Rejectioniana

WHEN I commenced to write ’for the magazines,’ according to my own broad statement, my only idea was to sell the material I wrote to the magazines for which I wrote it. That was ten years or more ago. In all that time I have not ceased my efforts, but they have gradually turned in a different and more profitable direction.

At first, when my material was unanimously rejected by the various journals to which it was consigned (and it was offered generously and unstintingly, I assure you), I suffered a deep disappointment. What was the matter, that the editors could not recognize the worth of the stories I was writing? How could my stories, so far superior to those already in print — but if you’ve written, you know all of the questions that arose in my mind. It was only after four or five years of uncompensated effort that I realized, one day, that I was missing a Golden Opportunity. I was overlooking the decorative possibilities in those very rejection slips that accompanied each returned manuscript! I had hoarded my slips, much as a miser hoards his gold, so now I went to the envelope marked ‘Graveyard,’ shook them out upon my desk, and looked them over. They lay in confusing and motley array. I was not mistaken! They would, when I had enough of them, make a unique and delightful decorative feature of my study. Already I could see them glued to a background, in a bewilderment of geometric design, shellacked to preserve their surfaces, adorning a most unique screen! There was an idea.

As I say, it changed my entire attitude toward my writing — I might even say toward the editors who read my efforts. Now, when I sent out a manuscript, I experienced a new fear. Suppose that the thing should be kept by some mean editor, and published in his awful magazine! Suppose — dire possibility — that for my efforts I should this time receive no rejection slip at all! I was suffering, you see, from that most virulent of all diseases — Collector’s Fever. As time went on, the fear subsided. One editor after another showed his willingness to coöperate with me (unwittingly, it must be admitted) in the amassing of enough slips for the screen I had planned.

Now I wrote more feverishly than ever. I did not overlook an idea, an opportunity. I wrote short stories, short short stories, articles, essays — anything, in fact, that came within my grasp. For I realized that the more widely I wrote, the greater would be the decorative scope of the screen I planned. I wrote juvenile stories, and received in return for my efforts the pleasant, sepia-toned slip of St. Nicholas. I especially prized this, for the editors had devised one that resembled a personal letter, to which they cunningly affixed the author’s name, so that only the initiate would know the missive was not personal. I wrote for Child Life, and realized the narrowness of my escape when, on the neat little brown card they returned with my effort, I read the word, penned in a precise backhand, ‘Almost’! I must be careful. I was evidently approaching a perfection in style against which I must guard. A few more ‘almosts,’ and my fear of an acceptance would be realized. I decided to give up the juvenile market.

Still the mania persisted. I was as unable to stop as though I were writing — as I once had been — in the hope of acceptance. I wrote some short short stories, and, knowing that Liberty must be flooded with such things, sent them there. Sure enough, back they came — accompanied by a half sheet, on which (again in imitation of typewriting) was a neat little note designed to soften the blow of the rejection. Editors, I learn, almost invariably try to soften the blow as much as is within their power.

I wrote a household article, and sent it to the Woman’s Home Companion. This time my efforts were rewarded with a really personal letter. That, of course, shall have a centre place on my screen. Personal letters, I have discovered, are rare rewards. Another article of the sort brought me a double remuneration from Better Homes and Gardens. First arrived a postcard on which was printed the message that the magazine had received my material (for which I was thanked — the editors always thank the sender), and that as soon as possible they would read my manuscript and report. I was artfully led to believe that the editors were wading through manuscripts waist high, in a feverish energy to reach my own. At any rate, they were true to their promise — and in due time I received a double-page rejection slip, with the most delightfully couched ‘hints’ to aspiring contributors. Naturally, when I assemble the materials for my screen, I shall use both communications from that magazine — giving it, as it were, a double place of honor.

Short Stories contributed a small gray card, attractively gotten up, that will lend variety to the screen. In it the editors ‘regret,’ but they stoop to no subterfuge of leading the writer to suppose their regret is at all personal. Far from it. They come right out, in honest print, and give a number of tactful reasons (from which the writer is at liberty to take his choice) for the rejection of his manuscript.

I wrote a play, and sent it to Theatre Arts Monthly. The card I received in return is a work of art, done in the manner of a formal invitation. Again the editor ‘regretted,’ but again the regret was abstract, for the card had been set up in type, with no effort to camouflage its impersonality. To the Forum I sent the play next, being virtually sure that it would find no haven, as I had never seen a play published in that magazine. I was right! The play came back, accompanied by a most attractive half sheet in blue, with a delightful little footnote penned in microscopic characters. I prize that footnote. It says, ‘Afraid plays are not for us.’ But I shall be careful of what I send to the Forum hereafter. That footnote, kind as it was, shows that it may have been only the nature of the material, and not its style, that kept my manuscript out of the pages of that magazine. And I need more slips from the Forum. It is one of the few magazines that rejects in blue. And for my screen I must have color, as well as design.

Collier’s is much like Liberty in its style of rejection. Still, I shall use its slip, if only for diversity. Good Housekeeping will be commemorated with a truly personal letter. It is quite long, and very kind. (As I have said, kindness is one of the outstanding features of these missives.) California Arts and Architecture, too, sends a personal letter. No fooling about this. It is neither printed nor mimeographed, but typed to me in person, with the stenographer’s initials in the left-hand lower corner. There can be no doubt about the authenticity of that.

The Atlantic (I feel a delicacy about mentioning this, since the piece I am writing now is intended for that publication) sends a simple folded sheet, in correspondence size. It will lend dignity, I feel, to my helter-skelter screen. I treasure one rejection each from Harper’s and Scribner’s. I can see my screen growing, through my own unremitting efforts.

Only one editor disappoints me. Mr. Mencken, of the Mercury, sends a plain white card, in the lower righthand corner of which is inscribed the legend,

With the thanks of THE AMERICAN MERCURY

Nothing more. And all that space on the rest of the card left blank. I should write to Mr. Mencken, but the subject, as anyone can appreciate, is a delicate one. I am only hoping that someone who reads this article will take the matter up with him, pointing out the intrinsic lack of beauty in the rejection cards he uses. Yet I want to use the card.

My collection grows apace, and today, I am happy to say, I have nearly enough material for my projected screen. Perhaps, before my dream is fulfilled, Mr. Mencken will have changed his policy. And in the meantime I have experienced that greatest of all pursuits — collecting. I don’t know what I shall do with my manuscripts when the screen is finally made. Certainly two such screens would look silly.

Addendum. — I have just received a letter from the Atlantic. And with it my worst fears are realized. I should never have written for the Contributors’ Club. But how was I to know that my little essay (I suppose that is what it might be called) would be accepted? I had only hoped that for that department of the magazine the Atlantic might employ a different style of rejection. And, as I have pointed out, I was seeking diversity for my screen. At any rate, the worst has happened. I have, as the expression goes, ‘arrived.’ But I am not disheartened. Looking over my already accumulated rejection notices, I find that I have enough, by using them sparingly, to make the proposed screen. I could use a few more, but I shall be content with those I have.

There is, of course, an alternative. I could go about now to amass letters of acceptance for a second screen — a sort of companion to my first. Somehow, though, that lacks the thrill — and, I might add, the certainty — that accompanied my earlier effort. So I am casting about for a new hobby. I am told that stamp collecting has its points. I have closed my typewriter and put it away. Already I have three stamps for my new collection — an early Lindbergh, one from Czechoslovakia, and a third from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I feel a certain pardonable pride in my adaptability.