A "Dear Writer" rejection is a slap in the face when a big-name editor personally agrees to read your finally completed novel, which she did, people; she really did. But the manuscript looks untouched, and clearly this undated, unaddressed form letter by Jr. Perez involved a major house cleaning at the old Tin House.
I don't know why I expected more from the editor whose invitation was a single email grunt with no punctuation or caps: "send in the mail," as if she really couldn't be bothered. (I guess she really couldn't be bothered.) I should have known, and yet somehow hope springs eternal when it comes to thinking this weight around my neck will someday be published.
I believe it will be. Someday. How's that for Monday morning optimism?