Emily and Derek have received a string of rejections, and they’re delighted.
“Finally some feedback,” Derek said.
What about school? I asked. As MFA students, they have instructors, classmates, and visiting writers giving them constant feedback. It isn’t a Master of Fine Arts program. It’s a master of feedback program.
“These are from pros,” Emily said. “Insiders. Gatekeepers.” She’s learning the lingo.
As part of their program, they are encouraged to submit poems and stories to the more prestigious lit mags. These are small, book-like journals with small circulations produced by small people.
I just made that last part up. Some of the people are very big indeed. Ploughshares, The Yale Review, and a dozen others routinely feature guest editors like Ann Beattie and Richard Ford. That’s pretty big.
And the writers who get accepted are big. Or headed that way. Nearly all are well-connected insiders. High end MFA instructors or lit professors, influential mag writers, young ambitious East Coast editors. Those who have book contracts or about to get book contracts.
My two friends never had a chance, and pretty much knew it. But that isn’t the point. The point is they did it, they were seriously considered. And they have the rejections to prove it. Emily had her laptop open.
“Let me see those.”
“Why?”
Well, I told her. As someone who has received more of these “rejections” than anyone she ever heard of, maybe she wanted my opinion too?
She relented. I pulled her laptop over. (I would have liked to pull her over. Except for Derek, my wife, my readers, the Catholic Church, the opprobrium of the entire Western World. Except for that…)
I scrolled down. “This is a form rejection.”
“What?”
“Yep. Probably three thousand people got the same response.”
“But they thanked me by name. They referenced my story title. Twice. They said they read it carefully and enjoyed it, but space prohibited additional acceptance. They told me to try again in October, and to send more writing of the same high quality. Does that sound like a form to you?”
Actually, it does.
“Hey,” Derek said, consulting his own laptop. “I think I got the same letter.”
Probably not. Machine-produced, editors are smart enough to deal out a wide variety, like playing cards. But Derek’s right. He essentially got the same letter. Dear Derek Holman. We have read Two If By Sea with great interest and pleasure. However, at this time, etc.
Editors, agents, publishers, stop this. Stop sending cleverly-concealed form rejections. Or any rejection. No answer is an answer, and the rest a lie. You didn’t enjoy our story, our poem, or especially the memory of our first date. Likely you didn’t even read it. And why would you? Space in the Bigs is reserved for insiders. Those you can help, and can help you.
The rest of us are far away. As far as Emily is from me. And brother, that’s far.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com