Rejection Slips
Oct 31, 2022 9:49:03 GMT -5
Post by Radrook Admin on Oct 31, 2022 9:49:03 GMT -5
Rejection Slips
By Radrook
By Radrook
Joseph Remington, an American of North European descent in his early fifties, couldn't believe his eyes. After ten long frustrating years of constantly receiving rejection slips to his sci fi manuscript submissions, he had dedicated himself to produce what he considered a masterpiece, and it had just been as unceremoniously rejected as all his others. He wanted to know why, but the editors were never specific. Simply, the vague hastily scribbled message saying that the subject matter was not needed because it had been done before.
He requested an interview but was ignored. So after unsuccessfully trying to get in contact, he decided to see the chief editor, Rudolpho Campanelli, an American man of Southern Italian descent, in his late twenties, personally. This time he would get his interview, since he would sneak into the office, and would be be there as soon as the editor arrived. He also had this fake gun that would make the fat slob editor a hostage-audience. No, he didn't intend to hurt anyone. He just wanted to know the reason for all the rejection slips. After all, he was a decently skilled writer who kept grammatical errors to a minimum and kept the spacing in accord with the publishing company's requirements. Also, the story-subjects had not been published before because he had researched the publication's prior stories. So why the hell was he getting all of those hundreds of rejections?
But to add insult to injury, the stories that were being accepted seemed far below his standards of excellence. They were usually boring tales containing unnecessarily extended dialogues that didn't move the stories along. In contrast, his stories always made sure to keep the reader wondering. Always injecting anecdotes and nifty puns and personal asides into the narrative in order to decorate the bare semantics just enough to give the story that special finesse that would make it memorable. Yet they were never accepted for publishing. So, once having gained entrance via the building’s fire escape, Remington anxiously waited while perspiring heavily from the tension.
He couldn’t help but notice how nicely decorated the editor's office was, with its college-journalism certificates of excellence, and literary awards all over the wall, its huge, highly polished rectangular mahogany desk, and its central air conditioning providing all the comfort that the bastard needed to flippantly toss his precious manuscripts into the rejection bin. Temporarily, Remington sat in the plush black-leathered seat behind the desk and swiveled back and forth, imagining himself in editor Campanelli’s shoes. Getting paid for something that he loved to do, and having the authority to make or break aspiring writers at a whim.
In contrast he needed to spend his time slicing and lugging meat at the local butchery, and could only dedicate a small portion of his time to writing. Big difference indeed, and the realization that it had been the different roads he had chosen to take at crucial junctures in his life, that had brought him into such a disagreeable, contrasting, situation, made him bolt from the seat as if he had been electrified. So he kept his distance far from the desk for the remainder of the night to avoid the self-recriminations that such a realization provoked.
Finally, early in the morning, he heard the mechanical sound of the elevators arrival, and footsteps in the buildings hallway approaching the office, and readied himself. He had expected the editor to be a corpulent fellow, based on the photos that he had seen in the magazine, but in person, he looked far taller and larger. Broad shoulders, more fit for aggressive competitive sports such as football or boxing, he noticed, as Capanelli casually opened the office door, flicked on the light, hung up his black trench-coat on the tri-pronged wooden upright hanger, and casually sauntered in with eyes half-closed while stretching his arms and yawning.
“What the hell are you doing in my office?” Roberto Capanelli, the magazine editor, said as he came face to face with Remington who was sitting at his desk and pointing what appeared as a revolver in his direction.
“Just shut the hell up and take a seat! You have a whole lot of explaining to do.” Remington growled softly and gestured for Campanelli to take a seat.
“Now just put the gun down and we can talk about whatever it is that on your mind and-”
“You either shut up and sit down, or so help me, I’ll shoot you! Which is it going to be?”
“Alright! Alright, you damned maniac. What is it that you want from me? Money? The safe’s in the wall behind that picture over there. Take whatever’s in it and leave! OK?"
“Its not money I want, sir! It’s an explanation?”
“An explanation? Well why not just call me up on the phone or send an email or write me a regular letter?”
“Oh no! I already tried that sir. But you are just too busy and high and mighty to respond to the likes of me -right?”
“You? I don’t even know you! Who the hell are you?”
“Does Steve Jordan ring any bells?”
“Steve Jordan? You mean the writer who keeps pestering us with submissions every few weeks and just can’t seem to take a hint? OK. What is it that you want now?”
“An explanation for your rejection slips sir, that’s what I want.”
“Is that really all that you want? OK. Here is the unvarnished truth. Your stories are not up to snuff. Now, that’s the door, please leave. I have more important things to do.”
“Not after I send you sailing out through that window head first with my foot up your ass you won’t sir!”
Campanelli blanched, realizing for the first time that he was indeed in grave danger.
“Now, there is really no need for that Steve. Steve Remington? Is it? Have a seat son. What is it that you want to know?” Campanelli said, smiling widly while frantically pressing the security-alarm button located under the desktop, not realizing that Steve had cut the connection as soon as he had entered the office earlier that morning.
“I just want to know what exactly is wrong with my short stories that you keep rejecting them. That’s all,” Remington said in what sounded to Campanelli like a half-moan and half-groan emerging reluctantly from some tortured farm animal who had just been branded or goaded with a sharpened herding-prod.
For a long while, Campanelli hesitated before responding. He was now sure that his life depended on how he answered, and that he had to choose his words very carefully in order to survive.
"Well, your stories are all good son, I never said they weren’t. It just that, that,”
“Spit it out damit!” Remington shouted in a voice quavering with years of pent-up frustration.
“Well, son, they are all really about you, aren’t they?”
“What do you mean by that Mr. Campanelli? I feature different characters...”
“Yes, yes! True, Steve, but all of them are always you making sure that your readers know just how clever and witty you can be. I mean, you even interrupt an action-scene that’s just about to reach its nail-biting climax in order to introduce some pun, or else some personal recollection that you personally consider cunning or memorable. Or else, after having the reader totally engrossed, you suddenly pause the action or the tempo of the story in order to make an aside designed to impress your reader with your technical knowledge or your wit. Sorry Steve, but that is extremely distracting, and it goes on and on and on in every single one of your stories. True, they are all different themes, but in each one there you always are, the same tongue-in-cheek narrator far more interested in impressing the reader with the brilliancy of your imagination than you actually are in telling a tale that will hold your reader’s interest. That they recognize your genius takes priority over everything else, doesn’t it Steve?
So that’s why your stories were tossed aside, son. They are extremely annoying in that curious sort of way. It's like watching some little brat, or some extremely insecure kid constantly yelling, hey! Look at me! Look at me! Look at me! While rapidly doing jumping jacks and double somersaults!”
Steve stood there silently for a long while with the gun still pointed at the editor who was sitting tensely not knowing what Steve’s reaction would be. He had asked, and he had been told the bare truth as he had requested.
No, Campanneli didn’t take pleasure in revealing such things to any writer. He much preferred to wait until the writer matured, which they usually did. But in Steve’s case, the twenty years had not made any difference. The more he wrote, the more his antics intensified, and that had led to this disagreeable debacle.
After a great while, Steve finally lowered the fake weapon, turned around and left the building a far wiser man and a much better writer than he had been before he had arrived.
He requested an interview but was ignored. So after unsuccessfully trying to get in contact, he decided to see the chief editor, Rudolpho Campanelli, an American man of Southern Italian descent, in his late twenties, personally. This time he would get his interview, since he would sneak into the office, and would be be there as soon as the editor arrived. He also had this fake gun that would make the fat slob editor a hostage-audience. No, he didn't intend to hurt anyone. He just wanted to know the reason for all the rejection slips. After all, he was a decently skilled writer who kept grammatical errors to a minimum and kept the spacing in accord with the publishing company's requirements. Also, the story-subjects had not been published before because he had researched the publication's prior stories. So why the hell was he getting all of those hundreds of rejections?
But to add insult to injury, the stories that were being accepted seemed far below his standards of excellence. They were usually boring tales containing unnecessarily extended dialogues that didn't move the stories along. In contrast, his stories always made sure to keep the reader wondering. Always injecting anecdotes and nifty puns and personal asides into the narrative in order to decorate the bare semantics just enough to give the story that special finesse that would make it memorable. Yet they were never accepted for publishing. So, once having gained entrance via the building’s fire escape, Remington anxiously waited while perspiring heavily from the tension.
He couldn’t help but notice how nicely decorated the editor's office was, with its college-journalism certificates of excellence, and literary awards all over the wall, its huge, highly polished rectangular mahogany desk, and its central air conditioning providing all the comfort that the bastard needed to flippantly toss his precious manuscripts into the rejection bin. Temporarily, Remington sat in the plush black-leathered seat behind the desk and swiveled back and forth, imagining himself in editor Campanelli’s shoes. Getting paid for something that he loved to do, and having the authority to make or break aspiring writers at a whim.
In contrast he needed to spend his time slicing and lugging meat at the local butchery, and could only dedicate a small portion of his time to writing. Big difference indeed, and the realization that it had been the different roads he had chosen to take at crucial junctures in his life, that had brought him into such a disagreeable, contrasting, situation, made him bolt from the seat as if he had been electrified. So he kept his distance far from the desk for the remainder of the night to avoid the self-recriminations that such a realization provoked.
Finally, early in the morning, he heard the mechanical sound of the elevators arrival, and footsteps in the buildings hallway approaching the office, and readied himself. He had expected the editor to be a corpulent fellow, based on the photos that he had seen in the magazine, but in person, he looked far taller and larger. Broad shoulders, more fit for aggressive competitive sports such as football or boxing, he noticed, as Capanelli casually opened the office door, flicked on the light, hung up his black trench-coat on the tri-pronged wooden upright hanger, and casually sauntered in with eyes half-closed while stretching his arms and yawning.
“What the hell are you doing in my office?” Roberto Capanelli, the magazine editor, said as he came face to face with Remington who was sitting at his desk and pointing what appeared as a revolver in his direction.
“Just shut the hell up and take a seat! You have a whole lot of explaining to do.” Remington growled softly and gestured for Campanelli to take a seat.
“Now just put the gun down and we can talk about whatever it is that on your mind and-”
“You either shut up and sit down, or so help me, I’ll shoot you! Which is it going to be?”
“Alright! Alright, you damned maniac. What is it that you want from me? Money? The safe’s in the wall behind that picture over there. Take whatever’s in it and leave! OK?"
“Its not money I want, sir! It’s an explanation?”
“An explanation? Well why not just call me up on the phone or send an email or write me a regular letter?”
“Oh no! I already tried that sir. But you are just too busy and high and mighty to respond to the likes of me -right?”
“You? I don’t even know you! Who the hell are you?”
“Does Steve Jordan ring any bells?”
“Steve Jordan? You mean the writer who keeps pestering us with submissions every few weeks and just can’t seem to take a hint? OK. What is it that you want now?”
“An explanation for your rejection slips sir, that’s what I want.”
“Is that really all that you want? OK. Here is the unvarnished truth. Your stories are not up to snuff. Now, that’s the door, please leave. I have more important things to do.”
“Not after I send you sailing out through that window head first with my foot up your ass you won’t sir!”
Campanelli blanched, realizing for the first time that he was indeed in grave danger.
“Now, there is really no need for that Steve. Steve Remington? Is it? Have a seat son. What is it that you want to know?” Campanelli said, smiling widly while frantically pressing the security-alarm button located under the desktop, not realizing that Steve had cut the connection as soon as he had entered the office earlier that morning.
“I just want to know what exactly is wrong with my short stories that you keep rejecting them. That’s all,” Remington said in what sounded to Campanelli like a half-moan and half-groan emerging reluctantly from some tortured farm animal who had just been branded or goaded with a sharpened herding-prod.
For a long while, Campanelli hesitated before responding. He was now sure that his life depended on how he answered, and that he had to choose his words very carefully in order to survive.
"Well, your stories are all good son, I never said they weren’t. It just that, that,”
“Spit it out damit!” Remington shouted in a voice quavering with years of pent-up frustration.
“Well, son, they are all really about you, aren’t they?”
“What do you mean by that Mr. Campanelli? I feature different characters...”
“Yes, yes! True, Steve, but all of them are always you making sure that your readers know just how clever and witty you can be. I mean, you even interrupt an action-scene that’s just about to reach its nail-biting climax in order to introduce some pun, or else some personal recollection that you personally consider cunning or memorable. Or else, after having the reader totally engrossed, you suddenly pause the action or the tempo of the story in order to make an aside designed to impress your reader with your technical knowledge or your wit. Sorry Steve, but that is extremely distracting, and it goes on and on and on in every single one of your stories. True, they are all different themes, but in each one there you always are, the same tongue-in-cheek narrator far more interested in impressing the reader with the brilliancy of your imagination than you actually are in telling a tale that will hold your reader’s interest. That they recognize your genius takes priority over everything else, doesn’t it Steve?
So that’s why your stories were tossed aside, son. They are extremely annoying in that curious sort of way. It's like watching some little brat, or some extremely insecure kid constantly yelling, hey! Look at me! Look at me! Look at me! While rapidly doing jumping jacks and double somersaults!”
Steve stood there silently for a long while with the gun still pointed at the editor who was sitting tensely not knowing what Steve’s reaction would be. He had asked, and he had been told the bare truth as he had requested.
No, Campanneli didn’t take pleasure in revealing such things to any writer. He much preferred to wait until the writer matured, which they usually did. But in Steve’s case, the twenty years had not made any difference. The more he wrote, the more his antics intensified, and that had led to this disagreeable debacle.
After a great while, Steve finally lowered the fake weapon, turned around and left the building a far wiser man and a much better writer than he had been before he had arrived.
COMMENTS at Story Star (4)
Gail Moore10/02/2021Really interesting story that kept me on the edge.
Well done Radrook :-)Reply
Radrook10/03/2021Glad to know that I was able to keep your attention. After all, that's my responsibility as the story teller. If the reader has to struggle to keep reading, or is confused or distracted, then I as the writer must bear the blame. It happens to me as a as a reader sometimes. So I try to avoid inflicting it on others. LOL!
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Lillian Kazmierczak10/02/2021Ouch...as a writer that kind of brutal honesty is painful! I always want to know why! Now I'm second guessing that. It was great that Steve could take that criticism and use it to better himself...hopefully! Very well written and thought provoking story. You never disappoint Radrook!
Reply Radrook10/03/2021
Thanks for the feedback Lillian and encouraging words. Much appreciated. True, the editor should have been more gentle and have informed him gradually by providing specific feedback to his stories instead of writing irrelevant notes that only served... Read More
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JD10/02/2021Outstanding, brilliantly introspective and thought provoking. Well done.
Reply
Radrook10/03/2021Thanks JD . Very much appreciated.
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BTW
Radrook10/02/2021Steve Jordan is Joseph Remington's pen-name.