"You
should write a novel," says the reporter, with just a hint
of a smirk.
Albert is instantly reminded of the only woman who ever loved
him: Mrs. Edna English. He thinks about how his cross-eyed English
teacher once told him he had creative talent.
"And she would know," he tells himself. "Mrs. English
was a trained English teacher."
He finally knows what he was meant to do with his life. The next
day, he buys a typewriter and a ream of paper.
Albert Albert sets out to write the Great American Novel. He decides
to write a children's story, since he fondly remembers the decade
he was three-years-old. He decides it should be science fiction,
since he knows a lot about that. And he decides he's going to
write about something that matters to him.
He narrows it down to two possible subjects -- either the destructive
effects of bigotry over the centuries on both individuals and
the culture -- or peas.
Eventually, after a lot of soul-searching, he decides to write
about peas.
Meanwhile, in his spare time, Albert begins to apply for things.
After being rejected by God, he naïvely believes no rejection
will ever hurt again. He applies for credit cards and government
grants. He fills out loan applications and applications for Book
of the Month Clubs. He goes to the nearest recruiting station
and is officially rejected by the United States military -- all
branches of it.
He's not allowed in the YMCA, let alone any country clubs or health
clubs.
At the best churches, he's asked to leave. At the worst ones,
the preachers don't wait until he's gone to denounce him as Satanic.
On No Refusal Fridays, when the D.J. at his favorite radio station
claims to refuse no requests, Albert knows he's a liar.
He watches a lot of television, even though he only receives one
channel with his lousy rooftop antenna. He's been turned down
by The Dish Network, Direct TV, and the sole cable provider monopolizing
the area, Comcast.
He can't get a newspaper delivered to his house. He doesn't have
a telephone number.
The only thing he ever gets in the mail are bills. He doesn't
even get any junk mail, let alone the coupons everybody else in
town gets.
He loves watching Oprah but when he writes her to get tickets
to be in her studio audience, even she rejects him.
It's so bad, when a circus comes to town and a Freaks Wanted ad
appears in the local newspaper, Albert isn't even accepted for
that.
And yet, through it all, he keeps remembering Mrs. English's B-
of love and remains confident in his writing ability. At the peak
of his productivity, he's spending fifteen hours a day at the
typewriter.
Finally, after almost a year, just as his money is running out,
Albert completes his Great American Children's Science Fiction
Novel, a 34,000-page masterpiece he entitles, War and Peas.
Confident he's about to embark on an exciting new career, Albert
prints out six copies of his book, all riddled with misspellings,
typos, and formatted in a way that's downright blasphemous. While
he fondly remembers Mrs. English's encouraging words, he recalls
nothing she tried to teach him about basic grammar.
Sending out the epic masterpiece to six of the most prominent
publishers in New York City costs Albert $886.86 in postage.
That night, Albert celebrates by drinking champagne for the first
time (which he discovers he absolutely loathes). With his novel
in the mail, he kicks back in his apartment and waits to become
rich and famous.
******
It's Friday the 13th. It's been barely two weeks since Albert
sent out his novel. Today in the mail, he receives back all six
of his self-addressed envelopes.
All six on the same day! Albert thinks that's a good sign. At
least one of these letters must be an acceptance letter.
Albert opens the first envelope and takes out the form letter
from a prominent publisher.
Under the fancy letterhead is the following . . .
***We have given careful consideration to your work and regret
we can not publish it.
We wish you all the best as a writer.***
"Hm,"
he says. "That was awfully curt." He burps, feeling
suddenly quite bloated.
He wads up the rejection letter and tosses it over his shoulder.
He opens the second letter, which is handwritten on plain white
stationary. It reads . . .
***Nice try, Sid, but that joke name gave you away.
Albert Albert, huh? Good one.
You can bet your ass we won't be wasting our time reading this
crap.
But thanks for the paper to recycle. We're Green around here,
you know?***
It's signed, Not That Gullible.
Albert feels like he just pigged out on spicy Szechuan food at
an All-You-Can-Eat Chinese buffet. Heartburn flowers in his chest.
He opens the third letter, from an even more prominent publisher
than the first two.
Under a colored letterhead is another form letter.
***After carefully reviewing your submission, War and Peas, we
have decided we are not the right publisher for your work.***
A handwritten addition has been added. . . .
***Please don't send us anything ever again!!!***
Albert's chest is tight and hot. For the next two minutes, he
gasps for air. When he realizes he might be hyperventilating,
he has cause to regret telling the grocery clerk "plastic"
instead of "paper."
Tossing the third rejection letter aside, he opens the fourth.
This one is a form letter with a twist. For a small investment
of only $59.99, he can purchase a book entitled How To Sell Even
The Worst Novel, which is described as "guidelines every
would-be author needs in today's highly competitive fiction market."
Sweating profusely now, his heartbeat pounding painfully behind
his forehead, Albert's entire body begins to shake.
The fifth letter isn't a form letter. Under the letterhead of
a revered publishing company is typed is the following,
***Mr. Albert Albert (or whatever your true name is),
Regrettably, we received your manuscript entitled War And Peas.
We are not certain if you meant this as a practical joke, an act
of terrorism, or if you are so sadly demented that you actually
believe this is in any way publishable, or even legible.
To be more clear: this novel is an abomination. It is literary
disease. We didn't just dispose of our copy, we incinerated it,
doused it with holy water, then incinerated it again. If there
were a surgical procedure we could undergo to have the memory
of this dreadful thing removed from our minds, we would do so
without reservation, even at great peril to our lives.
We have considered suing you for sending this to us but we have
been told by our legal department that we may not have a case,
since our website calls for Open Submissions. We are, however,
confident we can get a restraining order against you.
Do not EVER send us any more of your writing!
Our attorneys will be contacting you. Please direct all further
correspondence exclusively through them!***
He tosses away the fifth rejection, trembling violently. Wisps
of smoke waft out of his ears and nostrils. His face is as red
as a radish. Blood vessels are strained almost to the point of
popping. Drool hangs from his sputtering lips.
Albert Albert has reached his limit.
This is even worse than being killed by lightning.
He can swallow no more rejection.
The sixth letter has the fanciest letterhead of them all.
It reads,
***Don't give up your day job!
You're a no-talent hack.
WAR AND PEAS STINKS!***
"No-talent?"
he whines, his dreams collapsing around him in ruins.
Albert moans, "Mrs. English was wrong! I can't write!"
If this final rejection had been softened with some constructive
criticism, it might not be so devastating. As it is, he is hurt
worse than when he was rejected by God.
Albert takes it in, eating this rejection like all the others
. . . but this isn't like all the others.
This is the Rejection Letter that Destroys the World.
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