sd gross
06-06-2008, 11:06 PM
Rejection
by stephen d gross
I got another rejection notice today. Once again, the rejectors shared with me their aspirations - they're always wishing something. Today they wished "we could personally respond to your submission". Sounds like a pen pal I once had who turned out to be a Dominatrix.
With the passing of the years I've grown used to being spurned Hundreds of apologetic 'thank yous, and 'we wishs', have slithered into my post office box waiting their turn to hiss, "pleassse don't take it persssonally", and, "pleassse ressst assssured, our decisssion has nothing to do with the quality of your writing" What a relief!
Once, upon Gloria's suggestion, I made a pilgrimmage to Jack London's Wolf House in Glen Ellen in order to be comforted by the rejection notices with which London covered his wall . This was shortly before Jack found wealth and happily went off Snarking.
Upon a time, I kept a file of 'nay-notes' which amused me because the prose employed in the art of gentle letdown was like the hype you'd see on billboards if you cruised America's highways in the Eisenhower Years. Mostly mechanical and banal, they sound like they were written by the big Robot (Michael Rennie's mute buddy) in, "The Day The Earth Stood Still"
I've enjoyed refusal prose from National Geographic, The Fainting Goat Association Monthly, Mad, Harpers, Vogue, Spitball, the Union of Orthodox Rabbis, Grit, Vital Christianity, Downbeat, - and I have one entire wall-full of cheekiness from the New Yorker. The urbane rag's curt, economically-worded rejection slip with its famous logo on the mast serves to cheer wannabes in millions of American homes each week. In fact, I bet I'm in fairly good company. (I even considered suggesting the New Yorker design their rejection slips so that they make up pieces of a sort of jigsaw puzzle which, after you get all 100 pieces and assemble them correctly, wins you some sort of prize - such as a book entitled, "How to Get Magazines to Publish Your Stuff")
Having been turned down so often, it's hard for me to imagine ever receiving a note saying, "Dear Stevie, we love it - here's money!" If I did, I imagine the shock (along with last night's New York cheesecake) might cause me to suffer heart failure. This 'coronary' 'fantasy' intrigued me to where I actually wrote a story about it.
In my tale, I've been attempting to get a poem or a piece of fiction (or a bit of my compulsive-impulsive doggerel) accepted by The New Yorker for many years. I tell my sweetie, Gloria, that if I ever did actually have something accepted, the jolt of joy would surely kick-start a heart attack.
I write the story but instead of submitting it, I leave it lying around (subconsciously hoping it will be "discovered" by God-knows-who?), because my acceptance of being chronically rejected has eroded my motivation. I used to play poker. I know better than to waste more stamps - throw good gelt after bad...
Unbeknownst to me, my closest friend (Gloria), with naught but my best interests at heart, submits my story and - of course It gets published - but I don't know that until, one day, I pick up our subscriber's copy of the New Yorker at the post office. What happens next? Do I see it immediately and drop dead on U. S. Government property? Do I arrive home and then, sometime later in the day perhaps, discover it and croak with a smile on my face? You can't guess, right? The fact of the matter is THEY DIDN'T CARE! I sent them my artfully crafted tale, which had much to do with Real Life and the New Yorker, and received in return the dreaded, albeit expected rejection slip. Obviously, how incredibly clever I am doesn't mean a whit to them. If it did, someone (probably an old Bohemian who remembers what it's like trying to 'break in') would take a few minutes to pencil a personal, "you're clever kid, but it stinks", wouldn't they?
Gloria says I expect too much from people. She tells me I set myself up for rejection and disappointment and when it comes, I take it too much to heart - too personally. Of course I do! It's me who's being rejected, isn't it?
Someone suggested that my loathing of rejection is rooted deeply in my past. That it evolved because I was short and broke my nose three times. In America, a misaligned schnozz means you either play football or box, or you're a member of The Tribe, which means different things to different peoples. But it's the responses (or lack of them) I've gotten that unbalance me. They've come from well-known and varied publications such as Boys Life, Woman's Day, The Paris Review... but they're so chilly, so brusque, so totally...impersonal!.
Even a rubber stamped image of someone holding aloft a middle finger would be a more tolerable rejection than the bland, sanitized pap I usually receive. I'm wearying of the 'unfortunatelys', the 'we're sorrys', the 'we regrets' and the 'not suitables', but I'm not sure exactly what to do about it other than keep plugging away.
It's true I have received some very excellent feedback, people who've found my work "humorous" or "amusing", and I suppose that's what keeps me going. And I believe there are thousands of hacks out there like myself, looking for a forum and a bit of recognition, diddling on keyboards and slapping stamps on envelopes who share my sentiments.
If I keep churning it out, maybe someday I'll find someone who will print me, drape page after page with my hypnotic prose and put it out there where it'll bedazzle millions. Then I can put this silly .410 away. Yeah.... print me LARGE. Print me often. I mean really print me good!
Just fucking print me.
by stephen d gross
I got another rejection notice today. Once again, the rejectors shared with me their aspirations - they're always wishing something. Today they wished "we could personally respond to your submission". Sounds like a pen pal I once had who turned out to be a Dominatrix.
With the passing of the years I've grown used to being spurned Hundreds of apologetic 'thank yous, and 'we wishs', have slithered into my post office box waiting their turn to hiss, "pleassse don't take it persssonally", and, "pleassse ressst assssured, our decisssion has nothing to do with the quality of your writing" What a relief!
Once, upon Gloria's suggestion, I made a pilgrimmage to Jack London's Wolf House in Glen Ellen in order to be comforted by the rejection notices with which London covered his wall . This was shortly before Jack found wealth and happily went off Snarking.
Upon a time, I kept a file of 'nay-notes' which amused me because the prose employed in the art of gentle letdown was like the hype you'd see on billboards if you cruised America's highways in the Eisenhower Years. Mostly mechanical and banal, they sound like they were written by the big Robot (Michael Rennie's mute buddy) in, "The Day The Earth Stood Still"
I've enjoyed refusal prose from National Geographic, The Fainting Goat Association Monthly, Mad, Harpers, Vogue, Spitball, the Union of Orthodox Rabbis, Grit, Vital Christianity, Downbeat, - and I have one entire wall-full of cheekiness from the New Yorker. The urbane rag's curt, economically-worded rejection slip with its famous logo on the mast serves to cheer wannabes in millions of American homes each week. In fact, I bet I'm in fairly good company. (I even considered suggesting the New Yorker design their rejection slips so that they make up pieces of a sort of jigsaw puzzle which, after you get all 100 pieces and assemble them correctly, wins you some sort of prize - such as a book entitled, "How to Get Magazines to Publish Your Stuff")
Having been turned down so often, it's hard for me to imagine ever receiving a note saying, "Dear Stevie, we love it - here's money!" If I did, I imagine the shock (along with last night's New York cheesecake) might cause me to suffer heart failure. This 'coronary' 'fantasy' intrigued me to where I actually wrote a story about it.
In my tale, I've been attempting to get a poem or a piece of fiction (or a bit of my compulsive-impulsive doggerel) accepted by The New Yorker for many years. I tell my sweetie, Gloria, that if I ever did actually have something accepted, the jolt of joy would surely kick-start a heart attack.
I write the story but instead of submitting it, I leave it lying around (subconsciously hoping it will be "discovered" by God-knows-who?), because my acceptance of being chronically rejected has eroded my motivation. I used to play poker. I know better than to waste more stamps - throw good gelt after bad...
Unbeknownst to me, my closest friend (Gloria), with naught but my best interests at heart, submits my story and - of course It gets published - but I don't know that until, one day, I pick up our subscriber's copy of the New Yorker at the post office. What happens next? Do I see it immediately and drop dead on U. S. Government property? Do I arrive home and then, sometime later in the day perhaps, discover it and croak with a smile on my face? You can't guess, right? The fact of the matter is THEY DIDN'T CARE! I sent them my artfully crafted tale, which had much to do with Real Life and the New Yorker, and received in return the dreaded, albeit expected rejection slip. Obviously, how incredibly clever I am doesn't mean a whit to them. If it did, someone (probably an old Bohemian who remembers what it's like trying to 'break in') would take a few minutes to pencil a personal, "you're clever kid, but it stinks", wouldn't they?
Gloria says I expect too much from people. She tells me I set myself up for rejection and disappointment and when it comes, I take it too much to heart - too personally. Of course I do! It's me who's being rejected, isn't it?
Someone suggested that my loathing of rejection is rooted deeply in my past. That it evolved because I was short and broke my nose three times. In America, a misaligned schnozz means you either play football or box, or you're a member of The Tribe, which means different things to different peoples. But it's the responses (or lack of them) I've gotten that unbalance me. They've come from well-known and varied publications such as Boys Life, Woman's Day, The Paris Review... but they're so chilly, so brusque, so totally...impersonal!.
Even a rubber stamped image of someone holding aloft a middle finger would be a more tolerable rejection than the bland, sanitized pap I usually receive. I'm wearying of the 'unfortunatelys', the 'we're sorrys', the 'we regrets' and the 'not suitables', but I'm not sure exactly what to do about it other than keep plugging away.
It's true I have received some very excellent feedback, people who've found my work "humorous" or "amusing", and I suppose that's what keeps me going. And I believe there are thousands of hacks out there like myself, looking for a forum and a bit of recognition, diddling on keyboards and slapping stamps on envelopes who share my sentiments.
If I keep churning it out, maybe someday I'll find someone who will print me, drape page after page with my hypnotic prose and put it out there where it'll bedazzle millions. Then I can put this silly .410 away. Yeah.... print me LARGE. Print me often. I mean really print me good!
Just fucking print me.