I always thought I'd be the cool kind of writer who'd have a one-line bio. Something like: "So-and-so lives in such-and-such a state." Kind of like, I don't have anything to prove, do not need to mention my previous book, or my so-called honors; just want you to know I live somewhere. Or: "So-and-so lives on the planet. That would be a good one. "This is So-and-So's first novel; So-and-so lives on the planet." Unfortunately, a little voice from the back of my skull starts kicking up dust: "What about that one prize? Shouldn't you mention that one? It's in the acknowledgments, but this is the cover. Mention it on the cover!" And then I just might as well give in and put everything about me on the cover: My address, social security number, place of birth, favorite food, problems with gluten." It's either nothing....or everything. It's the problem with me, in general: I'm not so good at the middle ground. No, that's stupid. I'm going to go with a one-line bio: "So-and-so took a lifetime to write this novel, and nearly died in the process. But So-and-so lives." That about says it.
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I am the now buoyed writer of the digital rejection from The New Yorker.
I recently received two more of these tiered rejections with no provocation on my part.
It was as if Mr. Paul Muldoon, poetry editor extraordinair, was sending me a digital nudge. Like, "get going, already". Funnily, I had not sent in any new work, as he DID write - "we look forward to reading more when the time comes. The time has now come. I've compiled 6 of my very best works that I shall be submitting next week. And a resounding yes to your response. This is a tiered rejection. I felt that tingle from head to toe, with visions of sugar plum Literary Agents blowing up my phone, after I am ceremoniously published in The New Yorker. Whee!
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