Kinda Sad, Except

Message:

Many of the short stories I have written I no longer have. Several unpublished works were lost when I got RansomWare attacked; prior to 2010, if I recall?

Anyhoo, I wrote a story about a New York kid getting a haircut and killing time in VR, Kind of a Total Recall feel, living a male fantasy. In the VR, he enters an exposition game where he takes the role of Satchel Paige facing Babe Ruth after both are retired. Kid strikes out Babe Ruth--nothing but Eephus. He then pitches an extra fastball to let Babe hit one out -- "To show my respect to a great man."

That story, submitted to the New Yorker, garnered me an apology rejection from an editor at Condé Nast. She wanted it, but was outvoted. Nice of her to say, made me smile. I had submitted several times to the New Yorker prior to 9-11 before submissions were not appreciated; all the gentle folk thought every envelope held Anthrax. Strange world. Now electronic submissions--I can only imagine the magazine gets thousands--are send and no reply. Dead letter office. My previous mailed submissions were always sent under the caveat "if you do not hear from us, we don't want to publish your work." That I understand, frankly, I am not the voice they were seeking then or evermore. But the one gal reply, to say again, was enough.

Not a huge loss, the story was repurposed for Bucky in a Battle Born novella.



Yours,