Transparency Note

This list was compiled through extensive research that took many hours — a mix of new findings and routes I already knew from experience. I’ve been struggling with admin recently, so once I gathered the data, I used Canva’s table function to format it neatly. The “How to Use” section was written by me from scratch. If any parts sound slightly structured or repetitive, that’s because I used a set format to make things as clear as possible — clarity doesn’t always come easily. Generative AI was not used to create this.

They don’t “discover voices.” They sort inboxes. You’re either clear in one paragraph or you’re compost. Use the agent tab to find three kinds of humans: ones who read slush, ones who sign prize-listed unknowns, and the selective sharks who still answer their own email. Query them in that order. Never blast. Ten good shots beat a spreadsheet’s worth of noise. Your note: title, category, the one-sentence action that hurts, five pages that don’t wobble. No mood boards. No apology. If you can’t say what your character pays—time, rent, skin—you don’t have a book; you have a feeling with stationery.

How to use it: Filter by “reads slush” and by month. Hit Tuesday–Thursday mornings outside fair weeks. If a profile says “referral only,” believe it. Save your stamp for the ones who publish risk and not just slogans.

This is where sentences get eyed like receipts. Indie editors publish work that makes their staff argue at lunch. That’s why they matter. Use the list to map who published appetite instead of autobiography: presses that back books with consequences, not just backstory. Most are windowed. That’s not gatekeeping; it’s oxygen. Track windows; align your sample; send exactly what they asked for. Mention one book of theirs and what it cost the protagonist, not how it made you feel. If your pitch can survive being read on a phone between trains, you’ve done enough.

How to use it: Sort by region and open-call status. If the site says “agented only,” don’t negotiate in their inbox. Start with their journal, anthology, or contest pipeline. Yes, it’s slower. So is publishing.

A good journal is a stethoscope pressed to the season. Editors there send real passes that contain a verb. Use the journal tab to target the few that answer without generic scripts. Two smart placements beat twenty Submittable purgatories. Submit your strongest short that proves one skill: scene authority, line control, or ending discipline. If you can’t show one clean trick, no one will invent a future for you.

How to use it: Filter by response history and word count. Match the issue theme with a single sentence in your cover note, then shut up. You’re not applying to therapy; you’re sending work.

Stop treating residencies like spa vouchers. The good ones are labs that measure continuity under pressure. They select for a clear project, not vibes. Use the residency tab for three outcomes: line edits from serious mentors, proof you can work without a supervisor, and one line on your bio that makes an agent answer. Your application is a contract with yourself; if you can’t name the pages you’ll produce by week two, you’re buying stationery with nicer views.

How to use it: Sort by funding and length. Apply to one funded program you can realistically attend and one you’ll stretch for. Name the pages. Attach a sample no one needs to forgive.

Programmers don’t book you; they book events. Your email asking for a reading is a self-inflicted wound. Use the festival tab to see who builds panels around conflict and who just stacks bland positivity under a marquee. Pitch a conversation that makes them look intelligent under a deadline: “Women who refuse moral repair” beats “Strong female voices.” Include a partner—author, critic, academic—someone with a badge who can sit in a chair and disagree politely for 45 minutes.

How to use it: Filter by lead time (6–12 months), then send three sentences: title, premise, who you’re in dialogue with. If they reply, answer fast, and bring a timetable, not a dream.

Prizes are scheduling and taste under fluorescent lights. Useful when they buy you a sentence that opens doors: “longlisted for X.” Use the prize tab to pick two per year—one heavyweight with prestige gravity, one mid-tier that actually reads. The point isn’t cash; it’s a clean pretext to email an agent: “pages attached per guidelines.” Treat each entry as rehearsal for the pitch you’ll send later. If you can’t trim your story under a limit, you’re not being censored; you’re being measured.

How to use it: Sort by impact on agent interest (it’s in the notes). Enter with work finished a month before the deadline. Fix the ending. Most of you never fix the ending.

These names don’t acquire; they amplify. Which is why writers mess it up—begging for reviews in strangers’ DMs. Use this tab to map who covers your lane and who tolerates requests routed through a publicist. Pitch ideas (essay, list, conversation), not pleas. If you haven’t published anything yet, stop emailing them. Build a track record: one strong journal piece, one event, one clip you aren’t embarrassed to attach. A critic isn’t your hype machine; they’re a knife with an audience.

How to use it: Filter by outlet and typical topic. Read two of their pieces. Write one sentence in your email that proves you did. Then wait. No two-paragraph follow-ups. No gifts. You aren’t buying a verdict.

This is the part you wanted in bold. Early-career agents take chances because they don’t have stacked lists, and scouts remember names they see in journals, anthologies, prize lists. Use the emerging tab to find people who recently sold a debut from slush or a small press. They’re open to appetite if the pages are clean. Clean doesn’t mean boring; it means no wobble in the first five pages and no fake mystery you can see through with a paperclip.

How to use it: Sort by “recent debut deal” and “reads slush.” Send a cold query that acts like you’ve met: professional, short, unfazed. If they pass with one specific note, revise once. If it’s still a pass, stop shopping for opinions like stickers.

Programs, mentorships, institutes—the places everyone mocks until they want in. These are factories for competence and introductions. Gatekeeping happens here, yes, but so does rehabilitation for messy drafts. Use the academic tab to hunt mentors who recommend privately and journals connected to departments that still teach line editing. You’re not buying prestige; you’re buying discipline under fluorescent lamps and calendar pressure.

How to use it: Filter by mentor’s editorial record, not Instagram. Apply with pages that could survive a hostile seminar. Ask for craft, not endorsement. If they say no, it’s about fit, not your soul. Keep moving.

Writers ignore distribution until their book dies in a box behind a bookshop till. The infrastructure tab is the unsexy part that decides whether your debut has a spine in the wild. Distributors, anthologies, translation collectives—this is the current that carries your work from a zine table to a festival stage. If your dream press can’t get into national chains or respected indies, you’re choosing silence with nice typesetting.

How to use it: Sort by distributor and partner networks. Prioritize presses tied to real sales channels or festivals that invite their authors. If two presses love your book, pick the one with a warehouse, not a vibe.

Everyone says “it’s who you know.” It’s not. It’s who replies during a specific week when your email doesn’t smell like panic. The contact list is a clock. It shows when agents reopen, when editors travel, when programmers breathe. Work to those rhythms or die insisting you’re special. No one is special in an inbox.

How to use it: Build a 90-day plan with four moves: one journal submission, one small-press window, one agent query batch, one festival pitch. Track outcome, learn, rotate. If you’re not learning, you’re courting a fantasy.

Everyone thinks they’re kind. Kindness in publishing is answering with a complete sentence and attaching what you said you would attach. The list gives you emails; your behavior gives you a future. Don’t forward chain letters. Don’t send PDFs uninvited. Don’t cc six people because you’re afraid. If someone gives you a note that hurts, say thank you and disappear for a week with a red pen.

How to use it: Read every profile’s “Contact Preference.” Then obey. It’s not control; it’s a basic filter for adults.

Not a shortcut. A map of appetite. A record of who still risks their name on work that might make someone in accounting sweat. Treat every field as a meter: genre taste, access path, confidence score, last verified. You don’t need to like the system. You do need to read it.

Send less. Mean more. Keep the receipt. Then go write pages that don’t apologize.