Lady Wants Her New Yorker Rejection on Time!

Cynthia Ozick told the New Yorker where to get off in 1962. Years later she became a regular contributor the magazine. Coincidence? Who's to say?

                                                                                   January 5, 1962
Gentlemen:

For a number of years now I have been sending you poems, and until very recently I have always found you entirely reliable. Exactly seven days after each new poem has been dropped into the mail, it has come punctually home, accompanied by that little rejection slip of yours marked with the number 1 in the left-hand bottom corner. (You know the one.) You have, as I say, been altogether faithful and dependable. For example, it is never six days, it is certainly never eight or nine days. It is always seven days to the minute, and your conscientious devotion to precision all these years has been matched, to my knowledge, only by the butcher's deliver-boy, whose appearance is also predicated on a seven-day cycle.

This time, however, you have failed me. A poem of mine, entitled "An Urgent Exhortation to His Admirers and Dignifiers: Being the Transcript of an Address Before the Mark Twain Association by Samuel Clemens, Shade," reached you on December 18, 1961, and, though eighteen days have already passed, a daily inspection of my letterbox yields nothing. I have enough confidence in your hitherto clean record of never considering anything I have submitted not to be tempted into the unworthy suspicion that the delay is actually caused by your liking this poem. What has been shattered, I must admit, is my sense of serenity, of certitude, nay, of security — not to mention my sense of rhythm. Does this mean you can no longer be relied on to conform to the seven-day schedule you have consistently adhered to in the past? In short, is the Age of Doubt truly upon us? O tempora!

Or (but I venture this with a cheery hopefulness I do not dare to feel) is it only that you have finally gone and lost my manuscript? I realize I am probably being too sanguine in putting forth this rosy possibility, but I guess I am just basically an optimistic sort. Please reassure me that this, rather than some flaw in your clockworks (even to contemplate which disillusions me hideously), is the real nature of the difficulty.

I expect your answer in seven days.

*Courtesy: The New Yorker and the World It Made by Ben Yagoda (Scribner, 2000)

Rare Specimen: A New Yorker Acceptance

I love Ann Beattie stories. I taught them once in Freshman English in the 1990s. Here is an acceptance she got after 13 straight rejections over the course of 21 months*:

                                                                                     November 1973       

Dear Ann Beattie:

Oh, joy...
Yes, we are taking A PLATONIC RELATIONSHIP, and I think this is just about the best news of the year. Maybe it isn't the best news for you, but there is nothing that gives me more pleasure (well, almost nothing) than at last sending an enthusiastic yes to a writer who has persisted through as many rejections and rebuffs as you have. It's a fine story, I think — original, strong, and true.

Roger Angell
Editor,
The New Yorker

*Courtesy: The New Yorker and the World It Made by Ben Yagoda (Scribner, 2000)

Ann Beattie: New Yorker Rejections

According to Ben Yagoda's book, The New Yorker and the World It Made (Scribner, 2000), editor Robert Angell wrote several encouraging rejections to help develop Anne Beattie. Such as:

"These little slices and moments are often surprisingly effective, but the story itself seems to get away from you as it goes along. It seems possible that there is more form than substance here, but perhaps that is unfair. What I most admire is your wit and quickness and self-assurance. I hope you will let us see more of your work, and that you will address your future submissions directly to me." 

Though he did occasionally get frustrated with her, but only mildly so:

"I wish you would try a very quiet and modest story — one that relies on no devices and is content merely to bring us to its discoveries. But whatever you do write, please continue to send it to us." 

New Yorker Rejection: So Sad, Not That We Don't Like Sad, Just...Well, No

Here's one from the New Yorker archives of confusing rejections*:

Dear Mr. Irwin Shaw:

We have a feeling in general that a story so ambitious, so sad, of such generally dismal setting, hardly has a place in a more or less cheerful or humorous magazine. We think, however, that you write with considerable distinction and we want you to do more at once and send them all to us.

I did not mean to indicate above that we do not publish stories of tragedy, but that we are perhaps more demanding and critical in such cases than we are in our lighter moments. After all, I suppose that it is perfectly justifiable, and that the grimmer aspects of life require more delicate handling than the more comic.

John Mosher
Editor
The New Yorker, 1935

*Courtesy: The New Yorker and the World It Made by Ben Yagoda (Scribner, 2000)

I Stand on The Titles That Came Before Me

Yesterday I was featured in the local newspaper's weekend art's section with a head-to-toe photograph and a Q&A interview by way of a little early book promotion. It was my idea to stand on the pile of books, which I thought would be interesting. In the photo, I am also holding the advanced reading copy of my novel. Of course. The whole thing was kind of fun. But here's the thing: we are ill-equipped in so many ways, we writers. I mean, they keep you alone in a dark room with the dim glow of the computer screen for, say, 15 years,* where you become isolated, surly, and happy being alone. Then for a few minutes they throw you into the glaring light to sing and dance, and seem like the interesting person whose book everyone will want to read, and it's weird. I feel vaguely unpresentable, like I need a shave (back and legs, of course). Also, I feel apologetic about it, like: "Look what I'll do to sell my book....that's right, anything!" And yet they tell you this is what you must do: tweet, pose, post, stump, read, smile, sound interesting, balance on one foot, stand on your head. Don't get me wrong: I am not complaining. I am perfectly, happily happy about the entire situation. I'm just....I don't know...a little uncomfy, I guess. It's like my friends 7-year-old kid who always says: "Look at me! Look at me! Don't look at me!" Right?? I keep looking at my watch, thinking, "Okay, so when do I get to go back to my dungeon office? I have another book I could be writing." And I'm also thinking at the exact same time, "Oh, no. This will be over in the blink of an eye, and then I will have to go back to that office dungeon! I have that other book to write." It's very confusing, is what I'm trying to say. Today, after the article ran, I got a text from someone who is sort of stalking/flirting/playing me, but it might also have been completely innocent in that "guess-who-I-am-I-met-you-once-at-a-party-and-I-want-to-read-everything-you've-ever-written-but-am-not-going-to-tell-you-who-I-am-cause-it's-more-fun-for-me-to-have-you-keep-guessing" way. And, um, the whole thing is super weird.

*My writer friend, Sal, says that I have to stop harping on the length of time that it took to write this beyotch of a novel. She says no one cares, and so I'd better start shutting up about it. I believe she is probably right.

Nearly Robots...My New Fav

Here's a funny New Yorker rejection parody, but this time not published in the New Yorker.

Guess Who's Parodying Rejections Now?

Well, this sure is something, a few years old (and R.I.P., Mr. Rakoff), but still....it's kind of a pot-calling-the-kettle situation.

C. Michael Curtis on "How to Read Rejection"

Remember this guy? C. Michael Curtis, who is not my father?  Well, he has something to say to you about rejection because he thinks your his beyotch.

A Second Blurb Has Occurred

And then there were two: "A vivid, thoughtful novel [that] leaps, skips and soars along the boundary between faith and superstition, turning every expectation on its head."

Fresh Juniper Rejection

I got this today, which means, oops, I forgot to withdraw my novel manuscript from this competition.  Guess it's a good thing it apparently didn't even come close to winning. Also, it's about as bare bones as you can get, no?

Thank you for entering our Juniper Prize competition. I am sorry that your entry was not chosen. I hope you will enter again in August 2014.

Um..Yeah, I Would Call Your Rejection Officious

You would be correct in thinking that Jerry is J.D. Salinger and that this is a rejection from the New Yorker.  Click the image to read it.  It's really something. My favorite line from Mr. G.S. Lobrano: "Another point: we can't help feeling that this story is too ingenious and ingrown."  Seriously, shut the front door.

The Death of the Literary Novel

Then there's this guy spouting off about the death of the literary novel (no, seriously, for realz this time) in a rather thick-ish essay in the Guardian. Will Self is his name, strange extended metaphors seems to be his game. Self is trending on Twitter, and I ought to know, because I've been tweeting my ash off...ex-friggin-hausting, if you know what I mean. Anyway, read the comments section for all the extra juicy controversy. (You know, eye rolling and stuff like, "I read Self's novel; no wonder he thinks it's dead." See what you think for yourself.) As for me, I'm just glad I squeaked my literary "dead weight" in under the wire before the death knell tolled. Last of the literary novels?  Who knows? I been saying so for years. And look at me: I'm a filthy liar. Have a good weekend, ya'll.

Advanced Praise Already?

My first book-cover comment is in!  It's not from this special-guest blurber, but from someone extremely astute, who "got" the novel perfectly, and is very, very kind to me. Name of blurber is to be announced pretty soony, baboony. Almost time to come out of the anony-mouse hole. Here it is:

"A wondrous and exhilarating novel. This family is unforgettable in all its  catastrophic dysfunction but also in the capacity of some of its most broken members to fight their way toward salvation. [Name of Novel] is an unflinching, fantastical and unexpectedly healing act of the imagination. You won't have read anything quite like it, and you're not likely soon to forget it either."  

                                                

Reflections on A Writing Life

It's always a little complicated to come back from a writing retreat. In my normal daily life as a writer, I actually write all the time, as in definitely every day, and mostly every hour of every working day, Monday through Friday. This has been good because writing is really the only thing I do well, and I've figured out ways to squeeze some spinach out of my abilities.

No part of my paid writing is very meaningful, of course, or very good for that matter, but I take a certain pride in getting it done to the satisfaction of the people paying me. Of course my creative writing is very meaningful, at least to me, and we'll see how it goes with the rest of you in November. In the minutes between being paid to write, I've always found spare time to work on my own projects: novels, stories, essays, occasionally even a book or two. It's a huge balancing act, and I realize I should be grateful for all the years I've managed to have something weighing down both sides of the scales: dollars on one side, fiction on the other. It's not been easy, of course, but whose writing life is easy? My books take an eternity to finish, in part because they are written in the cracks between paid gigs. But it's been all right. In fact, looking back it's been pretty good. I wish I could take back all the worrying I did over the years. If I could give young W,R some advice, I'd say, "Calm the F down, little dude. It's all good."

Coming home from the writing retreat this weekend, I did have to wonder, probably for the first time with any seriousness, what it would be like for me to be able to work solely on my own creative projects. Could I do it? Would I really want to? I'd be very poor, of course, and probably ultimately homeless, and potentially un-spoused, and maybe a little bit feral. But I do know people who live their life this way for art's sake. I've seen them. I've met them. They are scrappy and have truck loads of integrity because they don't hire themselves out to write about smart phones and pharmaceutical drugs and psoriasis.

I'm not sure I'm cut out for that kind of deprivation and artistic intensity though. It seems supremely hard to me: both logistically and creatively. It would be like always worrying about money, and always staring at the blank page at the exact same time, but maybe also it would be amazing. Maybe my work would blossom and not be such a struggle. Who knows?

I pretty much always felt the need for a mix of things: having someone tell me what to write has actually offset the difficulty of knowing myself what I should be writing. Plus I work well under deadlines and time pressures. They seem to give my life purpose, though I do see what a trap that kind of thinking can be. Before you know, time's up and you've been writing about health insurance, paint colors and what-not. 

I could live in the woods. I could eat berries. I could write all the day long. But probably I won't. I'll stay in my house and pay my mortgage, and have annoying clients who email me constantly, and call me with issues and problems and edits and advertising crises that in the moment seem so important, but really are not. And I will be slightly annoyed by the whole thing, but still grateful for them.

In the aggregate, it has really all been just fine the way it happened to play out.

Road Trip: AWP in Minneapolis, 2015

I got an email at writerrejected [at] aol [dot] com from a complete stranger inviting me to be on a panel about rejection at AWP. Remember when people were mad about LROD sparking discussions on the matter? Now they will host panels on the matter. A very nice progression.

I accepted the invitation, of course, which would bring my coming out a bit earlier than expected. The announcement of AWP panels and speakers (should this particular panel be selected) is in August 2014, the book comes out in November 2014, the panel is April 2015. The idea is to use my real name in the announcement in August, and I suppose, and to bill me (the real me) as host to LROD/Writer, Rejected.

Seems like a some sort of new level of something-ness has been reached here at the good old LROD Ranch.

So, maybe I'll see you, then, at AWP next spring.