Letter to The New Yorker
Dear Fiction Editor:
I familiarized myself with your publication. I assumed your tone, style, and artistic sensibility. I even tried networking, albeit with limited success ( ask LeVon the security guard and Al in the mailroom). I adhered to your pointless and exacting submissions guidelines. My lead sentences have hooks that could draw blood. Yet, you persist in not publishing me.
I could really use the exposure. My rent is three months overdue and my landlord has threatened me with eviction. The sheriff broke down my door yesterday, but after we had sex on my filthy mattress, he gave me another twenty-four hours before he’s coming back with the cattle prod. I can’t really stay here after tomorrow, anyway, because that’s when the electricity and water get shut off, which is unfortunate, because it’s twelve degrees outside and the baby already has a bad cold. I hope she doesn’t get any worse, because I don’t have health insurance. Actually, that doesn’t matter, because even if I needed to drive to the hospital, I couldn’t, because my Hyundai was repossessed last week. I would ask my husband to help out, but after he knifed that prison guard last week (okay, forked if you want to get technical), they put off his parole hearing until 2036. It sucks because all I have is my laptop, a package of ramen noodles, and, oh yes, my baby. I can’t forget about her, though I haven’t heard her labored breathing in a while, so I guess I’d better give her a look-see.
Did that get your attention? Okay, I made it up, but seriously, what does it take for you to notice me? It’s not like I consider myself God’s gift to writing or anything, but my stuff is every bit as readable as sixty percent of the crap you choose to print.
Here’s the deal: I have a plan. I figured out the real problem; you are obsessed with notoriety. If I happened to be a well-known author and I submitted some third-rate garbage I had lying around the house you’d be tripping over yourself to publish it. (Last month’s story by Jonathan Franzen is a case in point). Although I can’t become a famous writer by simply snapping my fingers, there’s no law on the books in the state in which I reside which prevents me from changing my name.
This should make accepting the enclosed manuscript a no-brainer.
Yours truly,
Joyce Carol Oates