Yo, I realize this rejection is a far cry from an acceptance. In fact, they're not even in the same orbit. I know, I know. I also realize that the axis on this note is crooked, no editorial assistant or editor bothered to sign her/his name or write one incomprehensible but encouraging sentence in pen, instantly humanizing the cold, mechanical rejection process. I'm painfully aware of all of these details--trust me. If I paid any more attention to detail, people would stop accusing me of being metrosexual and start accusing me of being The Other Sex, to be wildly essentialistic. But after getting nothing but impersonal form rejections from the Paris Review for years, it is just a tiny little bump to finally get a good rejection from such an awesome literary journal. And while I think having a literary agent would make this process so much more damn viable for me, and while I've read fiction in the
Paris Review that is as good, occasionally, better + also worse than the story they just rejected, I feel like it's very possible with more hard work, determination + a lot of luck, that I will get a story published in this journal sometime sooner than later.
Anyway,
Paris Review, expect a new kickass story in the mail as soon as I'm done with this motherfucking dissertation chapter. Then it's your turn! And I'm bringing the big guns this time. I'm gonna glock my way to publication.
