Dear Reader,
More than thirty years ago I applied for the job of assistant editor at The Sun.
I didn’t get it.
I was a recent college graduate working part-time at an alt-weekly out of Durham, North Carolina. My degree was in sociology, but I wanted to write or work in publishing. My wife and I lived in an apartment where sewage backed up into the bathtub, bees had made a nest in the kitchen ceiling, and people knocked on the front door at night to ask for money. But the rent was just $400 a month—all we could afford. For furnishings we bought a faded pink couch at a yard sale and built a stereo cabinet out of plywood. Many evenings I sat alone in the spare bedroom—the one without an AC unit—sweating in front of a Mac Plus and making false starts on a miserable novel set in an Outer Banks town where I’d spent a week one summer at the age of thirteen.
Thankfully, during my failed job interview, I’d made a decent impression on The Sun’s founder and editor, Sy Safransky. So the next year, when the woman who’d beaten me out for the assistant-editor position moved away, Sy tapped me to be her replacement.
In 1994 the magazine had an editorial department of three—Sy, the art director, and me. I worked on every bit of writing that went into each issue, all under Sy’s careful scrutiny, which was . . . is there something beyond micromanaging? Nano-managing, perhaps? But I needed it while I learned to help authors tell deeply personal stories about some of the most difficult and joyous moments of their lives.
This December we’re publishing our six-hundredth issue of The Sun. The staff has grown since I started, but the work of producing the magazine remains every bit as careful and painstaking.
Putting this magazine together has remained a profoundly human endeavor, the work of many hands, even as the media landscape has become more automated.
It begins with writers sitting alone at desks or laptops, turning their thoughts into essays, short stories, and poems. When they decide the work is ready to share, it arrives in our inbox and is reviewed by one of our manuscript readers. Submissions that pass muster go to the editors, who work diligently with the authors to polish their poetry and prose.
We also receive images from photographers who venture into the world and document fleeting moments or striking truths, making the magazine as beautiful to look at as it is to read. We track down fascinating thinkers who share their expertise and wisdom in our interviews. And we invite you to share the intimate moments of your life every month in Readers Write.
Finally, each issue is printed and delivered by the dedicated people who operate the presses and keep the mail system running.
Putting this magazine together has remained a profoundly human endeavor, the work of many hands, even as the media landscape has become more automated. There will always be dedicated creators working on projects that are important to them, but now there’s also AI-generated slop flooding our online feeds. What we see and hear and read is determined less by our choices and more by algorithms pushing “content” that “increases engagement”—often by inflaming our emotions or tricking us into clicking on something attention-grabbing. In this environment it’s hard for readers who want something more meaningful to stumble across an independent magazine that aims to provide just that.
As a nonprofit that carries no advertising, we depend heavily on readers like you. Whether it’s through a subscription, a gift you give someone, or even a share on social media, your support is the vital force that helps keep the magazine alive. I thank you for all the ways you contribute and hope you’ll become a Friend of The Sun today by donating what you can. Your donation lets us pay writers and staff fairly. It lets us give free subscriptions to those who can’t afford one due to hardship or incarceration. And, most of all, it lets us honor the human heart rather than the whims of the algorithm.
A lot has changed for me since 1994. To the great relief of readers and critics everywhere, I stopped trying to write a novel. I moved out of that run-down apartment and bought a house. I became the father of two boys, who are now men. But I still have the same pink couch. The same plywood stereo cabinet. The same wife. And I still work at The Sun.
My fellow staff members and I aim to keep this idealistic publishing dream alive for decades to come. I hope you’ll be there with us.
Andrew Snee
Senior Editor
P.S. You can become a Friend of The Sun by donating online at thesunmagazine.org/donatenow. Your gift is tax-deductible, and they’ll send a receipt for your records.
