Rejection is fine.
A story I wrote and the feedback on the story.
I wrote a lot during lockdown, including LAPVONA, which is the last novel I’ve published. Not everything I write makes it into print, of course. That’s totally fine. It’s exactly right, actually.
When something I write isn’t “accepted,” and I know there’s more work to be done, I do it. Other times, I just detach and move on, understanding that the act of writing itself was the project-lesson, which is always what matters most to me.
Anyway, I thought it might be interesting to share a piece that was not accepted by X MAGAZINE (I will not name the publication). I could have gone back and worked on it, but I did not.
So, here’s the story, and then below, a note from the editor about how it wasn’t quite right….
But first, remember this?
The three versions of the “ecce homo” fresco of Jesus. From left, the original version by Elías García Martínez, a 19th-century painter; a deteriorated version of the fresco; the restored version by Cecilia Giménez.
Okay, here’s the story. It’s over 5K words, no small thang. Scroll to the bottom for “thanks but no” from the editor.
The Imitations
They played poker in the old fifth-story apartment that hung below the smog over the central train station. They played for no money, hand after hand, from four until the smog darkened into night. They ate cheese and sausage sandwiches and drank soda and the occasional shot of prune brandy at adjacent TV trays set up in the living room. Jay was twenty-two, and his father, Petar, was sixty. Jay’s mother, Elise, lived in a town two hours north. Elise and Petar had never married. Jay often relayed to Petar his latest romantic conquests. He thought his father liked to hear the stories. But he didn’t. It made Petar feel lonely and sad. Jay thought it made him proud and happy. He took his father’s silence to be a kind of satisfaction. This was the crux of their misunderstanding—the meaning of Petar’s silence.
Since the city was experiencing an influx of residents from the capitol, where it was no longer very safe to live, Jay had gained employment with Fine Dynasty, a developer of luxury buildings. Jay was only a welder, but he often bragged about the job and gushed about the fanciness of the apartment buildings and hotels. The way he spoke about Fine Dynasty made Petar uncomfortable. Had his son grown up to be a materialistic fool, to worship a corporation that would literally tower over the city and its old charm, cast it all in darkness? They were tearing down tenements to build a casino in Lower Bruva. It bothered Petar. The changes to his hometown felt rapacious and cruel. ‘They’re ripping away my childhood,’ he wrote in his journal. ‘All my memories are turning into cement and gold chrome. Is this what my parents fought for?’