YOUR SUBMISSION TO THE SIMPLE LINE
Dear Mr. Mandrake,
We first want to thank you and express our appreciation for your submission to The Simple Line. We would not be the vibrant literary community we are today if it were not for submissions like yours. We know folks barely have time to read anything these days, ourselves included. We understand writing is hard work. A bitter pill to swallow. A dual between language and sentiment. A gallop over the stone wall of convention into lush fields or a barren desert. Such hard work, it took us six weeks to compose this letter. You probably want an answer already, so we will just come out and say it:
No. Regretfully, we decline your piece, Dingbat’s Basket Case.
Please do not think we make our decision lightly, and please do not foist the blame upon me. My co-editors argued for rejection, and I eventually agreed after several bottles of pinot noir and a cupful of tears, but what is writing without flourishes of sadness, passion? We had a vibrant discussion about it on our podcast. Fret not. All relevant information pertaining to you and your manuscript was edited out. Your submission was given careful consideration and we often need to decline excellent work. Of those declines, your story might have fallen into that category, albeit we will never tell you outright because it is not an efficient use of our words. Economy is a foundational principle at The Simple Line. That said, when we come across certain submissions that titillate our sentiments, we believe they deserve further commentary; allowing us time to hunch over our feathered pens if you will.
Dingbat’s Basket Case warrants such deliberation. You could say we fell in love with Dingbat and his misadventures, and we wish to dwell in his world a while longer, but not too long because we are terribly busy trying to get our first print edition off the press. We hope the following notes provide encouragement and guide you in your attempt to place this story elsewhere.
First, we must address your author bio. Ishmael Mandrake works on an oil rig in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He has work featured in The Paris, Texas Review, Albatross and Aardvarks, and has a forthcoming novel released by Pigeon Incidental House. If you are an oil rig man, why are you telling us a story about sexual exploration in Siberia, particularly one with so much arbitrary alliteration? Write what you know, Ishmael. It’s the first rule. Moving on to Dingbat, your misbegotten hero.
Dingbat is more than just a village dunce living in a Siberian border town who tries to extract pleasure from inanimate objects. He is more than this pubescent, Frankensteinian homage constructing a pleasure doll made of twigs. He is a human being who can only reveal his truth under the cover of darkness. For your clarity’s sake, the sexual nature of your story is not why we declined. While one editor, who shall remain nameless, finds the whole notion of sex to be silly, they kept their lack of proclivities to themselves, although finding ways to use less graphic detail in these encounters might be worth exploring; some editors might grow uncomfortable if you leave them as is. We, however, do not mind oversharing, as long as form fits function. We only care about what is on the page. We want writing that makes us squirm, makes us feel alive, dead even. On our end, the explicit sexuality was the least interesting aspect—specifically when he attempts coitus with a hay basket. We applaud the attempt to highlight the objectophile community, but good ideas and good intentions a great story does not make. The rest of the editors, in a drunken rage, attempted to immolate your manuscript out of frustration at the drudgery of your carnal fixation. I was the one who reminded them of our free speech absolutist philosophy. My heroics made this rejection letter possible. No need to thank me. Other issues with your piece reside in language and characterization. We shall begin with the latter.
Our question to you, Mr. Mandrake, is why in the world does Dingbat not wear a coat when he goes outside after the argument with his mother about the sour borscht? This tale takes place during Siberian winter, does it not? Forget the unresolved romance with the neighbor girl from Petropavlovsk who stalks and extorts Dingbat for his mother’s slippers: sidenote, one of our readers deftly indicated how the slippers are a Chekhov’s gun, in that they need to play a larger role in the plot. Why leave the slippers out to dry? They are so raw with potential in all their ragged fluff. In further revisions, be brief and direct when addressing this inconsistency, be as economical as possible, have no word overstay its welcome, nor sentence drag itself beyond utility. But back to the matter at hand, we want to know why the hell he didn’t bring a jacket with him. Is he suicidal? You may think we assumed he brought a jacket since the protagonist is a Siberian living in Siberia, but it was not specified on the page, and if you read our guidelines, it clearly states we do not believe in that ratty old dog named Subtext. If I gifted you a box of men’s fragrances, would you believe I thought you smelled bad? Of course not. They would be a gift. If I did not say, write, or gesture in American Sign Language (of which our poetry editor is translating into audio form) that I find you, Ishmael Mandrake, to smell bad, then I don’t think you smell bad, nor should you believe you smell bad, but it never hurts to apply deodorant.
At The Simple Line, if it does not happen on the page…it does not happen. Assuming meaning, theme, or motivation by what is unsaid makes us nauseous. Truly. We fell ill. After pulling our heads from steaming barf bags, we could only surmise Dingbat means to kill himself because you leave us with no other choice. My co-editor needed Dramamine after experiencing so much semantic whiplash. Now, we must move on to the second issue: your language and cadence but let me first commend you on your dialogue, a portion at least.
The cuss words and the backwoods slang (fabricated or not) added much-needed color to a gray, snowy narrative. The dialogue between Igor and Petrov reminded us of Waiting for Godot, except with a hyper-focus on athlete’s foot. The moment when Igor pops his gangrenous blisters is just divine. Let me pull from my favorite moment of the entire story:
What’s that? Igor said with a frozen fig dissolving against a back molar, thus making a slurping sound throughout.
What’s what? Petrov replied.
In the window. Is that a woman?
That’s a wicker basket.
No, I swear it’s a woman.
You’re bologna. That Dingbat could never have a woman over.
Then what do I see in Dingbat’s window? And what is he doing with it?
That’s a wicker basket. The cold’s gone to your head. Move over, let me see…Huh, one way to keep warm.
I can’t help but make a comment about this fantastic back-and-forth. Nothing diverges or disrupts the flow. There’s not a speck of friction or clunkiness or writerly ego. Well done.
Why did we come out here anyway? It’s the middle of the night.
What else is there to do when you’re so cold?
Oh, that’s right. We forgot to get firewood, so I said we might as well stare into people’s windows.
My feet hurt. These blisters break off like glass.
If you had a pen and paper, I would tell you to write that down. It’s a shame you wouldn’t be able to read it.
Does this exchange resolve itself? Play a role in the plot? No, but it’s comic relief in an otherwise glum story. What a joy to read such explosive dialogue. Moving on to another issue: sentence length.
We are The Simple Line for a reason. We derive the name from an interview given by Charles Bukowski where he said his work contributed to the simple line. He wrote simply, and we think others should too. We prefer simple sentences. For example, instead of writing: Dingbat, the ragamuffin feared by all cloistered wicker baskets, commenced his latest conquest, and placed it back on Adonaya’s front porch, steaming icicles in the snow…Write: Dingbat was a ragamuffin to all wicker baskets. He was a scoundrel to all wicker baskets. He picked up the wicker basket. He had his way with the wicker basket. He put the wicker basket back on Adonaya’s front porch after he was finished with the wicker basket. See how much better that is? The sentences leave no room for mystery. There isn’t a dash of subtext. Only action and active words. We are no stranger to your plight of longwindedness, Mr. Mandrake. In a past life, I found myself waxing poetic on the tendencies of microscopic bacteria dancing on the head of a pin with no ear for conflict or tension. Another editor could not stop scribbling thirty-page palindromes. We met by happenstance at a book signing for our favorite romance novelist. Our floundering in the wake of divergence and tangentialism is what brought about the idea for The Simple Line. A remedy for our errors. Now, we only write stories and poems and novels that fit on an index card. Our work has never been better. All this to say, there is hope for you.
Of course, we have room for complexity—a comma here and there but not too much; God forbid we find an em dash. Forget about semicolons, of which we found a total of seven. Seven semicolons. The nerve to include semicolons in a magazine as simple as ours, not to mention the dozen-plus sentences that exceeded thirty letters. We do not dare delve into the meticulous, writerly flourishes because it is a somber craft requiring a spinster’s touch, knowing the beautiful dress will not be theirs once it leaves the spool, therefore, writing demands a degree of distance.
We could go on, but here is where we must leave you. Please do not be discouraged by these oversights on your part. All this needed was another set of eyes to put you on the right path. We are honored to be your guide. No need to reply in gratitude for receiving these enlightened critiques.
Wherever you are, we love you. As always, stay simple.
M.C.G. writes mainly fiction and hopes to write more.
