It’s okay, don’t let it get you down. You really thought they were going to accept it this time. You really thought this was The One.
Okay, it’s a funny bit, but now you can clearly see its glaring flaws. Think of it as a learning experience. You just haven’t hit that sweet spot yet.
Sure, you’ve been trying for…what day is it?…15 years. But never give up, that’s the important thing. Never, ever, ever fucking give up. But don’t make it personal. It’s not about you, it’s about your work, which clearly sucks.
You just need to study the publication a little more. That’s what editors want. They want you to study their publication like it’s a trig final and it’s the only thing standing between you and a college degree or a career as a bagger at the Piggly Wiggly.
Maybe you should send it to The New Yorker. That would serve them right, to have it published in The New Yorker after McSweeney’s wiped its ass with it. Man, that would be sweet. See? See?? Somebody thinks it’s funny. And they pay more, too. I don’t know how much, but money’s not the point.
The point is proving to Chris Monk that you’re not just some pathetic, aging psycho who won’t stop sending him crap that a school newspaper wouldn’t run. An elementary school newspaper.
Look at the stuff McSweeney’s publishes. Uniformly good. Sometimes great. Not always. They’re really running that gourd thing into the ground.
Sometimes they publish things that are kind of fair to middling. I mean, if fair to middling can sneak through, you’ve still got a chance. Maybe Chris goes on vacation and lets somebody else make the decisions once in a while. It can’t be all him. Maybe there’s an intern or something who will have pity on you.
But first, retool it for The New Yorker. That would really get McSweeney’s goat. And The New Yorker only has a two-month response time. What’s two months between you and greatness?
After you get in The New Yorker, anything’s possible. Agents will come knocking on your door. You’ll immediately publish a book and get on the New York Times bestseller list. You’ll be called “America’s #1 Humor Writer”. “A work of amazing hilarity and pathos.” “Not to be missed!” “BUY THIS BOOK RIGHT FUCKING NOW.”
And when you’re accepting the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor at the Kennedy Center in 10 years — 15 years, tops — you’re going to make devil horns and stick out your tongue like Ozzie Osbourne…wait, that’s an old person reference…Miley Cyrus and tell McSweeney’s to suck it.
No, not really. You would never do that. They’re going to love your bit about being stuck on that weird rope in gym class.
You've hit on one of the reasons I write for machines, not people. The computer doesn't give a damn whether it's written well or not. It either does what I told it to, or it doesn't. Many years ago I thought I had written a good piece that had humor, pathos, and ducks. How could I go wrong? I sent it to The Saturday Evening post. (I told you it was a long time ago - ask your mother what that magazine was.) I spent weeks, editing, revising, until I thought it was priceless. Of course they didn't see it that way. I suspect if Mark Twain was still around, and submitted to McSweeney, he'd probably be rejected too. These days there are so many choices in what to read that it's nearly impossible to do anything with universal appeal. Forget those pretentious twits. Your peeps are right here - we put our money on the table because you delight us. Make us happy, we tell our similarly weird friends so you can delight them as well. And when you hit the checkout at the Piggly Wiggly, flashing a literary prize is not going to get you that box of Froot Loops!
Just what I needed ! ;-)