For Four Minutes I Was a New Yorker Cartoonist
My story, like all great sagas, began in the Cleveland Airport. I was waiting to board when I noticed an email from The New Yorker magazine. Expecting yet another rejection of one of my cartoon submissions, I warily tapped on it:
from: The New Yorker — Cartoons
date: Aug 15, 2018, 2:30 PM
Dear Jim Shoenbill,Thank you for sending us “J. Shoenbill July 2018 Cartoon Submission”. We’re interested in seeing more of your work. Please email batches of cartoons in a single PDF with one cartoon per page to <name redacted>@newyorker.com from now on.Thanks again,
<other name redacted>
The New Yorker — Cartoons
I was stunned. I had done it! I’d broken through to the inner sanctum of cartoonist aristocracy! Come, they whispered. You’ve made it. You’re one of us now. The in-crowd. The cool kids.
I felt like a fresh-faced Courtney Cox being pulled on stage by Bruce Springsteen in the video for “Dancing in the Dark”… but instead of Bruce, it was <name redacted> from The New Yorker reaching into a herd of business travelers to pull me into the cartooning spotlight. I broke into a bit of Courtney and Bruce’s little fist-swinging sidestep right there at Gate C17.
I imagined myself starting a new life, one in which my Starbucks cups would no longer say “Jim,” but “New Yorker Cartoonist Jim.” Because once you publish a cartoon in The New Yorker, “New Yorker Cartoonist” legally becomes your new first name, and all past names and prior accomplishments are knocked down a peg. For instance, if Pope Francis I, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, and Sovereign of the Vatican City State had a cartoon accepted, he would henceforth be known as “New Yorker Cartoonist Francis I,” his Pope gig relegated to a side hustle.
In fact, I don’t think New Yorker Cartoonists are even allowed to acknowledge those who don’t use their new title. They don’t respond to their kids unless they hear “Hey, New Yorker Cartoonist Mom!” or “New Yorker Cartoonist Dad! Kevin won’t stay out of my room!!” Even their romantic partners are expected to switch from uttering “Oh, <first name>!!” to “Oh, New Yorker Cartoonist <first name>!!” in moments of passion.
I had just begun mentally designing my New Yorker tattoo (New Yorker Cartoonists all get New Yorker tattoos) when I was shaken alert by a follow-up email from you-know-who. Excellent! This must be the official “Welcome” email, where they gush over my talent and give me the entry codewords for New Yorker Headquarters, which floats on a cloud above Manhattan. It read:
from: The New Yorker — Cartoons
date: Aug 15, 2018, 2:34 PM
Dear Jim Shoenbill,You may have unfortunately received an acceptance letter in error. We apologize for the confusion. We regret that we are unable to use the attached material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider it. To get a better idea of the material we publish, please visit http://www.newyorker.com/cartoonsSincerely,
The Editors
The New Yorker — Cartoons
And, it was over.
To this day I often wonder what happened during those fateful four minutes. Did someone find a picture of me online, and think, “Oh my God, we can’t have this guy at our ultra-hip New Yorker staff parties! He’d probably show up in cargo pants and dad sneakers and dance like Courtney Cox!”
Or maybe a cigar-chomping editor burst in, pounding a desk and scattering papers, and shouted “When I find out who the hell approved Shoenbill’s submission, heads will roll!!!” (Disclaimer: Everything I know about journalism I learned from Spider-Man cartoons and The Mary Tyler Moore Show.)
Perhaps my de-invitation was the result of a knock-down, drag-out argument in the New Yorker offices. Did pro-Shoenbill and anti-Shoenbill factions square off? Were tables overturned, punches thrown, staplers and coffee mugs employed as makeshift weapons?
I sheepishly admit that I soon emailed <name redacted> anyway, to ask pathetically whether they were sure I couldn’t still email my work directly. No reply came, so I went back to uploading submissions using the web portal reserved for commoners. All have been rejected with an insulting invitation to look at their website to “get a better idea of the material we publish,” as if I’d sent them a 1,000-page graphic novel or a cauliflower frittata recipe.
Despite our rocky history, The New Yorker still occasionally invites me to subscribe. I always respond the same way:
Dear New Yorker Subscriptions,I regret that I am unable to use your publication. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to consider it. To get a better idea of the type of material I am interested in, please visit http://www.jimshoenbill.com/cartoons.Sincerely,
Jim
P.S. To <name redacted>: If you ever read this, I hope it’s clear that I am just kidding. I really, truly, would love to publish a cartoon in The New Yorker. Call me!
