Inside the envelope, was a letter from the publisher. She knew it was, because she saw the return address, Butterfly Magazine. Her hands shook as she carefully pulled out the open flap of the letter and pulled it open. Her eyes widened, as she glanced at the boldface lead, which said, “Just why do you small-town writers think you can send in your provincial garbage to our Chicago imprint company? We get literally sick when we see the trash from places out in the sticks that try to pass off their drivel as literature. Send manuscripts only when you’ve learned to become a real children’s writer, which is the grace period before becoming an author. Take a writing course. In your case, take several….” -- the Editorial Staff.
In a state of shock, she adjusted her eyes once again and reread the letter. “Dear Ms. Crockett, Thank you for submitting the your story to our magazine. Unfortunately, it does not meet the needs of our publishing company at this time. We wish you success as you submit to publishers with whom you share similar goals.”
Why did she read the letter before and get it all wrong? “Oh,” she thought, “it’s because I read between the lines. I know what they’re really saying."
So, she sat down at her keyboard to write a reply to the editor's email address, to show them how she could express herself.
“Okay, jerks; what makes you think you’re so high and mighty, just because you’re in a big Chicago office? You think you’re so great, as you judge me as an Okie from Muskogee? I’ll tell you where you can put your writing course suggestion.”
She knew that was fruitless, but it felt good, and she decided not to send it, so she erased it. It might make for bad public relations for the future, if there ever was any future with them.
She wiped her eyes, sniffed, and raffled through her publisher files and marketing books. She happened upon a flyer from a writing school, inviting her to take Course II for adult magazine writers. It was the first time she considered, maybe, they were right, and picked up the phone, “Hello, Intermediate School? I’ve reconsidered your offer…”
On the other side of the computer screen, a harried editor named Alexandra Maddox, had staggered into the publishing office of Butterfly Children’s Magazine. She had the mother of all headaches. The chief editor had appointed her as reader editing staff for newcomers. Amateur readers, she called it.
“What a slap in the face to put me into this amateur writers slot, to send in their unpolished crap! What an insult!”
There she sat, looking at the slush pile. “These writers think just because this link is for kids, they can send any garbage in, and we’ll just eat it up. I’m trying to build a reputation here, so just let them try!”
She read through the first account, with all its descriptive, confusing imagery and no decipherable plot. She nearly gagged, due in part, to the overabundance of partying the night before, when she drowned her low self esteem in beer.
“Okay,” she began typing on her keyboard to send to the writer’s street address, “I’ll try to be nice about this…”
