Lit Mags: What “Underrepresented” Really Means — And Who Keeps Getting Left Out

by Laura DeHart Young

I’m a queer author and poet. I’m a woman. I’ve been through a few things. I’ve raised my hand, submitted my work, followed the guidelines, and read the “we champion underrepresented voices” mission statements on hundreds of lit mag websites.

And more and more lately, I’ve been wondering:

Underrepresented by whose definition? Because it sure doesn’t feel like they mean me.

The Illusion of the Open Door

A lot of literary journals say they’re looking for “diverse” work. That they’re open to “all voices.” That they seek out “queer, BIPOC, disabled, rural, emerging, and underrepresented writers.” And that sounds good — it should sound good. It’s supposed to.

But after dozens of submissions, hundreds of hours spent refining poems that speak from my real life — poems about disability, rural queerness, chronic illness, grief, aging, relationships — the silence is loud. Or worse, the form rejections that feel like they were meant for someone else.

It becomes clear: They don’t mean all underrepresented voices. They mean some. Often the same ones. Over and over.

What Gets Left Out (and Who)

Let’s be honest. Some of us are: Too old- Too disabled- Too rural- Too domestic- Too emotional- Too uncool- Too not-MFA’d- Too not-MFA-adjacent.

Our queerness doesn’t come with a rooftop in Brooklyn. Our poems don’t reference the latest theory discourse. And we write about aging bodies, missed buses, dead dogs, and grief so ordinary it aches.

And there’s a kind of aesthetic gatekeeping in lit mags right now — where “inclusive” often means visibly progressive, very online, and under 35. Where you’d better have a quirky voice, a trendy trauma, or a breakthrough debut to even be glanced at. Anything too sincere, too narrative, too plainspoken? Deleted in 3 seconds flat.

What It Feels Like

It feels like being invisible in a space that promises to see you. It feels like writing your heart out and watching the door swing open for someone younger, cooler, more curated. It feels like working harder than ever while your world shrinks — and then being told to try Submittable again next year.

And if you’re managing illness, mobility issues, or anxiety on top of all this? The literary world can feel less like a community and more like a private party with an unlisted address.

I’m Still Here

But here’s the thing.

I haven’t stopped writing. I haven’t stopped submitting. And I haven’t stopped noticing who gets left out when journals say “everyone’s welcome.”

I've had my successes and praise the lit mags who mean what they say: we want your lived-in, queer voice on our pages. You can see who they are on my "Poetry" page.

If you’re reading this and nodding — if you’ve been told you’re “too much” or “not enough” — if you’ve ever felt that quiet ache of invisibility — I see you.

And I’m still here, too. Writing from the rural backroads. From the waiting rooms. From the porch steps. From whatever’s left.

And you know what? What’s left is still enough.