For today’s newsletter I spoke to Leah Prinzivalli, a features editor at Slate, about why the online magazine is investing more resources into longform stories lately, and what kinds of pitches she’s looking for.
Slate is still a home for surprising personal essays and opinion pieces, but editors are also looking to assign more reported essays and narrative features. Leah discusses below what makes a Slate longform piece, and she invites you to send her ideas (she gave her direct email address at the end).
In my recent conversations with writers, the route to book publishing has frequently come up. One piece of advice I share is to try to publish a memorable reported piece, essay, or series of deeply researched stories around an issue first. This can demonstrate how you are an expert in an area, enticing book editors or agents.
You still have to write a book proposal, and some advise that publishing a longform article first might actually deter editors from wanting a book because you’ve said what you want to say in an article. But if you can make a case that there is actually much more to say, landing that memorable piece (perhaps in a publication like Slate) might help get your book idea noticed or sold—especially if blindly querying agents and shopping a proposal alone is not working.
Talking Nonfiction Books
There have been several excellent conversations about the state of books and narrative nonfiction—notably over at The Stacks podcast, where host Traci Thomas spoke with Julianna Haubner, an executive editor at Flatiron Books (who acquired Haley Cohen Gilliland’s “A Flower Traveled in My Blood,” a finalist this year for the Pulitzer Prize in Nonfiction).
In a recent episode, they did not hold back in their critiques of Katherine Boo’s, “Behind the Beautiful Forevers.” The two discussed what it means for a work of nonfiction to read “like a novel,” and how Boo’s book would be received if written in 2026.
They also dissected the omniscient narrator style used in Boo’s book, which has been a hallmark of literary journalism, made more popular after Tom Wolfe defined it as a trait of “The New Journalism.” But over the last decade, nonfiction books have been shifting away from narrators who disappear into “chameleon” or “I-am-a-camera” styles focused so closely on other people, which without context can sometimes leave readers asking: Why are we here?
The best narrative nonfiction today, Haubner said in the episode, has a strong sense of “narrative guidance,” adding: “The best journalists and the best writers understand and anticipate a reader’s moments where they may be asking these questions” about the story.
I call such writers “confident narrators” (whether in first person or third person) who carefully balance context, narrative, and reflection, without drowning in research digressions or constantly hiding behind scenes.
In my own nonfiction, and in working with students and writers, this is admittedly one of the most challenging aspects of this kind of writing. Getting the balance right usually happens after the vomit draft, in rounds of revisions.
Their conversation about Boo’s book paired well with a previous episode of The Stacks, in which Thomas and Haubner talk about what a book editor actually does.
More Book Publishing Conversations
—Yahdon Israel’s Instagram Live, “What My Five Years as a Senior Editor at a Publishing House Taught Me About Our Industry.” Israel, formerly at Simon & Schuster, breaks down the process of publishing and book advances (like why they may decrease with your next book).
—Rea Frey’s conversation with Doug Seibold of Agate Publishing, which delves into book publishing realities today and how word of mouth matters more than bestseller lists.
Opportunities & Funding
—Robbie Maakestad, senior essays editor at The Rumpus, talks about why the essay “Omayra (In Other Words),” by Ricardo Frasso Jaramillo represents what he loves in nonfiction: “That blend of teaching the reader something that you’ve researched as a writer, and then also finding a way to connect to it and make meaning from your own lived experience.”
—The Pulitzer Center is offering special grants for reporting on democracy in the United States to support travel, research, records searches and reporting. Apply for this and other Pulitzer Center fellowships here.
—Investigative Reporters and Editors is offering a Freelance Fellowship of up to $4,000 to support long-term and $2,000 for short-term nonfiction projects, including books, documentaries, audio and video projects and broadcast work, along with articles for newspapers, magazines, online publications and niche news outlets: Applications are due Sept. 1.
—Book author and critic Kristen Martin is offering an online hybrid memoir class with Blue Stoop on Monday nights from late September through late November, reading excerpts from books like Sarah M. Broom’s “The Yellow House,” with writing exercises. Register here.
—Applications for The Matthew Power Literary Reporting Award—a grant of $15,000 to support the work of a promising early-career nonfiction journalist on a story that uncovers truths about the human condition—will open in November.
—There are still a few slots left for the “Flow State River Retreat,” a whitewater river trip September 18 to 22 for writers, which will be led by Pulitzer Prize-winning writer and editor Mark Warren and New York Times best-selling author Kim Cross of The Waterproof Notebook. This adventure is curated for writers, editors, and creative leaders “who need uninterrupted time in the flow state to gestate big ideas.”
—Last month I gave a talk on the business of freelancing for AAJA-LA and the LA Press Club (with tips from Katherine Lewis of the Institute for Independent Journalists, who is teaching an upcoming class on this very subject). My colleague Robert Lopez also gave an excellent presentation on how he secured funding for his series exposing child labor abuses and regulatory failures on California farms, which won the 2026 James Beard Media Award for Investigative Reporting. He also shared the QR code below—with an incredible master list of funding and fellowships for journalists, compiled by Diane Sylvester and Damaso Reyes.
Leah Prinzivalli
I hope you enjoy my conversation with Leah, who edits features and life section stories at Slate. Leah also teaches in The New School’s Creative Publishing and Critical Journalism MA program. Before coming to Slate, she worked as an editor at Texas Monthly and contributing editor at Allure. Her writing has been published in The Washington Post, The Atlantic, Outside, VICE, Marie Claire, Jezebel, Glamour, and SELF.
Thanks for talking. It’s helpful for readers to better understand what kind stories Slate is publishing and wants these days.
It’s great timing, because I am on an assigning spree looking for features through the end of the year. I would love it if people reach out to me after this.
What are you looking for right now?
Part of the reason I was hired at Slate was to be an additional features editor and bring reported features to the magazine. I’m almost through a bunch of pieces that are slated to publish this summer, and those are in various stages, so now I need pieces through the end of the year. So it’s definitely a good time for folks to reach out with stories that should run sometime in the back quarter of 2026 or early next year.
Is there a certain number of longform stories that are assigned per year, or is a certain time of year better than others budget-wise?
Not in particular. This might be a little different than some other outlets: We pay for stories based on the amount of reporting. Because we run so many essays, but then we also have stories where someone has to travel somewhere, or dig up court documents, or visit people who are incarcerated.
That’s an interesting model, and yes we all know that reporting can take a lot of time, records, and travel, but an essay might be different. Although then there’s also the reported essays, which I know you publish, and those can involve both. Would you say there’s a ballpark range for reported pieces?
It starts at around $2,500. We do a flat fee, and we’ll work in expenses in addition to that.
Okay, so tell me about why Slate is investing in longform lately. I think a lot of people also are asking, “Is longform dying? Are people reading nonfiction?” So, what do you think is behind the push for longform at Slate?
I think we have found that it is something that really brings readers to a piece, and if it’s the right story, people will stick with it. As is every outlet, we’re trying to build a new audience and bring people in, and also show our work, and why you might want to spend membership dollars at a place like Slate. An intense 7,000-word true crime investigation that involves travel and talking to so many people and is really moving you through a narrative, I think readers like reading those, and I think it helps people see what we’re doing, and stick with Slate.
It’s our 30th anniversary this year, and I’ve been a reader of Slate for probably 25 of those years. I think when I thought of Slate before coming here, what I thought of was the amazing voiceyness and the analysis of the news and the cultural commentary and these shorter, very voicey, very fun and very smart takes on what’s going on. Slate has been publishing features for its entire run, but I think in this new push, we’re hoping that people will also think of us for the investigative stories, the reported essays, and the meatier pieces as well.
That’s interesting. And is there evidence that people read those pieces to the end?
Yes. We can see how much time people spend with a piece, and it’s been really gratifying I think longform is a little bit of an antidote to the news cycle, allowing yourself to sit with a longer story for your entire lunch break instead of going on Apple News and clicking through, like, the 40 horrible things that have happened today. What we try to do is make people come away feeling like they’ve learned something, or spent some time with a different kind of person, or have been taken on a journey.
Tell me a bit about your background. How did you get into editing? How did you get to Slate? How did you get into journalism?
I started out as a union organizer in New York. And I was just freelancing on the side. My first published pieces were in Mad Magazine, if you can believe it, then I ended up getting an editorial internship at “Reductress,” the satirical site, which was fully unpaid, and yet I was like, “I will quit my job to do this part-time internship.” I just always wanted to write, and once I started getting clips and sensing that I could maybe make a career of it, I just made a jump.
I also teach as an adjunct at The New School’s master’s program in Creative Publishing and Critical Journalism. I talk about this to students all the time, and it’s interesting now. I’m not always sure if I would give that advice to people. It was a little bit of a different time, around 2013.
So the advice is about whether you would pivot to freelance completely without a job?
Exactly, and just would you try and make a career in freelancing without having a ton of experience? It’s hard. I was able to do it in the media ecosystem back then. I was just dogged and pitching anyone and everyone.
My first full-time job was at a beauty website called “YouBeauty.” I had to do something called “traffic trawling.” One or two days a week, a writer would be assigned to write five stories a day. Short stories, which I still credit with my ability to keep on deadline and not procrastinate. It was hard, but it was a great experience in terms of just, you know, churning through copy. Of course, the site eventually folded.
Then I got a freelance job at Condé Nast. It was called the social news desk, and writers would work across all of their brands. At the time, they had Bride, then W, and also Glamour, and Allure, and Vogue, and so an editor from any one of those magazines could assign you something. I was there for about a year, and then that department folded, and then Allure sort of snapped me up. So for many years, Allure was my main gig, and I was freelancing for them.
And then in the pandemic, I got a job at Texas Monthly, which is funny because I live in New York. I’m from New Jersey. At the time everyone in their Austin office was remote. I got hired there as a floating editor, but I ended up settling in their lifestyle, arts, and culture section. I was there for five years, and then eventually they were like, “Well, you don’t live in Texas.”
Then I was a maternity-leave cover at Slate, and I was there and working on features at about the time that they wanted to bring in more features, so they brought me on full time.
Did you study journalism in school?
Yes, I went to the master’s program where I now teach, at The New School. I teach an introductory class, an overview of different forms of writing. So we do a local news section, an investigative section, a cultural criticism section. We do profiles. It teaches people about all the different avenues they could possibly go down as a writer. And then what is so gratifying is I also teach the capstone class, which is one where the students all work together to make a print and digital magazine. People apply for jobs on the masthead, and they get assigned a role. And then we pull the stories together, and make art, and make a concept for the magazine. Then we print it and have a launch party.
Do you ever find writers out of your program?
Absolutely. I published a great piece from one of my students, Delaney Langdon, about the advice of TikTok wellness influencers who were pushing the herb ashwagandha as an immune booster. She was like, “Great, I’ll add this to my smoothies.” And she ended up getting very sick because it kicked her immune system into overdrive. That was a piece that we developed together as an assignment in her first semester, and that is a really perfect example of a Slate story. It’s something where you can thread in the personal, but there is also reporting to be done. And there’s maybe some debunking to do about how this may be great for some people, but for others, this could be really very harmful.
Do you like editing over writing, or did you always want to edit?
I do love editing. As a writer, you really live and die by your ideas, and I could do it, but I just think my strength is much more in fixing, sorting and honing the idea, and polishing the story to make it better, and to develop relationships with writers. I really like to have rosters. I think writers who have worked with me will tell you, I do tend to come back to the same folks and say, “Oh, I know you’re great on this topic. Will you do this for me?” It’s been really gratifying and fun to bring people who I worked with at Texas Monthly over to Slate. I think that just plays more to my strengths.
I do try to write when I can. Slate sent me to a convention last year for the Hallmark Channel, and I got to write a feature about that, this off-the-wall, almost Comic Con–style gathering for fans of these, like, very wholesome semi-Christian movies. I like to slip in writing when I can, but definitely it’s like 5 percent of my job.
What do you look for that makes this a Slate longform piece versus a piece that would go anywhere else?
I think there is a Slate-iness. A voice-iness, and a lightheartedness. Not to every topic certainly, but if you can bring in the personal, I think that’s one way to make something a Slate story. Another way is to take some sort of common belief and turn it on its head.
We just ran a great feature about about “America’s Loneliness Trap,” and how there is no male loneliness crisis, what there is is a crisis of poverty, and people who are living in poverty, who are working many, many hours a day and don’t have the time or money to go out and socialize. So there’s a real loneliness gap there. That was by the wonderful writer Nick Keppler and edited by my features colleague Shannon Palus. We’ve obviously all heard the phrase “male loneliness crisis” a million times. There are so many stories about it. This one was a “Slate pitch,” basically the opposite of what you think is happening is actually happening.
So the voice-iness is really important too, and it’s always been part of the Slate brand. What do you think makes for a strong writer’s voice?
I think it’s just something that only you can write, and I think often at Slate that manifests in a sense of humor, but not necessarily. We have a piece coming from a wonderful writer who lived through a child abuse case that became very read-about in the news, and she’s threading her recollections of what actually happened to her with how it was reported. The voice there is certainly not lighthearted, but it is so specific to her and something that only she could write.
I ran a piece at the beginning of the year that I really love about how the midlife crisis in some ways is disappearing, because no one can afford the former trappings of midlife. It was written by Byard Duncan, a writer who felt himself sliding into a midlife crisis, and he decided to do something silly and random, which was to try to break the Guinness World Record for throwing a rubber chicken. It’s a really good mix of a wild journey that the writer is taking you on, real emotional heft, and also reporting about what’s going on with the midlife crisis as all these millennials are nearing that age.
What makes a reported essay strong for you? What are you looking for?
We want there to be some sort of takeaway or something outside of oneself that a Slate reader could get out of the story, and I always like to tell people to wait at least a year after something has happened to you to share your story, just so you have at least a little bit of time to sit with and process what has happened. And to remember that personal essays don’t have to be dark! We also do scene pieces. We just sent Jessica Pishko to a Trump superstore in Tennessee that’s closing down, and it’s a very funny write-up of all the sales of Trump merchandise. There’s voice, and there’s reporting.
I like to call those “tour guide” stories, where you’re just taking readers into a world, but it’s not all about you. You’re the vehicle. And then there’s the ones where a story is more centered on you. I noticed in stories you edited, the writer is often reflecting, but then you have this research woven into that narrative.
Exactly, there’s some first person, but they’re not personal stories.
Let’s talk about the “The Trial of the Penis Grandma.” In the beginning of the story, reading that headline, you’re like, “What is this story?” But then, as you get into it, you start to see how the writer is asking larger questions about the state of our politically divided country. She’s visiting her hometown, examining politics and people through this case.
Molly Olmstead was perfect for this piece, because she’s from that area. And there were other stories written about that case that were great. But I think what made this iteration of it a Slate story was being able to add the lens of: “I’m from here, and I’ve seen it change, and I can’t believe this.”
I do remember the era at Slate that was very confessional. Slate’s former features director dubbed this period for many publications, “The First-Person Industrial Complex.” How do you define that era now, or think about confessional stories? Is there a different take on it at Slate now?
We still do run wild first-person stories. We ran an essay earlier this year about a woman’s brother who had been targeted by a serial killer, and I think it’s called “When When My Brother Met ‘Bora.’” That was an intense story that had happened to one person. We’re famous for the advice columns, and obviously, there’s a lot of confessional writing in that.
With the personal essay, I really try to get on the phone with the writer and just see where the writer is at with it. Just to make sure that it’s something that they have fully processed, they understand the implications of putting out into the world, and that they are ready to do it. It’s also an intimate process. An editor is going to be asking for details about what happened. Having that in mind when you’re pitching a personal essay is important, and just making sure that you are ready to tell the story. I really keep that in mind as an editor, and I think in the earlier confessional era, it was different.
When it comes to narrative, like this piece, “The Crime Haunted a Family for 30 Years. Then Some College Kids Got the Files,” what are you looking for?
That story came out of local news, where a lot of good crime narratives can come from. I knew the writer, Wes Ferguson, from the Texas Monthly. He saw what was reported in the local Texas publications, it felt clear that there was something bigger happening. These police departments turning to students to solve crimes is super interesting. What makes a feature is often if this can tell us something about what’s happening in the world right now. Reading the local news stories, there can be so much fodder and interesting stuff going on behind the surface, and it just feels right to be explained in that narrative style.
Are there particular writers or stories that you have loved over the years that you look to as great models of this kind of writing and editing?
Perhaps my favorite story I’ve ever worked on is one from Texas Monthly. The writer, Dina Gachman, wrote about the musician Ben Kweller, who is an indie artist, you know, from the 2000s, who was a big fixture or is a big fixture in the Austin scene, had lived there for a very long time, and you know, very tragically, his son, who was a musician in his own right, passed away in a car accident. Ben did this tour dedicated to his son. And Dina has written wonderfully about her own grief. It was just one of those times as an editor where you have the perfect match of writer and subject. She was able to weave something beautiful about this horrible tragedy that Ben and his family were trying to figure out, and they were really committed to doing it publicly, at least in part.
Last question: For people who want to pitch you, what’s the best advice for them?
I read every pitch. Writing a headline is great, but if the headline isn’t a perfect Slate headline, it does not make or break the pitch. Think through the beats of the story, think through an idea of what your guiding question is going to be for the reader, and what your guiding question is as a writer. Have a reporting plan, which of course could change along the way or with the assignment. But tell us “I want to go to this place, and talk to these people, because I want to learn this thing.”
Do you like it short or do you want it longer? Because some editors want a paragraph, some want a page.
I think a paragraph or two.
Also for a longform reported piece?
Two paragraphs is totally fine.
How many pitches are you generally getting, like, on a weekly basis?
A couple hundred.
And then how many are you assigning out of those 200?
It depends. I did a call on LinkedIn for feature pitches, and I probably got like 300 pitches, and I think I assigned two.
The ones that you assign, it seems like the idea plus the execution of the idea made them work for you.
Yes, and also people don’t always think through why this outlet. Is there a Slate spin that they can put on the story? Are you going to uncover something surprising, or bring in your own personal experience—just an additional layer or hook? Just ask yourself if this is a story I could pitch to The New York Times, and get it assigned there as is, then it’s probably not a Slate piece.
How can writers send you pitches?
My email is: leah.prinzivalli@slate.com.
Thanks--this is quite helpful! I have pitched Leah Prinzivalli before (unsuccessfully) but this info will certainly help my future pitches.
Great interview — wonderful to hear these insights from Slate editor Leah Prinzivalli about the types of longform stories Slate is interested in and publishing right now.