Life is full of rejections-so have FUN with it! A U.K. magazine just rejected my short story, ‘The X-Mas Miracle.’ That means that all of my submissions were rejected. OINK! I had to write them back to thank them for their time:
Hi Dan,
Thanks for the kind notice of rejection. I appreciate you taking the time to read my story and then write me back. In an age when the world of art seems to spin on a crude actuarial axis–a human connection is a rare thing…and much appreciated. I totally understand when you say, ‘this piece isn’t for us.” I’m certain that “this piece” isn’t for anybody. It certainly isn’t for me. It’s evil. I promise I would never submit such churlish claptrap. I swear this piece won’t give me peace, Dan. From the day it was conceived this story has been nothing but malice and ruin…malice and ruin. You know how sometimes artists will say, “The thing just wrote itself?” Well, Dan, that’s what this piece did. Literally and no foolin’. After struggling with a nice story about the joy of the holidays for about two weeks I went to bed one night. The next morning, when I went to review my previous evening’s efforts, I saw that this X-mas Miracle hooey had been written. There it was-sitting on my monitor screen, glaring at me. I was like, “Oh ye gods and little fishes, the thing wrote itself!” Yeah… But it didn’t end there, Dan. I would wake up to find that the piece had printed itself out…multiple times. I would throw the pages away but to no avail. The next morning I would find this “thing” sitting neatly arranged on my pillow. Imagine waking up to that! Seven pages of balderdash just inches away from your dormant head? It didn’t end there. This monster began submitting itself to various publications and bothering decent folks such as you, my friend. I would invite lady friends over for absinthe and falderal and this story would be there. It would be there ruining everything. Everything, Dan. No woman wants to play, ‘Spot the Boy’ on a mattress littered with mediocre writing. This thing mailed itself to my friends and family and employers. It’s destroying me, Dan. Now I have no job and no social life. All I have is this short story. And it doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. I’ve tried everything to get rid of this harridan creation: fire, water, prayer, pinking shears, mice, acids, The New Yorker, brujas…everything. It always comes back. It comes back and it finds me. I even tried going to Tonga, Dan. Guess what was sitting on my bed when I got to my cabin? All this to say, I’m in bad shape here. Do you have any advice or suggestions on how to make this devilry end? I’m desperate. Please? You might be the only real friend I have left… This thing is out to get me. I think it knows I’m writing to you now. Please don’t let it finish me off, Dan…
Jeepers,
seamus