As the editor and publisher of The Brussels Review, I see hundreds of submissions. Every week, a new batch of hopeful attachments arrives—some dazzling, most not—but nearly all of them carry the same quiet assumption: that the work, by virtue of existing, deserves to be read.
Let me be blunt. Nobody cares!
I say this not to discourage, but to ground you. Writing something good is not enough, there are millions of stories written every day. If you’re not willing to share it with the world, if you’re not prepared to stand beside it, defend it, talk about it, and help it find readers, then don’t bother submitting. I have no interest in publishing ghosts.
Too many writers believe that sharing their work is somehow beneath them—as though self-promotion were a dirty word, and literature should arrive like a holy revelation, untouched by the fingerprints of marketing. This is nonsense. It’s also arrogant. If I, as a publisher, am willing to risk time, money, design, and editorial bandwidth on your piece, you should be willing to double down and risk your name, your face, and your effort to help it live in the world.
And please—enough with pseudonyms and clever pen names. You’re not hiding from the KGB. Everyone knows who you are. We live in the age of LinkedIn and domain registration lookups. Using a false name to preserve your “mystique” only makes you look like you’re afraid of your own work. If you don’t believe in it enough to attach your real name to it, why should I?
There’s also this lingering notion among writers that self-promotion is only for influencers and amateur poets with gradient Instagram quotes. That promoting one’s work is somehow equivalent to self-congratulation. But that’s only true if you turn it into a performance of self-importance. If you start throwing around words like “masterpiece,” “important,” or “long-awaited,” then yes—it’s pretentious. But simply saying, “I wrote this, it matters to me, maybe it will to you too”—that’s not pretentious. That’s honest.
If you think you’re above sharing your own work, imagine this: a farmer who refuses to go to market because he believes apples should be discovered, not sold. It’s the same logic. Whether you sell fruit or fiction, poetry or pottery, you need to put it in front of people. Nobody else will do it for you—not your publisher, not your editor, not your one supportive friend.
And if your vision of yourself is that of a misunderstood genius writing in solitude, untouched by the modern world, then I suggest you go full-method and abandon electricity. Stop using a computer. Stop emailing me. The literary eremit is dead. This is the century of networks.
Now, because I am not only frustrated but also practical, I’ll leave you with this: a basic, non-cringeworthy strategy to make your work visible without selling your soul:
1. Claim Your Name. Use your real name. Own it. Build a single, coherent identity across platforms. Even if you’re quiet, be consistently quiet as yourself. (And get someone to take a few photos of you; decent ones, where you look GOOD.)
2. Create a Landing Place. A simple site, a Substack, or a Linktree pointing to published work is enough. Make it easy to find and easy to navigate.
3. Post Like a Human. Don’t market—share. When a piece is published, say something true: what it’s about, why it matters to you, what led to it. That’s it. No hashtags, no performative modesty, no “blessed to announce.”
4. Repeat Without Shame. One post is not enough. People miss things. Share again. Reintroduce your work in different ways over time. You’re not being annoying—you’re being present.
5. Highlight Others. Signal boost other writers you admire. Create literary community. It makes your presence feel less self-centered and more like a space of dialogue.
None of this requires that you become an extrovert. But it does require that you become real. You wrote something. Don’t hide it.
And if you’d rather stay hidden—do us both a favor. Don’t submit.
