The editor of the prestigious gardening magazine would get unsolicited submissions. There were articles on garden bugs, and fertilizers, and new plant varieties. There were offerings on compost bins, and when and how to plant garlic.
Deborah, for that was the editor’s name, always enjoyed composing the rejection slip. It gave her a break from reading the heftier articles written by her staff.
“Thanks for your article on worm farms. Unfortunately I won’t be able to wriggle it into the magazine.”
“Thank you for your article on glazed containers for plants. A bit potty.”
“Thank you for your article on Venus Fly Traps. Quite frankly, it stank.”
What no one knew, was that Deborah was a secret novelist. She had spent a mere two years writing her novel, for she was a skilled and disciplined writer. It was a masterpiece. It was called, “Crocuses at Twilight”. (No, she hadn’t written it in a month.) She sent off the manuscript to a publishing company. Deborah knew the publishing scene. She knew how to read one publisher from another. Her magnum opus was a publishing certitude.
She got a response: “Characterless, humourless, plotless. There’s enough trouble is the world without your novel.”
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! …
Suck eggs, Deborah.
Weave a Web 