Saturday, April 29, 2017

Dear New Yorker please

Dear William Shawn or whoever The New Yorker editor is these days:

Please publish one or two of my enclosed essays. No, seriously, I am begging you; Please publish one of my enclosed essays. You are my last hope in the world.

I have done everything I can think of to try and get the wide world to take an interest in my writing. Admittedly I have not been able to think of much. So far what I have done to get the world to take an interest in my writing has been to:

A. Try to trick them into it.

B. Be a better writer than anyone else, and,

C. Try to trick them into it by being a better writer than anyone else.

None of these worked. I am down to my last idea. And I'm afraid it involves you.

I know what they say: No one likes to be needed, or something like that, but I am nevertheless hoping you'll suck it up, stand tall, and take the path of nobility. After all, as it says on your masthead: "Get access to our magazine app for tablets and smartphones at the App Store,, or Google Play. (Access varies by location and device.)."

As is common with people like me who hate authority and think people in charge are the problem, I also overrate and glamorize their power and influence. So I'm saying there are some psychological issues going on here. But, as we're forced to do almost relentlessly in public life, let's pretend that there aren't. 

I have decided my delicious, witty, and freakishly insightful writing can only achieve its deserved level of notoriety when it is championed by an august institution. Only when a vaunted, impartial member of the establishment, like you and The New Yorker, cries out "Here, this is the stuff!" will people look at my work in the proper light of reverence. Once they look at my work in the light of that profound recommendation and respect its shining virtues will rise out of it before their very eyes, like fruit flies emerging from a disturbed compost bin on a warm summer day. There might be a better analogy than that, but this is just a letter and not my final work, and so not indicative of the full reach of my talents.

But this does bring us to an excellent point. If my work requires a wild enthusiasm from a major literary cultural figure and institution to be properly seen, how can a major literary figure and institution, such as yourself, see it enough to be wildly enthusiastic about it?

There is no way. That is why I am asking, imploring you to ignore your every impulse and reaction to my work and publish it with your exalted brand and most profound seal of approval regardless. I am asking you to do it on faith, and perhaps as a test of your power and influence. But if you trust in me I firmly believe that over the years you will forget your vague distaste for my work and will come to see its deep genius. At that point your heart will swell and you will be thankful for the day you devoted yourself to my literary triumph.

Other than this I am out of options. 

I thank you for your time and consideration,

F. Calypso

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