To everyone who played our game of the month: Thanks for the rejection! (We never thought we’d say that). Your fake rejections made at least four editors laugh coffee out of their noses, and for that reason alone we accept you all.
However, we are literary magazine editors, with all the dragon scales, icy hearts, and teardrop facial tattoos that go with the job—and we’d go broke if we just skipped along, flinging free logo-emblazoned sling packs and thermoses all over the internet—so we’re going to accept one of you more than the others.
The prize goes to Dan Moreau, who turned the enterprise on its head and fake-rejected, well, us. Here is his winning entry:
Dear Literary Magazine Editor,
I’ve been submitting to your journal going on two years now, and I’m ready to take the next step. I’m not getting any younger. Things were fine for a while. I’d send you a submission and, like clockwork, three months later you’d send me a rejection slip. Then I wouldn’t hear from you again for months at a time until you went on a subscription drive or promoted a new contest. That’s not enough for me. I need a stronger commitment. I need someone who’s always going to be there for me—not just when they need a $25 contest entry fee. I should probably tell you that I’ve been submitting to other journals. I know. Your guidelines strictly prohibit simultaneous submissions, but I’m at that point in my life where I can’t commit myself to just one editor. I’m sorry, editor, it’s over. It was fun while it lasted.
Always,
Dan
Well, we want Dan to know that we took this personally, and it hurt, and we sulked, and we felt bad about ourselves, and at least one of us made an effigy of Dan and poked it with a pointy blue pencil, and then we might have collectively left Dan a drunken, garbled voice mail. We know Dan is busy, but did we not deserve at least a personal note, something illegible scrawled at the bottom of the pre-printed slip?
Of course we’re just kidding, and we thank everyone for playing: It was fun!
As for the other fake rejections, we accept them all as very funny, not to mention very cathartic, and you can read them below the jump:
Dear Ms. Mason,
Thank you for your submission. We admired much about the piece, but found your use of Gill Sans . . . shall we say, precious? Might we suggest a different typeface? This could be a good story in Garamond.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Mason,
While I was reading your story, my paper cut throbbed 53 times. That is my all-time least favorite number (of all the numbers). So . . . no.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Mason,
Thank you for sending your poems for our consideration. You show some ability, but I’m afraid we found your rhymes rather off. Also we kept looking for trochees. Simply put, we are pro-trochee, and your poems were sans trochee. Should you wish to insert a prosodic foot or two, and make your rhymes rhymier, we’d be happy to reconsider your poems.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Mason,
Thanks for your poem about feelings you had at the doctor’s. I had a doctor’s visit last week. It was a bad one. Instruments I’d never seen before were involved. Also an orifice I don’t like to think about. Your poem reminded me of the whole unpleasant episode. So . . . no.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Mason,
We liked the bit about the cuttlefish. Cuttlefish are cool. But then it got boring. Try us again!
The Editors
Dear Ms. Mason,
Thanks for resubmitting your story in Garamond. No.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Mason,
I also wrote a story about a lizard man who lives in a South Carolina swamp. Mine is better.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Moore,
Your title peaked our interest. Unfortunately, it plummeted into a crevasse from there.
The Editors
Dear Eric,
Have you ever had Skyline Chili? Your poetry is like what happens after you eat Skyline Chili.
The Editors
Dear Mr. Eggleston,
Your clotted plot plodded into a puddle, where it muddled about, mottled with muck, and got stuck.
The Editors
Dear Kirsten,
I’m afraid we’re not in the market for a nuanced, contemplative, wry, wrenching, pertinent story about our fraught human experience—unless there’s some girl-on-girl sex. Sorry.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Applewhite,
If you make the elderly aunt character into a three-legged spaniel, and if you recast the precocious kid as, say, a prostitute who’s both a spitfire and a sage, and if you insert on page 8 a frazzled nurse, or a cross-dressing vagrant, or an abusive mailman, we would be pleased to accept your story for publication.
The Editors
Dear Darren:
Reader number 1 loved your poems. Reader number 2 hated them. Reader number 3 wants to be your girlfriend, but only if you are as sensitive as you seem, which is, you know, VERY. Reader number 4 had a traumatic experience with a frog as a kid, so the frog part freaked him out, but he is dealing. You are amazingly talented! I am reader number 3.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Starke,
We don’t get many submissions because most writers are too intimidated to submit to our journal. That’s how good we are. So we admire you for trying, even though it is sad.
The Editors
Dear Jim Bob:
We have read your poems without the slightest interest or admiration, as usual, but “Threnody for Thad’s Thevered Thumb” is unobjectionable, more or less–frankly, we were too bored to object–and we’re hard up just now, so I suppose we’ll take it, so long as that means that we won’t have to read any more of your weekly submissions for the NEXT decade. Just put us on your list of pubs and move along to whatever’s next in your Poet’s Market.
Please don’t try us again.
Best,
The Editors
Dear So-and-so,
Your recent correspondence seemed to indicate that you have created an elaborate cloudcuckooland, or fantasy world, in which it is still possible to believe that you are a writer with talent.
We hope this note, along with decades of intensive therapy, allows to you avoid any such misconceptions in the future. As requested, we are recycling your manuscript in order to appease the memories of dryads and trees, which you helped to slaughter needlessly for their pulp.
Pugnaciously,
The Editors
Dear Ms. Vance,
If you have other poems, ones that don’t use metaphors, cadences, images—or for that matter words—to convey ideas, we’d like to see them.
The Editors
Dear Anne,
While reading your submission, we felt there was something getting in the way of the story. Perhaps . . . yes! . . . the story itself.
The Editors
Dear Oscar,
We are writers, too, and your writing is very much like our writing. You’d think this would give you an advantage, but we don’t like ourselves—or our writing—very much. If you were someone else, someone wrote quite differently, we’d accept your work.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Calloway,
Thanks. Sorry. We only publish our friends, or people who publish us. If you become the editor of a journal, feel free to send again.
The Editors
Dear Ms. Calloway,
Your poems are excellent. It was hard to condescend to them. With effort, however, we succeeded.
The Editors
Dear Mr. Stewart,
Unfortunately, we have ceased publication of our journal due to lack of funds. We could no longer afford the basement fluorescents, much less staples or yarn for binding. We are sorry to disappoint you. If it is any consolation, we were not going to accept your story anyway.
Sincerely,
The Editors
Dear Mr. Stewart,
Thank you for submitting another story. I’m sorry to say we are going to take a pass on this one, too. Unfortunately, you appear to have plateaued. Enclosed please find additional rejection letters for your future submissions. Also, a form for renewing your subscription.
Sincerely,
The Editors
Dear Author,
While we read your submission with interest, this magazine is not in the business of publishing work by papists.
Sincerely,
The Editors
Dear Mr. Spaulding,
Who wrote Robert Lowell’s “For the Union Dead”? Oh yeah, Robert Lowell. Let’s keep it that way.
Sincerely,
The Editors
Dear Esteemed Writer:
Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your work. Due to the large volume of submissions, we are only publishing .0000000000000002 % of what we receive. It always helps to be familiar with the journal, so we’ve enclosed thirty subscription forms. Give them out to family and friends. Good luck placing your work elsewhere.
Sincerely,
The Editors of The Worm Egg Review
–Steve, if you’ve actually read our magazine, you’d notice that we tend to publish realistic stories about how individuals grapple with truth. Your protagonist isn’t grappling with anything. As a matter of fact, he’s the exact same person at the end of the story as he is in the beginning. People like to read stories about characters who change! That’s the purpose of fiction: to serve as an interpreter and witness to the human propensity to transform. Also, you use too many similies.
Dear Potential Contributor:
Thanks for letting us read your story. Sadly, it’s not quite right for the next issue, which will feature domestic stories that take place in the kitchen. You can order it by visiting our website. We encourage you to sign up for a 20-year subscription, which we’re offering at a reduced rate. Thank you for having patience in awaiting a reply. Currently, our turn-around process is five years, and although we recognize that writers find this time scale frustrating, we make up for it by publishing the best of the best.
Yours,
J. Vedder
Editor of Interiority Mag.
–For now on, please only submit ONE story per submission period. I’ve currently got a stack of ten of your stories, and they’re all very long and very flawed. You can sign up for our on-line writers workshop by clicking http://www.InteriorityMag.com/fallWorkshop. We’re offering three sessions for $700, and your story will be critiqued by Pierre LuJuit, 12 time Pushcart Winner. For an extra $200, I will critique your stories, as well, and send you a complimentary mug.
Dear Writer,
We apologize for the delayed response, but the Prolix Bon Mot is no longer accepting fiction submissions. A brick wall has been erected outside your front door – please feel free to run into it at your leisure.
And we got a fake acceptance too. Bonus!
FROM THE EDITOR
What a delight to accept your poem. I loved every leap,
for instance the vacant lot of an indifferent childhood
followed by an empty road beneath the pavement.
And the way brittle branches laughed when a figure appeared
behind an endless row of hydrangea. Luminous. When I didn’t think
I could be more thrilled you gave me Greenheads,
flying head-long into blue boxes followed by Never Forget Me
Never Forget Me. Which I loved. Which I loved.
I went bananas when you wrote desire is like rolling down
a hill full of cinquefoil— followed by: death is an ancient vase
seen through the window of a Greek museum,
the bored guard’s hair dancing and flying in celebration
of the end of everything. The arc of your poem reminded me
of the time I twisted the lid of a Smucker’s jar in the wrong direction
and hurt my fingers. Or my plan to put counterfeit coins over both eyes.
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