So, I’m getting the few thousand pages of hand written, hand printed, IBM Selectric (really, as seen on Mad Men) smudged and badly typed text – the paper ranges from legal yellow pad to white composition, roughly torn out perforated rag, short memo notebook, to napkins(!) – into manuscript form; have followed the publishing industry closely over the last few months (which is like trying to closely follow the flight of an intoxicated hummingbird), and, within the next thirty days, am going to get this damn thing out there and move on to actually creating more.
There’s a certain element of fear (as much as anything or anyone aside my wife can strike fear into my soul at this late date – see below) of rejection involved, of course, it’s only natural (a mantra, now). I feel remarkably better about that, however, after running across the rejection notice at right.
For a time Hunter S. Thompson manned the submissions desk for Rolling Stone Magazine. That’s his work (unmistakeably). No matter what happens, no matter what anyone thinks, no one in the 21st Century is getting as rejected as this poor guy got rejected. (Although one should note, he kept the rejection letter for almost 40 years – there is a style to it, and it is unique).
Gotta say though, it leaves no room for doubt, as in, “ah, he just didn’t like my genre.”