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 kiddingâ€¦ 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.
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.)