Interview with Managing Editor Marc McKee

In this episode of The Missouri Review’s Soundbooth Podcast, the Audio Team sits down with the magazine’s Managing Editor, Marc McKee. Marc (Ph.D., University of Missouri-Columbia) worked at The Missouri Review from 2007 to 2010 and returned in 2018 as Managing Editor, after stints as a visiting assistant professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of Central Missouri, and then as an assistant teaching professor and later associate teaching professor at the University of Missouri. He holds an MFA from the University of Houston and a Ph.D. from the University of Missouri-Columbia. He is the author of five collections of poetry: What Apocalypse?, winner of the 2008 New Michigan Press / DIAGRAM Chapbook Contest, Fuse (Black Lawrence Press, 2011), Bewilderness (Black Lawrence Press, 2014), Consolationeer (Black Lawrence Press, 2017), and Meta Meta Make-Belief, forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press in 2019. His poetry appears or is forthcoming widely in online and print journals such as American Poetry ReviewBennington ReviewConduitCopper NickelCrazyhorseDIAGRAMForklift, OhioInter|ruptureThe Laurel ReviewLos Angeles ReviewMemoriousSixth Finch, and in the Academy of American Poetry’s Poem-a-Day series and Verse Daily.


Listen to Marc and the team chat about TMR’s unique approach to poetry features, the role of the literary magazine in the local arts community, and how he manages teaching, writing, fatherhood, and his role as editor.



Interview conducted by Audio Editors Traci Cox and Jacob Hall, and Audio Interns Bennett Jacobs and Brady Kateman. Interview co-edited by Jacob Hall and Office Assistant Emily Standlee. 

Interview with Managing Editor Kate McIntyre

This week on The Missouri Review Soundbooth Podcast, the Spring 2018 audio team interviews Managing Editor Kate McIntyre.

Kate McIntyre (Ph.D., University of Missouri-Columbia) worked at the Missouri Review from 2008 to 2013 and returned in 2016 as Managing Editor, after several years as a visiting assistant professor of English and creative writing at Allegheny College. She holds a BA from Harvard University, an MFA from Oregon State University, and a Ph.D. from the University of Missouri-Columbia. Her stories and essays have appeared recently in journals including Denver Quarterly, the Cimarron ReviewThe Normal School, and Copper Nickel. She has a Notable Essay in Best American Essays 2014 and a Special Mention in the 2016 Pushcart Prize anthology.

Hear us talk with Kate about her role at the magazine, how working at TMR has influenced her own prose, the way Kate balances life as a writer and also an editor, and, perhaps most importantly, her opinion on cake versus pie.

Interview conducted by Audio Editors Bailey Boyd and Traci Cox, and Audio Interns Bennett Jacobs, Kelsey Hurwitz, Sarah Beard, and Emily Standlee. 


Blurred Words: Weird Al & Colliding Worlds

By Allison Coffelt

If you’d asked me a week ago about Weird Al Yankovic, I would have said it was time to give up the ghost.  Weird Al is one of those seminal (artists? singers? comedians?) people whose work has spanned generations.  He’s iconic.  Most of us under the age of 40 have a Weird Al song they remember from when they were growing up.  Maybe it was “Eat It” or “Pretty Fly for a Rabbi.”

Weird Al hadn’t been funny to me for a while, but that just changed.  Here are three things that drew me back to Weird Al – a sentence I never thought I’d write – and they all have to do with his new video “Word Crimes.”

1.  Weird Al: Normalizing my behavior since 2014.

Last Sunday, while sipping coffee, listening to Weekend Edition, and gazing out at the crappy lot of the body shop behind my apartment, Tamara Keith’s interview with Weird Al began.  I was reaching to switch the radio (could Weird Al possibly have anything new to say?) when he started talking about correcting grammar.  He said he would be driving around, see a road sign, and fix the wording in his head.  I, too, do this.  When I’ve asked other friends who love words if they slip into this habit, they look at me like I’m sick.  I’m not sick.  And thanks to Weird Al for being the one to prove it.

Let’s not look too closely at that logic.

2.  Your Dad sends you the video.

Another reason you may, like me, need to give Weird Al some credit for his spot-on-ness with this video is when friends and loved ones send you the link: “Literacy’s your mission!” the song says, “There are dancing question marks in the video!” your friend says, “I thought of you immediately!” your dad says.

There’s also a section in the song where Weird Al discusses the Oxford comma, which I dearly love, regardless of what Vampire Weekend says.  This viewpoint, I understand, is contentious.  If someone thought to send you the video, you probably have your own opinion on the matter and you probably begrudgingly admit that either/either is acceptable.

An added bonus: Weird Al’s word rules make an exception for Prince.  As they should.

An added added bonus: You can finally explain what you’re going to do with that English degree. I quote: “You should hire/ some cunning linguist/ to help you distinguish/ what is proper English.”

3.  The music video is in kinetic text.

Man, I love the design of this video.  Kinetic text, or a fancy way of saying those videos where the text becomes the movie (like ShopVac ), is not only cleverly done in this video, but also fitting.  Animated words: how better to show the emphasis on the right syllable?

Well Weird Al, you got me.

Like the terribly catchy beat of that song, the thing I can’t get out of my head now are questions of what is permissible, what is stickler, and how our language —the thing that unites and binds and evolves with us— is changing.

I’ve been thinking about this because the other day at The Missouri Review, we were discussing the role of blogs and social media in the literary world.  One person likened blogs and to pop music— they’re fun, fast, digestible, and have a short shelf life.  It can be great and it’s its own thing.  Literature, we said as we swirled our brandy in embossed snifters, is like classical music.  It takes time.  But in the weird space that is the internet, these things are colliding, and we’re still figuring out how they feed and harm each other.

I’m fascinated when pop culture concerns itself with words, language, or literature because it’s a collision of the instantaneous and the ancient.

The challenge to offer curated, thoughtful, unrushed content is steep.  It takes a lot of resources and time.  That doesn’t mean, though, that readers don’t also want something salient, quick, and fun.

I think there’s room for both.  Just as we’ve seen a boom in articles-as-lists and computer-generated material (think Buzzfeed and financial market data), we’ve seen an uptick in long-form reporting and the slow reveal of stories (think The Atlantic and Breaking Bad).  It’s a trend that’s crossing media sectors, as John Borthwick points out in his recent article on Medium.

So, the question becomes one of sourcing.  Who will provide each?  Can some outlets provide both?  What will be the effect on and for readers?  We’re still trying to figure out the answer.  I think the experiment where pop and classic cohabitate is worth watching.  In some instances, it’s a question of what happens when proper grammar gets a remix.

A Little Ode to the Little Magazines and their Very Big Work

(*today’s post comes to us via the wonderful Latanya McQueen.) 

I remember how in college, before there were resources like Newpages or Duotrope, to find out about literary journals one had to either order them or go to the bookstore and look at them. Weekends during my senior year my best friend and I would frequent all the independent bookstores that we could find. One, in particular, was Harvard Bookstore, a small independent bookstore situated in the heart of Cambridge, and because of the location it can get crowded on the weekends. My friend and I would sit on the floor clustered together near the back, the journals in our laps. Browsers would have to shuffle over us as they made their way around the aisles or tried to look at the shelves nearby. We wanted to be writers and we wanted to publish, and in order to do any of that it was suggested by our professors that we look at the markets we hoped to be in. So we went into the bookstore hoping to look at a few journals and jot down the contact information and then be on our merry way, but what always inevitably happened was we’d instead sit there for hours looking at the pages. We’d come to a story we had to read and then we’d find another and another. We’d look for the author’s bios in the back of the journals, read to see if they had books, then find them and read those. I remember whole afternoons being spent like this, going through this cyclical process. After a while the goal of submitting stopped mattering. After a few addresses were written down our conversation changed. “Have you seen this journal?” my friend would say. “Here, read this story,” and I would.

I was twenty-one and had never even heard of Tin House before. Or Conjunctions. Or Glimmer Train. I was twenty-one and I didn’t know anything.

Wondering what to make of a Tin House Conjunction

I still have many of the issues from that time in my life despite my transient existence over the years, having kept them all for nostalgia’s sake. I discovered Stephen Elliot in the first Tin House issue I ever read, a memoir piece about growing up homeless. It’s an essay that avoids sentimentality. Maybe a lesser writer would have lingered on the relationship with the father and the emotional abuse that propelled him to run away, and start the chain of homelessness, but as he says, “this isn’t about hate or love or what went wrong between my father and I or the kind of resentments that never go away. This isn’t about splitting the blame between bad parents and bad children. It’s not about culpability. It’s about sleeping and the things that are important to that like shelter and rain.”

And yet, by the end of it, he says how his life got better “save some scars.”

In that same issue is a story by Justin Torres. The story is about one particular moment when the narrator and his two brothers want to recreate a scene they’d just watched on television, a scene in which a man cuts vegetables while people in the background get soaked from the mess. Like the people on the television the brothers want to have “the time of their lives,” and so they take tomatoes and crush them, wanting to “feel the pop and smack of tomato guts exploding.” When the tomatoes are gone they take lotion and mix them together, creating a mess that gets all over themselves, that gets everywhere.

The brothers revelry is interrupted when their mother, tired from always working graveyard shifts, comes into the kitchen. Instead of yelling at the brothers, she instead comments on how similar they looked when they were born. Then, unexpectedly, she asks them to do the same to her, to “make me born.” It is an arresting scene and like the Elliot piece, avoids sentimentality. It is a slice of life vignette about three brothers growing up in a turbulent home. After reading it there remains the feeling that everything will be okay.

I don’t know why I remember these two stories more than the others. Maybe because in both of them there’s an optimism, a sense of hope despite the circumstance. Maybe it’s because I see fragments of my own past in their stories. Whatever the reason, they both struck an emotional chord and I have remembered them.

Back then when I read the issue I didn’t know who either of the writers were but I would recognize the names years later when I came across them again—Stephen Elliot would eventually start The Rumpus, a cultural commentary blog that I now read regularly, and Justin Torres would use that story to eventually write We the Animals.

I can’t make the argument that I wouldn’t have discovered these writers had it not been for the journals in which their work appeared, but I can say that once I saw their books as I browsed the bookstore’s aisles, it felt like visiting an old friend. These writers I’ve never met in person yet I feel I know intimately enough because I’ve read their stories of heartache and loss and regret. I’ve read essays that have made me laugh, made me think about the world differently. I have read things that have changed my life.

And I suspect if you’re reading this, you have too. 

Too many writers, too many magazines

There is a problem in publishing. Every few years variations of the same argument creep up again in various ways.

There are too many literary journals. Too many MFA programs. Too many writers. Too many, too much. We are being saturated with an oversupply when there is not enough demand. No one is reading. No one is buying. There are too many voices.

You can read versions of these arguments here  and here and here  and perhaps most famously here.

There are, in short, too many of us.

And the answer to all this in some ways is yes. Yes, it’s gotten easier to submit. Yes, there are more resources than there used to be. Yes, the proliferation of MFA programs has skyrocketed in recent years and because of this there are more literary journals being created and more students wanting to submit, and yes sometimes the pressure to publish is so great that we lose sight of what’s important. We forget why we want to be in these journals to begin with—because we want to be part of the conversation, because we want to feel connected, and more importantly, because we love them.

I’ll never believe that there are too many voices. Even when people argue that with too many of us came the ease of online publishing and how anyone with some time to spare can create a literary journal in minutes, that this somehow now has degraded the venue. I say let people try because with every effort there is the chance for something great, and because I don’t want to live in a world where someone feels their voice isn’t being heard.

I know that some literary journals have since stopped publishing. With each one I’ve wondered if maybe part of the cause for their end is because there’s too much noise for them to still carry the same attention. There is an ebb and flow it seems, and rather than fish for the meaning as to why one journal continues and another stops I am grateful for their existence in the first place. Online journals like elimae and kill author and Night Train and Pindeldyboz, and print journals like Quick Fiction and Open City.

While some journals have ceased publication others are thriving in unexpected ways. The same week I discovered that elimae was closing its doors I learned that another online journal, Interrupture, had exceeded its Kickstarter campaign to print its first anthology of poems. This past year, the online journal Wigleaf, created in 2008, won its first Pushcart.

I am grateful for people and venues like, for example, The Literary Magazine Club on HTMLGIANT where a literary journal is discussed each month in an online book club format, and also for websites like Newpages and The Review Review that review current issues of journals.

I am grateful for writers like Roxane Gay who I found out about from her work with Pank. Through her nonfiction I discovered a list she’s created of writers of color, many without books but they do have stories out there in the world in literary journals that believed in them. I’ve since been going through the list, re-discovering what someone else already has, and each time I’ve wondered—where would these voices have gone if the journals didn’t exist? How would I ever have found them otherwise?


When I did my MFA, I was too poor to do much of anything, so on weekends when I had spare time I’d carry on the tradition I’d taken up from undergrad, only instead of going to bookstores I went to my school’s library. I’d go through and take all the current issues and sit in the back and read them cover to cover. Sometimes I looked at the archives of just a particular issue.

I think part of why I did this was because at the time I also had a job as a bookseller. One thing that always struck me when I was there was how after a few weeks or months after the initial buzz of a book has gone, it was like the book itself disappeared. Instead of being displayed on one of the front tables it’d be shepherded to the back or even boxed up and returned. Authors came and then were gone, and I couldn’t help but think about all the work that was already out there, work that I had missed, and I had a yearning to know.

I discovered a lot of stories from that period in my life. I remember reading Cheryl Strayed’s essay “The Love Of My Life” that was published in The Sun andwhich if you’ve not read is available online. Here was someone who understood the harsh experience of dealing with the death of a parent. Who understood the self-destruction that can sometimes follow when your mind is clouded by grief. I was roughly the same age as Strayed was when my own mother died and I understood the experience of not knowing how to move on when everyone you’re surrounded by wanted you to. I saw myself in that essay in so many unbearable ways that I’ve never been able read it again, but I have a copy of it. I like knowing I can hold it in my hands and that there is someone out there who has felt what I felt, has gone through the same experience and then managed to bravely write about it. I like knowing that need be, I can go back to those pages and remember I am not alone.

Since I’ve been interning at TMR I’ve taken an interest in rereading a lot of the archives. Like you, I’d submitted to the journal in the past and have many of the issues. I knew of TMR’s reputation for publishing work of first-time authors. What I didn’t really know and what I’ve been learning from looking back at the archives is how eclectic the journal has been. They’ve published writers I never would have expected—stories by Aimee Bender and Ursula K. Le Guin. In fact, in the second issue of TMR is a story from David Ohle, whose dystopian novel Motorman has garnered cult-like status since its 1972 publication. I also learned that one of my favorite Amy Hempel stories ever, “Today Will Be A Quiet Day,” was first printed in the journal.

I’m telling you these stories as I’ve told you of all the others because we are I believe, having the wrong conversation. Rather than lament about the state of journals or even publishing, or rant about the mistakes submitters make, or complain about how no one reads or no one buys, I want to instead talk about stories and poems and essays and art. It’s true that we all could stand to read a little more and talk about the places that have published work we loved. I think sometimes we forget what journals have done and what they can do. A great journal fosters work they believe in out into the world, it finds voices we might not have discovered otherwise, it creates a space where a reader can find writers all doing different and interesting things.

I want to tell you about some of them—there’s HOOT, a literary magazine that publishes work on postcards that are mailed to you. There’s Locus Novus, a journal that combines experimental writing and motion in innovative ways.

I want you to tell me of others. Tell me a journal that you love. Tell me a journal you feel is underserved, or even one that you’ve been reading, or one you’ve reread.

Tell me the stories you’ve found within them that have changed your life, the poems that made you feel, and the essays that made you realize that you are not alone.

Go back to the archives and discover something new and come back and tell it to me. I have told you a few of mine and now I want to know yours. I want to read them and I want others to know. Don’t tell just me, tell each other. Continue the conversation.

Then maybe together we can help save what’s been lost.


Building a Library For Writers

It's not easy finding The Missouri Review on the shelves. But he will!

One of the things that literary magazines and literary editors will frequently tell prospective contributors is that a writer should read our magazine before submitting work to us. I heard this advice when I was graduate school and first became interested in publishing my stories. Outside the offices of Natural Bridge, the literary magazine of Missouri-St. Louis, there was a small bookshelf filled with literary journals. Being new to literary publishing, most of the names were unfamiliar to me. Best I can remember, the shelves didn’t hold many of the big names like Ploughshares and Tin House. Mostly, the shelves were filled with journals run by graduate students, same as Natural Bridge. I distinctly remember reading several issues of Meridian, the literary journal out of the University of Virginia.

Point is, getting to know the journals is not easy. Journal editors, like ourselves, typically say vague things, such as we like “good writing.” We don’t want to say we do this or do that, because it might close us off to work that will surprise and delight our readers. Yet, magazines do seem to have certain aesthetics and taste – I can think of a handful of journals I love to read that I would never submit my work to – and when a writer is asked to read a couple of back issues, it can be overwhelming.

Poet Gary Hanna feels the same way. So, he decided to do something about it. In cooperation with the Lewes Public Library in Delaware, Hanna has created The Writer’s Library, a room free and open to the public where writers can read the literary journals that are best for their work. And, the Writer’s Library could use some donations. So if you have any copies of literary journals that you could donate, please do so! All information on how to reach Hanna is on their website, but in case you just feel the need to rush right off to UPS, here it is:

The Writer’s Library at Lewes Public Library, 111 Adams Avenue, Lewis, DE 19958. Or you can visit

Michael Nye is the managing editor of the Missouri Review.



Teaching TMR

Last month, TMR Managing Editor Michael Nye visited my introductory creative writing workshop at the University of Michigan-Flint. He did this not in person, but via Skype. It was my first time using Skype–cobbling together a system in a classroom not quite “smart” enough to include a webcam. I borrowed an external cam that plugged into my laptop that plugged into the room’s Smart Cart; I delegated a student to steady that cam every time it lolled ceiling-ward; I cautioned everyone to stay in their seats, with cords running everywhere across the front of the room. As I do every time I use a new technology, I flashed back to high school and harried teachers struggling with classroom VCRs. Would this experiment end in defeat? Then Michael appeared on our projection screen, and a handful of my students appeared to him.

My class’s Skype conversation with Michael is one of the features of the Council for Literary Magazines and Presses Lit Mag Adoption Program, through which creative writing instructors can sign their classes up for discounted subscriptions to participating magazines. I adopted TMR for my course in part because of my familiarity with the magazine: I was on staff for four of the five years I studied at the University of Missouri, and felt confident that any issue would include “teachable” material. TMR was also a good fit for my class because it includes poetry, fiction, and nonfiction–as does the intro workshop at my present institution. Even so, I faced a challenge in drafting a syllabus that would accommodate whatever the magazine happened to contain. Knowing that we wouldn’t receive our first issue until the middle of the semester, I structured the first few units of the course around definite objectives–focusing on form, point of view, image, voice–and sketched out two broadly-defined units at the end of the semester, devoted to “journeys” and “change.” As I’d hoped, virtually every piece in the Winter 2010 issue could be fitted into these categories.

One benefit of working with newly-published writing was that the students knew I had no prior connection to the pieces we were reading. We were all in the same relationship to the texts; we were all undertaking the task of getting to know this material. In groups, students would work together to arrive at readings of individual poems in a feature, then we’d come back together to share our findings and discuss themes running through that poet’s work. The intertextuality of Tarfia Faizullah’s poems, the timeliness of Brian Brodeur’s challenged the students and provided them with good models. On the day we discussed Daniel Mueller’s essay “I’m OK, You’re OK,” a student who’d misread the syllabus was devastated to be left out of our conversation about predatory clowns. Working with such fresh material gave students plenty of room to develop their own insights. In TMR‘s Winter issue, they were encountering works that hadn’t been studied extensively: not by SparkNotes, not by Wikipedia, not by someone offering to sell them a term paper–not even by me.

Having Michael in our classroom that April day demystified the work of a literary journal, a kind of publication that some students in this, a general education class, may have been unfamiliar with at the beginning of the semester. For me, it was nice to see a familiar face again; for the students, helpful to put a face to the editorial process. The Winter 2010 issue offered us another small world moment as we discussed (inevitably) the cover art. Kent Miller‘s “Maho Beach”–in which a jumbo jet buzzes beach-goers–is not only an undoctored photograph, but also the work of a former staff photographer for our hometown newspaper, The Flint Journal. I am apt to dwell on such coincidences: what does it mean that I’m here, linked to these two places, and the cover artist shares the same links? To my students, the coincidence seemed less striking: a Flint photographer was on the cover of TMR, one of the journal’s editors was Skyping with us–that very day, a classmate had announced that she’d just been published online. Why shouldn’t Flint be a hub of the publishing world? That’s exactly the kind of question I want them to ask.

Stephanie Carpenter is a former TMR staff member and Assistant Professor at the University of Michigan-Flint.

An Incomplete Narrative (Or, Mutiny On The Bounty)

In the literary world, the past few weeks have been filled with stories about Virginia Quarterly Review and the suicide of its managing editor, Kevin Morrissey.  Not only has there been a flurry of inaccuracies, but also a damning indictment of the University of Virginia, VQR, and its editor, Ted Genoways.  Our marketing director, Kris Somerville, printed out the original story published in The Hook, and even in small type, the pages were the size of a phone book.  You also might have seen that this story reached The Today Show (who oddly called VQR a “campus magazine.” Um, actually, no, it’s a wee bit more than that …)

Tom Bissell, a regular contributor to VQR and author of several books, has a different and thoughtful response to the entire situation:

“Here is a different narrative of the VQR tragedy: Mr. Genoways, in elevating what had previously been a respected but quiet literary journal into one of America’s best magazines, revealed the basic incompatibility of the sinecure model of university employment with the high-pressure, emotionally tempestuous imperatives of commercial publishing. Mr. Genoways’ staff, including Morrissey, did not agree with the direction in which the magazine was going and moreover believed Mr. Genoways was spending too much money. Crucially, Mr. Genoways was bound by one extraordinary quirk of a university- and taxpayer-funded literary magazine. Morrissey, along with the rest of Mr. Genoways’ staff, were state employees first, VQR employees second. While Mr. Genoways could hire staff, he could not easily fire staff, which is the right and prerogative of, say, the editors of The New YorkerHarper’s Magazine and The Atlantic, against whom VQR was attempting to compete in terms of content (if not circulation).

“Mr. Genoways was thus forced to run his magazine in what were essentially and increasingly mutinous circumstances. Paradoxically, as the magazine pulled in National Magazine Award nominations and critical acclaim, Mr. Genoways’ relationship to his staff became increasingly toxic. Job productivity suffered and resentments accumulated, even though Mr. Genoways, Morrissey and Waldo Jacquith (the former Web editor of VQR, who told The Today Show that “Ted’s treatment of Kevin in the last two weeks of his life was just egregious”) were drawing a combined compensation of $320,000.”

Read Tom’s entire piece here, and if you haven’t, The Hook’s original story is here. Also, lots of interesting comments at HTML Giant, too. Tip o’ the cap to TMR pal Tayari Jones for the link to Tom’s story.

Michael Nye is the managing editor of The Missouri Review.

Tiers For Fears

Everybody wants to rule the world (is that song stuck in your head yet?  No?  Give it time …) and be at the top of any given list: Best Dressed, Best One Hit Wonders, Best Late Night Dining Options, etc. The Missouri Review isn’t the top of this new list, but hey, art is subjective, right? Also, it’s always fascinating to see if your mental list of top “tiers” is in agreement with this writer’s.

Everyone’s Gunnin’ For That #1 Spot

Who is the “best” is something that all writers think about: where do we want to be published, what magazines do we want to read, where are we going to find the most innovative and engaging work.  While one might quibble with the specific order in Michel’s list, my guess is that there would be generally agreement here. Ranking something, say, #24 or #25 doesn’t, in the end, matter all that much anyway, does it?

For much more on the journals, be sure to check out Luna Park and The Review Review, a pair of journals that review literary magazines.

Tip o’the cap to Anne Earney for the Lincoln Michel article.

On the intersection of docs and lit magazines

In addition to the dozens of docs screened during the True/False Film fest, a number of workshops and classes are offered. Wanting to deepen my knowledge of the industry, I checked out a couple, including “Hybrid Cinema: A Filmmaker’s Guide to DIY, Web and Self-Distribution.”

Jon Reiss, director of Bomb It, a doc about the “battle for public space throughout the world” (or graffiti), led the presentation. I was struck with the similarities of marketing a literary journal and marketing a documentary film. At one point, Reiss stated that when the doc was completed, the filmmaker was only half-way through the process. He or she must get it out in the public. I think, in some broad way, that’s true of a literary magazine. After we’ve accepted the final prose or poetry piece for our journals, we’re ready to put our feet on the desk, lean back in our office chair, and congratulate ourselves on putting together another fine publication. But as wonderful as our magazines may be, we haven’t done our job fully until we’ve reached the largest audience possible given our budget, personnel, and time constraints.

For many in literary publishing, marketing may be the least favored part of the job. As Reiss said early in his presentation, he went into filmmaking because he didn’t want to go into business—but that career choice turned him into a businessman. Likewise, I’m sure many of us feel the same way about marketing, but if we want our journal to succeed, we need to make smart choices.

Reiss uses his blog ( to raise attention for his films and long-term audience development. You can check out his blog to see what he’s doing in this regard. And if anyone is interested in some of his specific blogging tips, comment below and I’ll add a “part two” later in the week.



Low Rent Magazine Launched!

The Missouri Review has a long history of sending our former interns into the world of publishing. Jason Koo, our former poetry editor, becomes our latest flag bearer into the literary magazine world. He and friends Bill Hughes, Robert Liddell, and Jeff Bernard have just launched Low Rent magazine. Check it out at