The Power of Giving in the Literary World

Is it possible to be generous if your original motivations are based on self-interest?It’s been six years since I founded a literary journal with my co-editor, Linsey Jayne. At the time, we were graduate students, months away from walking across the stage and adding the initials “MFA” to the ends of our names. We’d spent the past two years reading for our school’s literary journal, and now that it was time to move on we wondered, “What’s next?”It was a question that plagued our daily instant messenger conversations. You see, it wasn’t that we were worried about jumping into a new career. We had time to figure out how we’d use our creative writing degrees to earn money. At the time, we both had professional jobs that, while they weren’t in the writing field, paid our bills. Instead, we were more concerned with how we’d keep the heartbeat of the literary community strong in our lives.“What do other people do when they graduate?” one of us would say to the other. “Do they just subscribe to a bunch of lit mags and read new issues? That can’t be it.” “How can we stay involved?” “Are writing groups our only option?”Our concern was for ourselves, but the decision we made—to start our own independent, online literary journal—ended up being a selfless labour of love.In the past six years, here is what I’ve learned about the power of giving in the literary world.Writers who simply want their work in the world are the ones practicing narrative generosity.

Our journal, Spry Literary Journal, is completely volunteer-run. The expenses we need to pay for, such as web hosting, registration, and submission manager fees, comes out of our own personal pockets. Because this is an indie operation, we cannot pay our contributors, which is something both myself and my co-editor wish were different. Yet, we still get hundreds of submissions every month from artists who simply want their work shared with the world.And it isn’t just about finances, either. It’s about motivation, about excitement.Since we’re not affiliated with any university and we’re only a small drop of the online world, it’s easy to feel as if we’re forging our way alone. But that’s never the case.

Creating a literary journal means creating a community.

For every new issue launch, call for submissions, or announcement of a new project, our previous and potential contributors are right there beside us, cheering us on. They’re the first people to jump at the opportunity to partner up with us for any new writing ideas we dream up. They’re on social media sharing the work of their peers. They’re sending other writers, poets, and visual artists our way.Creating a literary journal means creating a community.When you have such supportive people around you, don’t let them go.Our contributors play such a large role in our Spry family that they aren’t just people we’ve published on our “pages.” Many then become part of our staff. While I can’t be sure of the exact number, it’s a safe estimate to say that 90 percent of our mastheads over the past ten issues are made up of former contributors. Each and every person is generous with their time, never complaining about the hundreds of submissions they have to sort through for every issue.Reading for us takes hours out of their week that they could spend on their own writing or with their own families, or heck—even taking a nap. The comments I see from our reading team are honest, thoughtful, and considerate. Every issue, there is a new mashup of staff bringing sundry perspectives to our journal, and I couldn’t ask for more.The truth is, while I wanted something for me, starting a journal created a community of givers. People who want to share their essays, stories, and artwork with the world. People who want to give back to the journal that published them and find the next batch of writers and artists to promote. People who cheer from the sidelines. People who cheer right alongside you in the race.What I’ve learned about generosity is this: the more you give selflessly, the more you get in return.