. Ensuring that what passes through those doors deserves to be called literature.

The tent. Big, messy, open on all sides. Room for the polished and the rough. The traditional and the experimental. The writer who’s been doing this for twenty years and the person who just discovered they have something to say. A broad spectrum of views and approaches, held together not by shared aesthetic but by shared commitment to the work itself.

What’s the precedent for this? Lighthouse Writers Workshop commits to being “a diverse, inclusive, and equitable place where all participants…feel valued and respected” Hugo House operates on the Philosophy that “everyone has a story to tell.” Literary Arts emphasizes they “want writing classes to be accessible to everyone, regardless of income and background.”

Kristin Nelson from Nelson Literary Agency explicitly states:

“I want the writer to know that I did actually read the manuscript or a good portion of it (as I don’t always read to the end). With that in mind, I will often reference scenes or characters or plot elements in the story to demonstrate my knowledge of it. This is one of the reasons why it can take 20 to 30 minutes to write it. Even if I’m going with the “it’s just not right for me” or “I didn’t fall in love,” I still try and highlight a scene that resonated with me or was interesting so the writer KNOWS that I did read; it’s not just a stock response (even if I’m using some “stock” phrases).”

Constructive feedback requires time. Thought. Actually caring about the writer’s development rather than simply performing editorial authority. But it is easier to send the form rejection. Maintain the mystique and keep the cathedral doors closed.

Okay, so how does this all apply to YOU?

Medium sits in an uncomfortable middle ground. The platform promises democratization. Yes, anyone can publish, anyone can be read. But Medium publications operate as miniature literary magazines, complete with submission guidelines, editorial standards, and the same vague rejections that plague traditional publishing.

For Publication Editors: You Have More Power Than You Think

If you run a Medium publication, remember that the person submitting to you might be publishing their first piece. There is the curation of content, sure, but there is also the shaping of potential writing careers. Your response (or lack thereof) teaches them what the writing world expects.

The bare minimum:

• Respond to every submission.
• If you’re rejecting something, give more than one sentence explaining why. Explain the specifics and have the writer know you actually read the damn work.
• If someone’s work shows promise but isn’t quite there, say that. Point them toward resources. Suggest a revision. Be a tent, not a cathedral.

The better approach:

• Make your submission guidelines actually useful. Don’t just list what you want—explain why you want it.
• Publish a “what we’re looking for” post every quarter. Show examples of pieces that worked and why.
• If you reject someone, invite them to submit again when they’ve addressed the issue. Make rejection a step in the relationship, not an ending.

Look at Medium’s Boost guidelines. They don’t just say “be good”. There’s notes on writer’s experience, value and impact, respect for the reader, non-derivative perspectives, and craftsmanship. They show examples. They explain what disqualifies work and why. If Medium’s own curators can articulate specific criteria, so can you.

For Writers: Stop Begging at the Cathedral Doors

Honestly? Publication clout is mostly an illusion on Medium. Unlike traditional literary magazines where being published in The Paris Review actually means something for your career, Medium publication credits rarely translate to wider recognition. You know what does translate? Writing consistently. Building your own audience. Creating work that makes people stop scrolling.

Some publications genuinely help, don’t get me wrong. They have engaged readerships, they promote their writers, and they provide meaningful editorial feedback. But a lot are vanity projects run by people who like the idea of being editors more than they like the work of editing.

So what should you do instead?

1. Submit to publications, but don’t wait for them. Publish on your own blog while you’re waiting for responses. Build your own platform.
2. Focus on getting Boosted over getting published. A Boosted story gets distribution across Medium’s homepage, emails, and apps. That’s worth more than most publication features.
3. Read the publications you submit to. If they haven’t published anything in six months, they’re probably not actively curating. If everything they publish is written by the same three people, they’re not actually open to submissions. Save your time.
4. Track your data. Note which publications actually respond to submissions. Which ones provide feedback. Which ones lead to increased views or followers. Optimize accordingly.
5. Remember: rejection on Medium often means nothing. Unlike traditional publishing where editors have training and editorial standards are institutionally vetted, Medium publication editors are just… people with Medium accounts. Some are brilliant. Some aren’t. The gatekeeping on Medium masquerades as democratization. “Anyone can start a publication!” Sure. But that doesn’t mean everyone should. And it certainly doesn’t mean every publication deserves the deference we give to actual literary institutions.

The Tent We Can Build Together

Medium is the infrastructure for something better. Publications ought to be genuine communities where writers develop craft together. Where editors see their role as cultivation. Where rejection comes with growth, not exclusion.

Some publications already do this! (Comment below if you run one.) They’re the tents in a landscape of wannabe cathedrals. They respond promptly. Provide good feedback. Championing new voices. They understand that their success is measured by how many writers they help develop.

If you’re an editor, be one of those publications. If you’re a writer, find those publications, but don’t let their absence stop you from doing the work. The most radical thing you can do on Medium is build your own tent. Publish consistently. Engage genuinely. Help other writers. Create the community you wish existed instead of waiting for gatekeepers to let you in.