Cover Letter

Dear Unpaid Intern,

Enclosed, please find my story “Crushing Mustard Seeds” and throw it out with the others. Just send the rejection letter. It will save both of us time. Why bother, then? My folks are writers. They want me to be a writer. They have some kind of dynasty thing, some kind of carrying-on-of-the-family-business, Barrymores-in-print thing. They couldn’t care less that I couldn’t care less about writing. They could, of course, just call their publishers and be done with it, but they won’t. “It has to be accepted on its own merit,” they tell me with the slim smile of a Grand Inquisitor. “It has to be your talent, not ours. What would people think?” They won’t let me use their name. I can’t write about my childhood or about them because they consider it banal and not really writing. “It’s typing,” they cackle and then we have to go through the whole Truman Capote thing and how he squandered his gift away, just like me, only he had a reputation to lose.

Last week, my Dad called. “Your Mother has cancer of the pancreas,” he told me, “and it’s terminal. Any responses yet? She’d really love it if you published before she died.” Those were his words.

You probably have the opposite problem. Your parents are probably normal and want you to have the same normal life that they do. They distrust “Art” and “Literature” and have trouble relating to you at Thanksgiving and Christmas. They find it odd that you read for a living and shake their bewildered heads as they send you a check for the rent on your roach motel in Brooklyn, but they love you anyway. They want you to be happy. I truly hope you appreciate them.

I went to visit my Mom in the hospital. She looked like hell. If I thought that my Dad was lying for effect, seeing her in person confirmed that she’s dying.

“Any word?”

“I’ve got some stories out there. I think they’re good. Maybe this time, Mom. We’ll see. Cross your fingers!”

She smiled and for a moment it seemed as if getting published could honestly keep her alive. A little color came into her face. The nurse even commented on it. I smiled back at her.

If you bother trying to read the actual story you’ll see that the font is Wingding. In all honesty, it’s good. It’s publishable.

And if you’re wondering, I send these only for the rejection letters. They pay me $1000 per letter. No letter, no money.

Sincerely,