I Submitted a Piece of Fiction to The New Yorker, And What Happened Next Will Change Your View on Publishing Forever

It’s been almost five years since I sent a piece of fiction to The New Yorker. It was one of the best things I ever wrote. The real first-class type of writing that makes people rich and famous and all that shit.

They didn’t respond.

I queried after two years.

They didn’t respond.

The piece was accepted elsewhere. Although I knew the publication wouldn’t bring me the same fame without The New Yorker seal of approval, I went ahead and agreed to their terms. No payment. Hell, they didn’t even allow me to include a bio with the story. I’d link it for you, but the publication closed up shop a few years back.

I knew it was a bit jerky of me, but I never withdrew the piece from The New Yorker.

Any day now, The New Yorker will send their acceptance letter. This is how I will respond:

“The story is no longer available. Too bad for you, fuckers.”

And they won’t respond.

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6 thoughts on “I Submitted a Piece of Fiction to The New Yorker, And What Happened Next Will Change Your View on Publishing Forever

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