Our longtime fiction editor Lacey Dunham is stepping away from the role, and shares some reflections below. I can’t say enough about what a pleasure and privilege it has been to work closely together for nearly a decade (longer, in fact, if you count our first work together when she was a publicist representing my first book), and to watch her own writing gain more recognition and success at the same time. I’m deeply grateful for her commitment to supporting writers and to creating a space for their stories with a steady hand and a generous spirit. I look forward to reading her forthcoming second novel, and to the next time we’re in the same city at the same time to go walking and birding together. ~SH

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When Steve Himmer took me on as Fiction Editor nine years ago, in September 2017, I had a few years of reading and editing at other lit journals under my belt. Steve’s offer was the first time I would be able to interact with writers, and to shape so directly a publication’s ethos, spirit, and presence. Though excited by the opportunity, I fully did not expect to stick around for nearly a decade. 

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A partial and random list of events that have occurred since I started editing for Necessary Fiction: 

I change day jobs three times; I am unceremoniously laid off during a Zoom call that lasts five minutes; a Chicagoan is elected Pope; amidst #MeToo, Brett Kavanaugh is confirmed for the Supreme Court; Americans vote in two presidential elections; Trump is impeached—twice; Covid-19 upends daily life; Penguin Random House’s attempted acquisition of Simon & Schuster is blocked by the Justice Department; The New Yorker announces it will begin using Submittable; I sell and publish my debut novel; my mom is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s; my mom eventually moves into a 24-hour care facility; a horror novel wins the Pulitzer Prize; my nephew is born; my beloved cat Toby dies; my beloved cat Simone dies; my beloved cat Floyd dies; I intentionally kill a house planet through strategic neglect (though I harbor no regrets); Story Magazine, another lit journal where I am editor, goes on indefinite hiatus; AI assures us that we can shut off our brains and absolve ourselves of critical thinking without consequence; my therapist and I have many, many conversations about anxiety and creeping existential dread. 

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And throughout it all, I read your work. I sank into the stories you told. I corresponded with hundreds of writers, and likely disappointed thousands more. The former was often pleasant; the latter (despite clickbait Substack posts and social media anguish) I did without joy or malice. Saying no—and hearing no—are dogged consistencies in publishing. Barring some true sicko out there—and here is where I picture a John Waters-looking character with the black heart of a baby seal killer—neither the giver nor the receiver of “no” or “not now” or “not quite” relish the experience. 

But oh, the joy of sending a “yes”! Of celebrating a writer’s efforts with publication. Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I can’t imagine there’s a better high.

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Some numbers: 

During my years at Necessary Fiction, I personally read 10,491 pieces submitted to the journal. I personally selected for publication, then edited 392 pieces, with occasional guest editors and works in translation along the way. Those numbers do not reflect submissions that were withdrawn by writers, or ones that weren’t close to being the right fit. I’ve received more than a few poetry submissions over nine years, identified as such by the submitter, and at least three writers sent me their full novel manuscripts of 75,000 words and told me to “pick the 3,000 words I liked best” for publication. 

(Reader, I did not.)

Another number: I was paid $0. This isn’t an indictment of Steve or Necessary Fiction. It’s the stark reality of editing for a literary journal. Financially speaking, you will spend more than you take in. 

Literary journals are the ultimate anti-capitalist endeavor. No one—not the writers, not the editors, not the slush pile readers—are making money off this. If they are, it isn’t very much. There are always exceptions to everything of course, and I’m already bracing for a stranger on Threads to mansplain that exception in an attempt to discredit me the second I share a link to this piece. But just as 90-year-old William Shatner has rocketed into space, the majority of us will remain earthbound. 

Lit journals are often marvelous, occasionally maddening, labors of love. Labor that requires dedication, commitment, enthusiasm, a basic degree of executive functioning to manage deadlines, and a thick skin because some writers are compelled to tell you exactly what they think of your [redacted] self. The joke’s on them, since I’m a former waitress, retail cashier, and teacher at a public school. Middle school, no less. 

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I want to be very clear: this isn’t a pity party. This is a real-talk party. And the real-talk is this: after nine years, it’s time to move on, to open my capacity and time in other areas of my life, and to focus on my own writing. 

Writers: please be patient with editors. Extend grace and understanding. Think of all the work that’s being done separately and in addition to the attention we are paying to your beautiful language on the page. 

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I might not have been paid in dollars, but I was drowned in knowledge. I don’t just mean that sticky idea of experience, though I earned that, too (and I recommend all writers work at least a year for a lit journal—you’ll benefit from it, I promise you). What I earned is harder to pin down: Friendships, definitely. Pride in watching our contributors go on to publish books, publish other pieces with us, win awards, receive prestigious grants. Satisfaction in my tiny, personal, behind-the-scenes contribution to contemporary American literature. To advancing stories and storytelling and the arts—and doing so against all odds and in a cultural moment that is antagonistic and hostile to creatives. 

I have been humbled by all the talented writers who have entered through the submission door over the years. I am awed by the persistence and desire and the hungry need to keep shaping our world through stories. 

It has been my honor to receive your work and to play inside the space of possibility with you for nine years. Though I won’t be on the receiving end of your submissions going forward, the important thing is that Necessary Fiction persists, and it will continue to publish incredible work. 

I can’t wait to see your story there in the future. 

With gratitude and appreciation,

Lacey N. Dunham