Thank you for rejecting me. I feel a whole lot better now!
——– Original Message ——–
Subject: RE: [Fence] Wading in Shallow Water with Architects
From: “Fence” <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Date: Tue, July 01, 2014 12:43 pm
To: “Cary Tennis” <email@example.com>
Dear Cary Tennis,
Thank you for sending us “Wading in Shallow Water with Architects.” We appreciated having the chance to read the work, but we feel that it is not for us.
Thanks. OK. That’s cool. I can handle it. It’s not a big deal. It’s not like I’m going to go out and cut myself or anything. I just thought after all these years writing things I should start sending them out. Not that I thought you would publish it. Or anybody would. But just to, you know, like participate. Like because of a certain felt connection. Not that I care. Not really. Should I? Why would I? Why would I care if somebody published or did not publish a piece of writing I sent them? What difference would it make? Would it change anything? So why would I get upset — not that I am upset, mind you; I’m perfectly content — but why would I, just because I put some words into the computer and my the miracle of the Internet caused them to go somewhere and be read by someone else and then caused that person to make a decision, perhaps a quick but nonetheless sure and final decision, not to try to find a place in the magazine for those words. Why would that matter? Why would I get upset? Not, like I say, that I am getting upset. Just hypothetically. Because I’ve heard that some people do. Some people put such stock in these things, acceptance, recognition.
Those people must have low self-esteem. They must have made some poor choices in life. To base their well-being on something so fragile and out of their control as the acceptance or non-acceptance of a piece of writing by a literary journal, even a literary journal with which they feel a strange kind of simpatico, even a very strong yet strange sense of simpatico. A person like that, you’ve gotta figure, must be kind of messed up. Like maybe they had a childhood in which there was not a lot of physical affection and straight-ahead emotional support. Maybe. Just hypothesizing why anyone would put too much store in such a high-risk/low-reward endeavor as the publishing of small pieces of admittedly disordered and not altogether well-thought-out or well-structured literary prose, and you can put literary in quotes as I don’t think it really means all that much now. So, I just wanted you to know, you know, that like I said it doesn’t really affect me. Well, OK, now, it does affect me, right, or I wouldn’t be writing this? Right? OK, so it affects me. But not that much. Like I’m not going to jump off a bridge or anything just because Fence magazine didn’t choose to print this strange little thing I wrote. I mean, OK, I’m not going to drink either. But I might just make a big Fuck You pot of strong black assam tea and drink two cups really fast with sugar and then feel all nervous and hyper for an hour! Just to make a statement! Just to say, OK, yes, I was bullshitting you, and actually it does affect me. A little. Not a lot but a little. Now maybe that has to do with years of unresolved feelings and certain memories of abject failure and insult at the hands of teachers and other figures of authority. And maybe, OK, maybe unresolved feelings about the purpose of writing and of literature, and feelings toward the kind of people who get involved in it, who sometimes tend to be kind of, well, I’m not saying weaselly necessarily, or overly intellectual and self-involved, but let’s just say, OK, as long as we’re being honest here, that I don’t really want to hang out with you, either, OK? I mean if you think just because you didn’t accept my piece of work that makes you somehow better than me well you just have another think coming, ok, Buster? You get what I’m saying? Because you are no better than me. You may have more money and intelligence and a better education and come from more stable, interesting, well-adjusted and successful parents, and you may have better social network and be better adjusted to the demands of today’s workplace and maybe you have great sex often, too, and maybe people see you and instinctively like you and want to be your friend, and maybe you genuinely have a pretty amazing talent in the world of creative writing. OK. That could be. You probably dress well and have funny things to say that other people would have thought of eventually but you think of them right away. That’s possible. I’m not saying it’s not. But that still doesn’t make you better than me. Because I am just fine. I’m not bothered in the least. I am, to tell you the truth, just happy to be here and to be able to put together a little piece and send it to you. In fact, I’d say it was a fortuitous event just that I did it. I’m just proud that I took the time to put that little piece together and send it to you. And that I had the good taste to send it to you instead of some other inferior publication that other people might think is cool but which we both know is just a pale imitation of some avant-garde notion that has already expired from overuse. So I’m feeling pretty good about that, actually. Even to be rejected by you is better than being rejected by some of those other folks. In fact, more I think about it, it’s not just better, it’s kind of cool! In fact, it’s great. In fact, come to think of it, it’s a frigging miracle that I was even able to write that little piece that you so quickly and offhandedly rejected. But I wonder if you even read it. I mean I wonder if you read it carefully and thought about what went into it, and recognized the subtle patterns in the words. They aren’t obvious patterns. I’m not one of those obvious people you see sending stories full of plot and character and consequence and ideas and social insight. That’s not the kind of thing you like anyway. There were more like little murmurs of pattern in there. I thought you might pick up on that. But no, you were probably thinking about some girl you’re going out with who comes from a good family and has a place up in Maine for the summertime. That’s what you were thinking. And all about the boat her dad has and how it’s so nice up there in the summertime. Like you maybe just weren’t thinking straight. That’s OK. That doesn’t bother me in the least. Because I know a thing or two. I know how things work. So don’t worry about me. I’m fine. You have more things to worry about than me. I’m just one little person out here, one person among many. Why would that matter to you? Why would you get all concerned about me when you have this girlfriend with the place up in Maine, and all that great educational background and stuff? You wouldn’t. And who would blame you? Certainly not me. I’m OK. I’m fine. I’m not at all affected by this rejection. Well, OK, like I say, a little bit. But not enough for you to concern yourself with. You just go ahead with your rejecting all the other little submissions until you find one you like, which is probably by a friend of yours, or a student of one of your former teachers who somebody said was really brilliant, or you met at a party or owe a favor to. Not that the whole thing is rigged. Not at all.
So you don’t worry about me one bit, young man, or young lady. I can handle it. I’ve been rejected by people a whole lot cooler than you. I’ve been rejected by Paris Review and the New Yorker, so you can just stop standing there with that proud smirk on your face. I’ve been rejected by people you’ve never even heard of. So there.
Just go on about your day. Don’t give it a second thought. You know you’ve got things to do. It isn’t even worth thinking about , is it?
Except … and this is not really a big deal … but what if I was to kill myself because of this rejection? How would you feel then, you heartless literary magazine rejecter? How would you feel then, if you learned that it was right after receiving this particular rejection, out of all the hundreds that one receives (doesn’t one?), that I decided this is enough, the jig is up, it’s time to cash it in? Think about it. I’ll bet you do think about it, in fact. I’ll bet you think about it all too often. In fact, I’ll bet that’s what’s been troubling you, and that’s why you rejected this piece: Because you are dealing with a deep contradiction in your own soul. Of course! And that’s what happened. This piece of mine, which actually, OK, since I wrote it, must actually be brilliant even though nobody really recognizes that brilliance except me, this piece must have triggered some awful psychological breakdown in you, so that you were unable to think clearly and see its brilliance, and had, instead, like a person who is repressing some awful but unavoidable truth, you had to reject it.
You had to reject it! You had to! Of course you had to. I understand now. I understand everything! Everything is forgiven, poor man!
Well. I guess that settles that. So I don’t hate you or want to come to your office and shove you up against the desk and slap your face. Why would I want such a thing? Who would even have such thoughts? Certainly not me. No, I’m fine. This is my little lot in life and I accept it. In fact, like I said, I’m kind of glad. In fact, it’s a frigging miracle. A miracle!
A miracle, I say! It’s a miracle! Thank you! Thank you for rejecting my piece! Thank you! It’s a miracle!
I don’t mind! Why would I mind? It’s fine! Everything’s fine! Reject me! Go ahead and reject me! There’s always tomorrow! The future is bright! Don’t give it another thought. Just go about your day like nothing happened. I’m OK. Really. I’m fine! It’s a miracle!