I would never approach Shenandoah fiction submissions in the same way that I would approach a short story in a literature class. In class, I read the story several times and spend significant amounts of time pondering over certain passages and minute details. I often ask myself: what does this mean? What is the author trying to say? What is the bigger picture that the author does not directly address, and why does he or she not directly address it? I assume that a story assigned for a lit class is of a high quality, and that there is something within it worth discovering and pondering over; otherwise, the professor would not have assigned it. I am more favorable toward the writer, in a way, because I just assume that he or she is good— I give him or her the benefit of whatever doubt could exist.
When reviewing short stories for Shenandoah, though, it becomes much more difficult (due mostly to time constraints) to treat a story with the same care that I bring to a lit class. So, sadly, submitters do not get “the benefit of the doubt.” If there ever is even the slightest doubt about a story, it is usually an indication that it will not make it through to the final considerations for publication. There is too little space and time to delve into a story that fails to strike a chord with its first impression. It would be inefficient and ultimately detrimental to the reviewing process if we assumed that, with every story we had a doubt about, there must be something we are overlooking, that it deserves careful attention until it is fully understood because we’re just not “getting it.” The detriment would be disrespect towards the other mass of stories we wouldn’t have time to get to.
Editing is surely a subjective process, but when I began reading submissions earlier this year, I made the mistake of trying to be objective and totally unbiased—I wanted to give each story careful attention. But as the stories rolled in, I became less and less sensitive. I eventually developed a kind of internal proxy that did not feel as guilty as my lit-class-self would feel about skimming through stories and casting most of them aside. If I had to pick one thing that continually cropped up in many of the stories we reject from Shenandoah, it would be “this story is unclear.” It may be useless and, ironically, vague advice for a writer: be clear. There are many stories where, on the second page I still do not know the direction it is going in, who the important characters are, or what the general focus is. There is a fear among contemporary writers—and I know this from experience—that being straightforward, overt, and simple makes for an automatically boring story. It’s probably healthy to consider different ways to begin a story, but sometimes writers overcompensate and end up with overwrought or obscure beginnings, and without a good beginning you’re in the hole.
This kind of approach to a story would never fly in a lit class. I would have to read the whole story no matter what I thought of it less than halfway through. And even if I didn’t like it, I would have to provide a reasoned and intelligent analysis proving that I completely understood it and thus have the authority to not like it. 
Plus, doing this process for class results in a grade. As a submissions editor, or any member of the Shenandoah team for that matter, when I’m reviewing a story I don’t have the added expectation that my “work” will itself be reviewed. It’s just a one-on-one relationship I have with the story; this story may never see anyone else’s eyes but my own.