LatinosUSA

Miller sat before his laptop, open on the desk in his living room. He read the most recent rejection letter from Raj Patel, the editor of Foremost Fiction Journal (FFJ), Miller’s go-to venue for his new fiction. He submitted his stories to the outlet for more than two years, and was published on many occasions. Miller noticed a change in the attitude of the editor over that time. He read the editor’s email.

Dear Miller,

I told you in the past that you are a talented writer. Perhaps I was premature in my estimation. Your most recent submission, “Lunar Eclipse,” is a case in point.

In this screed, you depict the MC, Eliot, as a disabled person supporting his two daughters on a sub-minimum wage income. Now, you revealed several months ago that you are yourself disabled, and so your plots and your characters tend to follow along those lines.

However, this is clearly a cry for help, a cry which I cannot answer, nor would I want to if I could. I am the editor of a successful fiction zine, not a social worker. If you need help, call your government. Don’t turn on the tears and sob to me or my readers.

You apparently feel entitled to the largesse of the world, writ large. Well, f**k off, man, and stop writing this crap. Or if you must write it, for purposes of catharsis, don’t send it to me. I ain’t your daddy!

The rest was boilerplate:

Thank you for your submission. It was carefully read by at least two persons and given careful scrutiny. We are sorry this story was not a fit for us at this time. Acceptance or rejection is not a reflection of the quality of your work. Taste is subjective. Don’t worry–be happy! Feel free to submit again. Please wait 30 days from the date of this email to submit anew.

There followed a solicitation for Patreon contributions and an ad for Magestic Literary Critiques that practically guarantee publication in a leading magazine. There ensued a menu of options and prices.

Raj, EIC, FFJ

Miller printed the email, and filed it in a deep drawer in his desk. The drawer was overflowing with similar emails.

He sighed.

Miller decided that his friend, Raj, was uncomfortable dealing with a writer who was disabled. But what could Miller do? After all, he was disabled and had been since the auto accident 18 months ago. Struck with a sudden thirst, he alit from his chair and walked on his hands (for he had no legs) into the kitchen, where he snatched a bottle of beer from the fridge.

Making his way back to the living room, he unscrewed the cap and drank. He contemplated his own reinvention. “I know,” he said to the empty room, “what I have to do.”

For his next submission, Miller pounded out a 3,000+ word story about his bountifully successful operation to attach prosthetic super legs where his old appendages had once been. Miller’s story was positive and optimistic, and his text was uplifting and inspirational. Raj Patel was effusive in his praise.

Dear Miller,

I am so glad you finally took the bull by the balls and seized the day. Carpe fucking diem, man! I’ll run “Under the Knife” on February 1.

Raj, EIC, FFJ

Miller was pleased. His writing was back on track. He was accepted again. It felt good to belong.

“Goody,” he murmured to an empty room.

But his success did not stop there. Miller next wrote a 14,000-word novelette about his amazing physical recovery. From a 20-hour operation to months in the hospital to arduous rehab, Miller touched on it all. His efforts did not go unnoticed.

Dear Miller,

Thank you for the insightful and inspiring short fiction. I am happy you are prospering on your own, the way a man should! We’ll publish it on June 2.

Raj, EIC, FFJ

Finally, Miller reached his literary apex. Over the course of six months, he wrote “The Long Walk,” a fictionalized account of his trial by fire. Working feverishly, he wrote more than 105,000 words of what Raj called “splendid prose.” When he read that, Miller beamed. A sequel, titled “Fleet of Foot,” revealed Miller’s new career as an amateur soccer star and long-distance runner.

What’s more, Raj’s publishing company was anxious to publish the novel. With a substantial advance, he presented an offer that Miller couldn’t refuse. So, he didn’t. In celebration, Raj Patel journeyed to America from his home in Agra, India, along the bank of the Yamuna River. He would arrive today.

At long last, an unaccustomed knock sounded at Miller’s door.

“Coming,” he called, and advanced to open the door. “Happy to see you, Raj,” said Miller jauntily, standing on his hands. “Shake,” he said, offering the stub leading to an absent right foot.