The Rejection Letters I’m Waiting For

Dear Ms. Renee,

I regret to say that we are going to have to pass on your recent submission, “Fester on the Moon”, though not for the usual reasons.

My professional opinion, as an esteemed editor of this publication, is that this is the finest, the most clever, the most shockingly elegant essay that I’ve seen in years. The quality is so excellent, in fact, that I worry it has no place here and should be promoted to the highest echelons of publishing.

Therefore, with your permission, I will be forwarding your contact information to Stu Proudfoot over at God’s Printing House.

Please accept the enclosed check as an apology and a gesture of our goodwill. We wish you the best of luck.

Yours,

Nigel Fuchswater

Dearest Lisa,

Oh heavens, where have you been? Who are you?

Your exquisite essay, “Pigeons for Andy: A Meditation on Dysfunction”, is a marvel. The music of your language, the pacing, the use of metaphor — it has been ringing in my head for days. Never have I seen a more perfect example of the personal essay — Orwell and Montaigne be damned!

Unfortunately, we will not be publishing this gem — frankly, it’s so far above anything usually seen in this rag, but don’t tell the brass I said so.

However, I am starting my own little indie publishing house and would love for you to be our first author. You will find a handsome advance check enclosed and I look forward to discussing a collection. Again, don’t tell the brass.

I’ll be in touch.

Isabella Smack (you can call me Izzy)

Ms. Renee,

To get straight to it, I was utterly gobsmacked by your essay, “Who Knew? A Recipe”. Who knew, indeed? Pineapples, porcupines, gut lust and primal ecstasy — where will your magnificent imagination take us next? The repetition of the word ‘torpid’ was especially powerful and the nail file was used to great effect.

It’s difficult for me to say, but we are not going to be able to publish this bit of brilliance, though I would encourage you to keep writing and submit to those crème de la crème publications — you know of whom I speak. This essay would simply trounce everything else in our journal and the senior editor felt that it would benefit from a wider audience.

You have one new, ardent fan, at least. I’m enclosing a check to encourage you on your artistic path.

Best of luck,

Cal P. Twembly

Lisa Renee,

I’m writing, against my better judgement, to tell you that we will not be publishing your essay, “Cans”. It is, in my experienced opinion, pure gold. Didion meets Twain, perhaps, but with your own surprising and jarring quirks. Epic and heroic while sitting smugly in the domestic.

The truth is, after old man Pearl died, his clueless son took over — imagine the embodiment of ineptitude with an MBA. He wouldn’t know gold if it cracked him over the head with the Riverside Shakespeare. In fact, everything he’s green-lighted around here has been drivel and dreck and his rejection of your essay is the last straw.

I don’t need this job. I’m leaving. Enclosed is a small check for your efforts, some encouragement in a deaf and dumb world. Keep writing. You’ve got it — they just don’t know it yet.

Sincerely,

P.J. Overstreet