My Year in Rejections

Rude and generic and tactless and infuriating: here are my worst (and best—some people are nice) pooh-poohs for 2010! (Names and mags have been omitted to avoid headaches).

Jan:

We cannot use – JB

Feb:

Hello,

Thank you for your recent entry to the ---------- ---------- Science Magazine Science Fiction Society Contest. We're sorry it was not successful this time round.

We thought you might like some personalised feedback as to how your entry was scored on average by the seven judges against the four judging criteria, as stated in the rules on the website.

We hope this may be helpful to you in identifying the strengths and weaknesses of your writing.

Your entry scored maximum points for originality, good for writing quality, fair on Edinburgh relatedness but low on plausibility.

Ken McLeod has advised everybody who entered to keep writing and submitting, as every published author has had many, many rejections first!

Thank you again for your submission.

Best wishes,

------

Mar:

Thank you for submitting to ------------.

Alas . . .

Regarding "Inky Beast,"

We know that it might make you cuss,

or compelled to kick up a fuss —

but we can't tell a lie,

we gave it a try,

and the story is really not us.

Best wishes,

--

---- -------

Kumo-gozen

Slush Editor

------------.com

April:

Dear M.J. Nicholls,

Thank you for submitting your story "The Legend of Liz Armhole" to --------'s -------- Fiction. Unfortunately we've decided not to accept it for publication. The humour of the story didn't meet its target with me, I'm afraid. I know that humour is a very subjective thing, but the story seemed to be trying to make lots of different types of jokes at once, with the result that it felt rather uneven in tone.

Hope these comments aren't too infuriating, and best of luck with your future writing.

Regards,

---- ---------

Co-Editor, -------'s ---------- Fiction.

May:

Dear M.J. Nicholls,

Thank you for your submission of "Sumfink Good." I regret to inform you that this story was not accepted for publication.

As I'm sure you're aware, this story is written with style and language that is not easily approachable, which makes the story more difficult to follow. Additionally, the formatting of the text into letters seemed unnecessary, and it would be difficult to translate into publication.

Thank you for your consideration of ---- ---- Magazine as a potential market for your work.

Best of luck,

----- ----, Editor
---- ---- Magazine

June:

Mr Nicholls,
"The Virginity Chronicles" was a good story, but we must pass. It was below the word count we wanted and we also have a plethora of work to showcase for our debut issue. Now don't take this rejection so harsh, we enjoyed your work and would like you to submit again after July 1st with a new piece. Thanks again.

Darkest,
---- Team

July:

Dear M.J.,

Thank you for sending "Breath In, Breathe Out," but I decided not to use the story.

---- ------
Not --- of --

August:

Hello M.J.!

Thank you for submitting "Breathe In, Breathe Out" to ---- Magazine.

Unfortunately, we will not be using your story at this time. While I

loved the world you developed here, for me Mimus just wasn't a

character who could hold my interest. He felt a bit flat to me, which

made it hard to care whether or not he survived the city's edict.

Best of luck placing this story elsewhere, and please feel free to submit again!

Sincerely,

------ -------

Submissions Editor - ---- Magazine

September:

M.J.,

We must apologize for the delay in hearing back from us. Thank you for sending us this story to consider. We have to pass on it, but we do wish you good luck finding a home for it.

Sincerely,

The Editors

--------

[This story was submitted a year earlier and had been published elsewhere almost a year earlier too].

October:

Thank you for your submission to ----------- Magazine. Unfortunately, your submission has not been selected for publication. Please note that currently, less than 3% of submissions we receive are selected for publication, and as a result we're forced to reject many promising stories from writers with obvious talent.

For all the latest news about ----------- please visit our website http://www.----------mag.com/ ----------- is currently closed to fiction submissions but expects to reopen by the end of April. Please check our fiction: submission guidelines for updated information on our status.

Sincerely,

----------- Editorial Staff

Nov:

Dear M.J.,

Thanks for sending in your writing for our consideration. We really enjoyed reading it.

Unfortunately it is not what we are looking for at this time.

We hope you will submit again and that you continue to visit the magazine.

All the best,

----- and ------

Dec:

M.J. Nicholls,

I'm sorry to say I'm turning your submission down. Thank you for submitting to ------ ------. Good luck!

---- ---------, editor

Term, End of

I have not had a smashing good semester on my MA course. My results have been wishy-washy and my confidence has plummeted into the Seine. The Creating Narratives module puts emphasis on rigorous decision-making and being ruthless with stories. I haven’t been able to start anything because I bore holes in all my ideas and dismiss them as rubbish.

My only choice is to, well—not bore holes in my ideas and dismiss them as rubbish. Otherwise I won’t write shit. Word up. You must remember I am, first and foremost, an idiot. *

Anyway. This module has been a dizzying overload of information and the emphasis on pre-writing preparation has been stifling. I tend to generate ideas as I write things and obsessive pre-planning is not the easiest muffin to bake. Hence the suckifarious results on the suckifarious assessments. On the non-complaining side, the technical writing advice has been invaluable, and my only enemy remains, as ever, my limited intelligence. (Working on that. I have tools).

Also on the non-complaining side, the Creative Non-Fiction module looks amazing. Sadly, it requires reading aloud in groups and discussing things in groups, so a certain volume of nightmarish misery will have to be endured for the greater good. It’s never good towing the status quo. You have to fling yourself into bowel-dropping terror from time to time. I did this last night when I went to see the Human League. Horrible.

I still haven’t figured out what to do with French or Russian literary theorists. Maybe I could start a support group called Friends of Theorists for those struggling to incorporate the unfathomable verbiage of eggheads into their personal writing philosophies. Number: 1-191-HELPTHEORY! Or not.

* Since I wrote this post yesterday my confidence has improved. Funny thing, confidence.

Writing Workshops: Satan at Large

I had the misfortune to enter a pub last week. I was supposed to meet up with a gang of sci-fi writers to discuss a writing workshop, but was stood up, or lost them to another venue. Even worse, I had to ask the barman if he’d seen a group of youths enter the pub. I mean, actual conversation with a barman. Can you imagine the trauma?

Who do barmen think they are? Standing behind a hardwood counter polishing glasses and dishing out patter like afternoon quiz show hosts. Is that supposed to put me at ease, being called mate and chief and pal? Yes, banter is fine, banter has its function in social situations, but this impromptu banter needs to be curbed. Too many people are walking about making humorous remarks and making themselves look witty and clever. I’ve had enough. When I meet friends of friends, I have to drum up ironic mots that comment on the briefness of our acquaintance and the unlikelihood of ever meeting again. Worse still, I have to pretend that I want to meet this person again at some point in the future. Sure, they might be a talented pianist or harpist or balloonist or whatever, and thank you for taking an interest in what I get up to (not), but why should I make a phony promise to this two-second nobody because I happen to be occupying the same Cartesian coordinates as them for a fleeting second? I mean. This is madness.

Anyway. Since then, noncommittal shrugs and unanswered emails have rendered the workshop venture moot.

Writing workshops is our topic. I hate them intensely unless they are web-based. Face to face groups are awkward and embarrassing and the following people are usually in attendance:

a) Braggers. Those who have been fortunate enough to have the piece they are about to read published in a new collection from Canongate and thought they’d share the story anyway. Instant reaction: hatred. We hate you because we have not had our new piece published in a new collection from Canongate. Please leave our group forever and die. Please.

b) Actors. Hellish. On my MA Course, I have had to slink under my chair many times when co-students have read things out in theatrical voices. I have nothing against extroverts (well, I hate them) and there’s nothing wrong with being an extrovert (well, there is) but doesn’t everyone cringe a little when someone puts embarrassing relish on a story that would be fine if read normally?

c) Monotones. People who write stories with the humour surgically removed and read them in slow and earnest voices and send the room to sleep. These stories seem to go on for hours, and politeness forbids interruption. Whether the story is good or not is irrelevant. I used to speak in monotones but then sped things up, drowned things in humour, and shut up.

d) Talkers. When asked about the present piece, they will tell you about their time in Germany. Then their time as a civil engineer in Bulgaria. Their life has been so much more amazing then yours and they will prove this by discussing their meeting with Ghandi, the Pope and Jesus.

e) The Young. Let’s face it, people in their twenties are insufferable idiots. The hesitations and apologies never end. “Well, this is crap, but here goes.” “I wrote this in five minutes, but OK.” Shut up. Read. Usually what they read is their most polished work and that wave of praise will keep their petulant egos bloated for another half an hour.

f) Oldies. Oldies will dither and chat about themselves with the same unselfconscious effusion for hours, talking about their sons and relatives and how they are writing this for a relative who passed away and how they don’t have big literary ambitions, they want to write this for that family member who died horribly and want to celebrate his memory. What can you do? Sleep.

Criticism at workshops is limited to general comments on the piece. Perhaps someone will point out an awkward sentence. Having to come up with thoughts spontaneously is impossible and the most useless babble comes streaming out a dozen gobs in surround sound. It’s hard enough listening to the million different voices telling you what a story should be and how to write a sentence properly and what literature should be and why you are mostly terrible at everything you write without factoring in a bunch of wittering twerps dishing out their unfounded opinions for a hellish hour.

Then again, your experience may vary.

Ordinary Mania

Today was one of those eureka days, where things finally clicked in my brain. I’ve been working on my novel Arlene’s Atoms for nigh on two years now and have made the decision to scrap the protagonist. I made this decision by having a nervous breakdown then talking the story through with Mrs Q who urged me on with the manuscript.

The story wasn’t working in the first person perspective of a childish woman in her twenties, so the narrative will be in the third person from the perspective of a Swedish academic. I spent time working on the language of Arlene (ex-protag) and decided her voice wasn’t interesting enough to drive this novel. This is such a relief to me, as I was an inch away from giving up the story completely, which would’ve been a copout after so much work.

Unfortunately, I submitted a synopsis of my novel as an assessment which now contradicts the new synopsis. Oh dear. Still, making my academic the protagonist will allow me to be more original with the structure and inventiveness of this draft. Frankly, I need something that will get me excited about the story again. I was close to madness.

Sometimes it’s helpful to be driven to lunacy to force you into making big decisions. Not pleasant, certainly, but there is always the day after to take a bath and stitch up the scars.

Regional news: the snow has melted into piles of mucky ice. It’s like Brooklyn during the garbage strike. (Or Harlem as is). Truly revolting and another good reason to remain indoors reading and having nervous breakdowns. I've read some stonking books this month, among them Heartsnatcher by Boris Vian and Take Five by D. Keith Mano. Round-up in seventeen days!

Excuses, Executions

No-No #1: Apologising in dialogue for your ineptitude.

“You can’t put all your eggs in one chicken before it’s hatched,” Momus said.

“What?” Mimus asked.

“Oh, ignore me. I’m always mixing my metaphors.”

“You know what my mother used to say. If you can’t catch the cat, catch as catch can,” Momus said.

“What?”

“Oh, don’t listen to me. I was never any good at proverbs.”

No-No #2: Geographical idiocy to avoid research.

“Where is it?” Memus asked.

“It’s near the big building on that really long street in the centre of town,” Mumus said.

“How do we get there?”

“We’ll follow the traffic along the long road that leads to the centre of town and stop at the train station.”

“What station?”

“The central one.”

“How will we know we’re there?”

“There’ll be a sign.”

No-No #3: Surprise yourself out a hole.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Momus said.

“What?”

“Well, it’s something that’s been on my mind for a while now, and I’ve been meaning to get around to telling you?”

“What?”

“It’s hard to find the words, Mymus. I want to tell you that—”

“Yes?”

“I want to tell you—”

“Yes?”

“I want to—”

BANG CHINK!

“Oh God! Not another piano. When will they stop dropping pianos on our lawn when we’re having these conversations? Right. You get the brush, I’ll get the dustpan.”

No-No #4: Fill a page with affirmatives.

“So did I tell you about Mmmus?” Meymus asked.

“Yeah.”

“Really cute.”

“Yeah.”

“Really tall.”

“Yeah.”

“Likes ham.”

“Yeah.”

“And carrots.”

“Yeah.”

“And muesli.”

“Yeah.”

“And suicide.”

“Yeah.”

“And drugs.”

“Yeah.”

“And Drano.”

“Yeah.”

“And despair.”

“Yeah.”

“And me.”

“Yeah.”

“Shut up.”

“Oakie dokie.”

Snopocalypse

It’s official. Edinburgh is near meltdown (an unfortunate pun). Commuters encased in ice-cars. Buses buried to the ceiling in towers of snow hell. Shoppers scaling the north face of Jenners to escape the twenty-foot snowmen marauding the capital and nibbling on Walter Scott.

I envy the squirrel and racoon—creatures of habitual hibernation. I envy them for their talent at sniffing out nuts and ants, as well as their regular oestrus periods. (How pleasant to mate regularly every summer, as opposed to sporadically over the year. And have you ever tried intercourse in winter? It’s not feasible without heating the bedroom first. I mean, in the grip of passion, there’s always the floor, but no one’s going to pretend flat-back sex on the rug is a ripping good time, are they? And there’s still those hands to warm up.)

As ever, there’s a lovely irony to this mess. The government recently slashed public services, leaving one snow plough for the whole of Scotland. Donald (as it’s called, the driver’s named JCB), has been going since 1979 and is currently dusting a byroad off Kirkwall in the Orkneys. He should reach Edinburgh in time for next winter, at which point the snow will have stacked about four miles. An Eskimo society will have formed atop Arthur’s Seat, led by a brutal Ian Rankin, intent on serving Sandy McCall Smith’s testes in a broth.

For children (like me), this is nirvana. I lived for snow days at school. The one day we were sent home, I spent the afternoon guzzling down Tizer and unlocking the bonus levels on Crash Bandicoot 3. Such were the pleasures of a simple lad lost in a world of digitised fantasy. Now, I only venture out to buy spuds or wrestle frozen cod out the hands of fishermen. See you in the foam.

Spinal Mismanagement

Questions:

1. Can I eat my own toe?
2. Where is the salad?
3. Who is the shortest dowager in the village?
4. Can’t you turn that damned racket off for one minute?
5. Can we change climate’s diapers?
6. Why aren’t Volvos more popular?
7. What’s wrong with turning students into pasties?
8. Isn’t that a pedalo?
9. Should I counterbalance a kind act with a nasty one?
10. Why Sheffield?

Status Report:

I have taken an offer from Jim ‘Psychoface’ McCullen from the Morningside Mafia to become a part-time contract killer. The first target is Alan Smithy, a stonemason from Riccarton, whose incompetent chipping skills led to an unfortunate misprint on a gravestone. Where it should have read LOVING MOTHER it read FOUL OLD SLAPPER. This isn’t the first mistake Alan has made. He once shot his son through the head with a revolver when he was supposed to kiss him affectionately on the cheek. It seems Alan has cognitive fluff-ups. He sent me a message today reading: “Looking forward to being garrotted in the pub toilets. See you later, honeybee. Al xxx.” Clearly, a man worth whacking. Later on this year I will be chopping off Ian Rankin’s hands, at the request of his publishers, fans, and mistresses.

Beds:

Yesterday, and this is true, though I’m not in the business of sincerity or candour, unless goosed, and I love a good goosing, I moved a mattress through and slept in the main room. The reason for this supine selection is snow-related. Both bedrooms in my flat are butt-freezing cold and I want to wake up next to a nice roaring radiator. This happens to be in the main room. A case of spinal mismanagement was investigated today when the mattress bust a spring four inches beneath the testicular sanctum where the future Nicholls generation swims in always readiness. Said mattress is now back in the spare room, where a walrus once slept for the night. I wonder what became of him.