When I started Chicago Story Press Literary Journal, a friend told me I was crazy.

“You’ll make no money. It’s a ton of work, and it’ll take you away from your own writing. Are you sure about this?”

I was. And I don’t regret the decision for a second. Because here’s the truth: my friend was right on all three counts. But even so, as much as I love getting my own work published, I truly love publishing other people.

There’s something powerful about seeing what it means to someone to have their work accepted. I get ecstatic messages from authors who tell me it made their week, their month, sometimes even their year. And in a world where rejection is constant for writers, it’s deeply rewarding to be on the sending end of the yes, and to witness just how much it matters.

But even more than that, I’m moved by the people who say that being published made them feel seen—that it validated something deeply personal. These are pieces they’ve poured their hearts into, revised and revised, and then submitted with vulnerability and hope. I know that feeling well. Most of the time, we don’t feel seen. We don’t feel validated. The rejections pile up and make us doubt whether we’re even good writers at all. But when the acceptance comes, it’s magic. It’s one of the sweetest feelings in the world—something worth holding onto.

And then there’s the editing—another part of the work that brings me fulfillment. We edit every single piece we publish. That’s not always easy. It’s hard to send someone their story back with edits. But I’ve learned that the strongest writers take it in the spirit it’s given: as a gift. Because that’s exactly what it is.

We could be like some lit mags and do zero editing, but I don’t believe in that. I can’t think of a single piece of mine that hasn’t been improved by thoughtful feedback. Sure, it stings. But every time I’ve engaged with thoughtful feedback, my work has gotten stronger. Isn’t that the point? To put our best work forward? To take out the typos and the unclear sentences until our pieces sing?

Most of the writers I’ve edited have thanked me—sometimes profusely—for caring enough to put in the time. That’s its own kind of validation: that their work was worth the extra effort.

Of course, it hasn’t all been roses and champagne. I’ve had my share of pushback. One writer accused me of running a scam because I rejected her piece after just a week. (We pride ourselves on fast turnarounds—for both acceptances and rejections.) I understood that she was disappointed; rejection is hard, no matter how quickly it comes.

And truthfully, I don’t love sending rejections—I hate it. I know exactly how it feels. So I try to be kind. I try to encourage the writer, to explain that we simply can’t publish everything, even work we admire. I also hope they understand: rejection is not a verdict on their talent—it’s just part of the journey. I used to wonder if that was really true when I heard it from the lit mags that rejected me. But now that I’m on the other side, I know it is.

I’ve also occasionally been criticized for charging a small reading fee. The truth is, those fees don’t generate profit; they barely cover the basic costs of keeping the journal alive. Submission platforms, websites, software—none of it is free. But I donate my time, as do my editors, because we believe in this work. The fees aren’t about making money. They’re about making the work possible.

So yes, I spend less time on my own writing. Yes, it’s a ton of work. And no, I don’t make any money doing this.

But the rewards? They’re absolutely worth it.