Once we read your submission one of two things will happen:

We accept it. In this case we will send you something special. Not as special as, say, cold hard cash. But, something nice nevertheless. We will also send you two copies of the zine featuring your writing. You retain the rights to your work, which means you can send it out again! You can also add the piece to your ever-growing stash of "clips," which is great for when The New York Times loves your query letter, but wants to see your previous work. Then, when you have reached publishing stardom we get to brag that we know you.

We won't be able to use it. Frequently referred to as rejection—but don't you just hate that word? We do, too. If we're unable to use your work, we will send you a really nice letter on our cool letterhead. Every writer has a stack of rejection letters; they're our battle scars in the publishing wars. Every letter is proof you didn't just sit around talking about writing. No sir-ree! You stuck your neck out and tried. And that's more than most people do.

Where does the zine title, Thereby Hangs a Tale, originate?

The Muse spoke to us one afternoon and reminded us of the line from Shakespeare. Turns out the breeched Bard used the phrase in at least three plays. If you know examples other than the ones below - drop us a line and we'll add them!

The Taming of the Shrew,
Act IV, Scene I

Curtis: All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news.

Grumio: First, know, my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out. Curtis: How?

Grumio: Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale.

As You Like It
Act II, Scene VII

Jaques: A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest,
A motley fool; a miserable world!
As I do live by food, I met a fool
Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,
And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms and yet a motley fool.
'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I. 'No, sir,' quoth he,
'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune:'
And then he drew a dial from his poke,
And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock:
Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale.' When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative,
And I did laugh sans intermission
An hour by his dial. O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.

Othello
Act III, Scene I

Clown: Are these, I pray you, wind-instruments?

First Musician: Ay, marry, are they, sir.

Clown: O, thereby hangs a tale.

First Musician: Whereby hangs a tale, sir?

Clown: Marry. sir, by many a wind-instrument that I know. But, masters, here's money for you: and the general so likes your music, that he desires you, for love's sake, to make no more noise with it.