March 6: I sent "F & M," a short story I'd written at MacDowell, to The New Yorker. I knew it was a long and ambitious shot. Wasn't holding my breath for a bite, although I did entertain several fantasies, on days the TNY landed in my mailbox (I'm a subscriber), that before my August birthday I would see "F & M" in print.
Thursday: A rejection email came. (We regret that we are unable to use the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider it. Sincerely, The Editors)
Friday: I spent the day glued to CNN watching the Boston Marathon bombing manhunt. Forgot about my New Yorker rejection.
Today: While Suspect No. 2 is hospitalized and the city of Boston returns to the streets (and beats the Kansas City Royals out at Fenway), I slogged up to my writing room, where I sit now, at my desk, processing my rejection. Here's what I feel, truthfully: Big Effing Deal. Three people died watching a race on a bright sunny Monday, other spectators lost limbs and loved ones. People in West, Texas, died when a fertilizer plant exploded. Hundreds injured. Homes and lives destroyed.
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It would be inhumane and pitiful, really, to mourn the loss of a story that won't see print in a magazine that has far more important pieces to publish these days.
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