So I got this email just now:

By the time you read this, your man­u­scripts will have already been rejected.

There’s no sense in ask­ing me why or what you could have done dif­fer­ently, because I’ve already moved on to other stories.

It wasn’t you. It was me. I — Awww, who’m I kid­ding… it was partly you. You didn’t make me feel like you were really inter­ested in mak­ing this rela­tion­ship work. I didn’t feel any sparks between us. You didn’t make me laugh.

This story wasn’t a match made in heaven, but the next one may be. Sub­mit again. If you don’t, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomor­row. But soon. And for the rest of your life.

Sin­cerely,

On the Brighter Side [the mag­a­zine I sub­mit­ted to –Ed.]

PS: I’m keep­ing the ring.

I like when I get amus­ing rejec­tion let­ters*. But noth­ing has yet topped being called “Ms. Johan­neson” by the now-defunct scifi.com.

____

* By which I mean, if I must be rejected, I pre­fer to be rejected by some­one with a sense of humour. (Though I must say that con­struc­tive crit­i­cism trumps laughs.)