Bloody Ink

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Abstract

ank you — always the first words, the first and last when reading the impersonal mantra of magazines. Staring at the floor — man, it’s dusty, must vacuum — I realize there are percentages to back me up. Ten rejections versus one acceptance equals ten percent. Twenty to one is five, forty to one is two point five, et cetera to ad nauseum (although math was never my strong suit).Perhaps I am wrong in assuming that every word was read, weighed, enjoyed, sighed over just like I. Instead, the red pen zooms closer, the eyes of the slush reader flare into life like a superhero’s powers. Give me a

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drink — writers drink, right? Or perhaps I drank before writing, hard to tell these days in the litter of vodka liters. Whiskey, rum, rye — making love to inanimate bottles. They love me back, at least they do ten percent of the time.And when the opportunity arises to hold the red pen? I might object, viscerally, to join the ranks. But, here, I know the hypocritical nature of the dilemma, as I write the first few lines. “Thank you, dear writer — Please excuse the impersonal nature of this letter. Thank you for… Thank you… thankyouthankyouthankyou. Sincerely, The Editor.”</article></body>

Bloody Ink

How much lotion do you need for an elephant skin? Not to mention exfoliating, it seems a gargantuan task unequal to the confines of blank pages, pens, the old school collection of detritus needed for rejection. Thank you — always the first words, the first and last when reading the impersonal mantra of magazines. Staring at the floor — man, it’s dusty, must vacuum — I realize there are percentages to back me up. Ten rejections versus one acceptance equals ten percent. Twenty to one is five, forty to one is two point five, et cetera to ad nauseum (although math was never my strong suit).

Perhaps I am wrong in assuming that every word was read, weighed, enjoyed, sighed over just like I. Instead, the red pen zooms closer, the eyes of the slush reader flare into life like a superhero’s powers. Give me a drink — writers drink, right? Or perhaps I drank before writing, hard to tell these days in the litter of vodka liters. Whiskey, rum, rye — making love to inanimate bottles. They love me back, at least they do ten percent of the time.

And when the opportunity arises to hold the red pen? I might object, viscerally, to join the ranks. But, here, I know the hypocritical nature of the dilemma, as I write the first few lines. “Thank you, dear writer — Please excuse the impersonal nature of this letter. Thank you for… Thank you… thankyouthankyouthankyou. Sincerely, The Editor.”