The following is a record of the rejection letters for my prose and poetry that I received in 2018. This is a total account; my embarrassing 2-3 rejections per month are a living, working reality. I’ve cut greetings (hello, dear writer, etc.), story titles, and editor names for some mixture of brevity and privacy.
To prepare my Rejects page for future disappointment, I’m posting my 2017 rejection letters. Someday I’ll print them all and make really nice wallpaper.
In the interest of clearing out my Rejects Page (which is in the menu above) to leave space for a new slew of letters, I’m posting my prose and poetry rejections before 2017. Consider it much needed spring cleaning.
Read if you’re in need of emotional support— the kind that only a little schadenfreude can provide.
Dear Dr. Sterling,
I have a complaint about your advice column, but it’s not about your advice specifically. In fact, I was delighted by your response to my letter on how I should deal with my husband [see Issue 8, 2016]. I was afraid our problems would lead to the dissolution of an unhappy marriage, but ever since I began to act the compliant, chirpy wife, per your suggestion, we not only get along better, but we make decisions faster.
No, my complaint is about the artwork you feature inside your column, which I don’t feel reflect the tone of your advice. You may need to speak to your artist, one Ms. Josie Aurelio, about her art direction. For example, in your response to my letter, Ms. Aurelio created a collage cut from magazines depicting a nude Barbie doll in a wheelchair, her head cut open with a pink, gummy brain floating above her. Jumper cables connect the brain to a 2017 Jeep Wrangler (cut from some Fiat Chrysler Automobiles ad), in the driver’s seat of which sits a nude Ken doll, who I can only infer is revving the engine. I found this image to be disturbing and insulting and possibly misandristic. Would you have a talk with the young lady?
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Dear Dr. Sterling
Again, I have good and bad news.
Greetings my astute and totally manly companion,
As I sit on this quite comfortable and well-cushioned lounge chair in my villa’s mezzanine, overlooking a salmonella sea that’s almost lapping against my toes, it’s difficult to retain a humble and God-seeking perspective. Luckily, my humility is about the size of a very small planet. And again, less luck and more awesomeness, it’s difficult to lower my gaze from the sublime and write this note. But by some astrological direction, although more perhaps due to the tenebrific nature of the setting sun, which darkens my tapestry, I will peruse your person for grammatical errors. And write.
Pertaining my drinking habits (and I do say habits deliberately), there’s a Stygian sting to your condemnation. Mountebank! Marauder! You… dare I say it? Friend. I have been at the drink, indeed. However, do not fret! I am Charles Bukowski only in spirit, not through spirits. I am Lord Byron only in sexcapades. I am Sir Francis Richard Burton only in my ability to speak to animals when intoxicated.
Buffoonery aside, I do do (ha!) want to speak to you at some point. Perhaps by dint of Skype, or Facebook, or auxiliary technology. Ad interim, letters will suffice. There’s a cough of Kafka in all of this, which arouses me. I await correspondence from my chums of old. Be wary of venereal warts.