The Best Rejection Letter

           

I’ve received more rejection letters from publishing houses than going on dates.  This kind of rejection isn’t about being dismissed. It’s the courtesy behind the elimination, the acknowledgement to my written words and the way my own creation was accepted.  Rejection letters are geared towards the respect of my dismissal and how I found the glory behind it.  Like most beginner authors, my writing has not been published, but the “Unfortunately this story blahblahblah”-style of generic cut-me-downs has grown to a size of considerable height deterring me from moving forward. I’ll recycle them soon enough.

Except for one. Just one.

Recently, my hands took courage to seal and deliver a short story. My feet, with fear, stepped towards the mail slot. Carefully, I placed my submission through the opening, waiting to hear it land gently with the other important pieces of mail to be delivered. After my hands released my creation, I walked away and waited as I was on my way to work.

Waiting is the worst part because of the anticipation for an answer that won't come anytime soon. The worry doesn't kick in because there's an optimistic possibility of gaining recognition and excellent opportunities through this field. Generally, it takes a few months to be properly jilted. Hopefully by then, you would have moved on. Shit, I know I would. A few months is too much time to waste on other people getting their organizational skills in order. Just read it, accept / deny it, and move on. Why the long haul? You have time to visit the restroom for 5 minutes, then bring it in there with you, and make your decision as you're drying your hands. One thing I want to say to you publishers is this, "Please don't leave us writers hanging. Put us out of our misery!" 

If the holy powers that be in the publishing house are nice, they’ll reject you within 2 weeks. That is, if they have a soul. During the first few weeks, there is calm and ease because the glimmer of hope that lives within nurtures your faith and whispers to your heart that they’re going to read and love it. The excitement remains, and that they will give you all the glory for submitting passion and art.

If you hear nothing in the 2nd month, chances are they don't think the submission sucks. They're actually considering your written work as worthy enough to be published and recognized. Your name could be printed, and you can totally buy every copy for your family, friends, and haters just to show them what goal has been accomplished. Of course, celebrations will be in order; someone may ask for a signature, your mother and father will beam at your talents and argue over which side of the family you got your talent from. Soon, I'd be considered among the favorite of my family, and get the long-awaited adulation from my friends and colleagues. 

Speaking of favorites, my favorite rejection letter came in a few weeks ago. It was really the brightest part of my day, and quite honestly, the most positive thing that has happened to me in all of October.  I collected the mail before walking into my humble apartment. I looked through all the stupid shit I have to pay for when my eyes noticed a lovely white envelope from one of the companies I mailed my short story to. Carefully, I opened the envelope and pulled out a letter that was attached to my story.

It wasn’t the ordinary, generic letter that is saved in a word document to print out hundreds of the same notes, sent to other writing hopefuls such as I. No, this letter was different.

It was hand-written.

A representative from the company wrote to say, in their neat penmanship lively adorned in blue ink, that my submission wasn’t what they were looking for, but they loved reading it nonetheless. Those inked words spread across the page making me realize the personality behind that pen. I felt the extended gesture of this person reaching out to me, thanking me for my time, congratulating me on making it to their desk and genuinely feeling terrible that my name wouldn’t appear with the company. There was sincerity behind this letter. There was authenticity in the letter.

There is something romantic about a handwritten letter. The simple act of taking the time to write your thoughts onto paper, conveying yourself to another person, letting them know that you have been thinking about them and had to share it. Having it signed, sealed and delivered to the object of affection, is the best way to share the love.

I have to thank this person for taking the five minutes to visit the restroom with my story, pen and pad in hand, to write out the best rejection letter I have ever received. I just hope they washed their hands first.  

Musical Cheer of the Dancing Dad

“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain”

-Bob Marley

My dad literally is, the nicest and happiest man on this planet. 

He is vivacious and funny, a man with a dancing spirit, filled with song and a chubby glee. He played his guitar at family parties, sang songs while others around him were having conversation, and danced Zembekiko around a shot of cognac, at every baptism, wedding and holiday party. He was always a hit, the one Greek that others sought after to surround themselves around his naturally happy energy. He is one of the guys.   

My father’s biggest pride and joy was that he was in love with his roles as Daddy and Husband. He perfected the art of being a Daddy and knew how to love his woman. He loved being the provider and leader. Seeing his wife and kids smile, hearing us laugh, running up to him when he came home from work, that’s what validated his hard-working life. When he played the guitar, my sister would sit at his feet watching him play. My brother mimicked the way he danced. I took mental note of his captivating performances (they were awe-inspiring) and my Mother would yell from the kitchen, that we were too loud. Imagine that, a Greek woman yelling that we were too loud.

His gentleness came from his heart. Always give and always help. As much as you can. He has a willingness to give because he wanted to. He gave because he recognized the need the person was in. He has this ability to make every problem go away, while leaving a bit of his happiness with that person.

I wish his gift of happy-giving could take away the problem of diabetes.

Diabetes affects millions of people each year. My father is one of those people who are affected. He’s become adjusted to the glucose levels being uneven and taking insulin shots. He knows the consequences his poor eating habits will have on his heart, blood vessels and kidneys. But it’s really hard to ignore the demanding scent of a charbroiled burger, or the smells of homemade potatoes with lamb cooking in the oven. It’s hard to avoid a freshly-cut piece of baklava, or pass over a slice of pepperoni pizza. It’s difficult to pass those feel-good foods when they’re sitting right in front of you. Rejecting food as a diabetic is arduously the most challenging diet ever.

The gradual effects of diabetes target specific parts of the body. If it’s not treated properly, it can damage his heart, which beats only for his kids and his wife. His unconditional loving heart for music, dance and joy is a target.

Diabetes can also address and point at his eyesight. His eyes that emanate a joyous glee and tear up at sentimental movies, his small brown eyes might glow with an elated delight and devotion. His modest eyes smile at the first glance of our presence, beam at the sight of the Ionian Sea. They light up when his eyes see a lamb turning on the spit, and they glow when a performance of the bouzouki is bestowed in front of him. His eyesight may slowly leave him, but it won’t remove his warm love.

Diabetes is talented in the art of rhetoric. It can make a person in the advanced stage, ask the same question a hundred different ways. FBI interrogators could learn something from those. Diabetes directs itself unto the brain, slowly chipping away the loving memories he’s collected over the years, erasing important information and replacing it with the mundane personality of a broken record.

The hardest part for him is trying not to forget the lyrics to his favorite songs. It’s becoming difficult to remember the softness of the bass versus the accordion to his favorite Stratos Dionisios songs. There is a strong possibility that the loss of remembering the proper way to hold the bouzouki frightens him. There is fear of losing the songs of his era that are permanently embedded in his mind. The stance of the Zembekiko is practiced, but movement is slow. It’s the fear of forgetting the way the Zakynthian sun settles into the ocean; the anxiety of, unknowingly, losing the memory of when he first laid eyes on my mother’s natural beauty.          

 

The hardest part isn’t losing the music that lives within him.

It’s the fact that the music will be lost without him.