Bring on the rejections

A I might have mentioned earlier in the week, recently I was cleaning out my files.

More specifically, I was throwing out old crap to make room for new crap.

Part of growing up, I have found, is the self-inflicted accumulation of records: cashed checks, electricity bills, year end portfolio statements (always disappointing) and copies of insurance policies I hope I never have to need.

I don't know how you do it, but I like to purchase these huge blue accordion envelope/briefcases. Inside, there's a compartment for all the vitals. Which makes it incredibly easy for a slob like myself.

Because I dread an audit from the Infernal Revenue Service, I like to keep about 5 years worth of papers I hope no one will ever want to see. To make room for 2014's stash I emptied out the blue briefcase containing the data from 2009.

It all went directly into the shredder because I also dread the notion of someone stealing my identity.

There's a guy named Rich Siegel from Spring Valley, NY who has already tainted my good name. He's a non-apologetic self loathing Jew who blathers on about barbarous, bloodthirsty Palestinian terrorists and their "oh-so-noble" cause. Freedom fighters, he calls them. I prefer the term, murderous sore losers.

In any case, while throwing out the trash from 2009, I came across an entire stash of Rejection letters from literary agents and publishing houses for my 2005 book, Tuesdays With Mantu.

I had been looking for these for years.

You know, because once Random House comes to their senses and puts me on their roster of esteemed writers and doles out hefty advances they will look back at their prior poor decision and hang their heads in shame.

At least that's the way it plays out in my head.

With 95% of my next book written, I'm about to embark on this journey of shame once again.

Before I do, and without letting out too many details of what is coming, I thought I'd share what once was.

Back in 2004, I had written to C. Michael Curtis of the Atlantic Monthly and enclosed a manuscript of my adventures with Nigerian Con Artists. I told Michael how the only way to dissuade one persistent scammer was to enclose a fake obituary and make him believe I had died.

I also told Michael how I was treated poorly by the publisher of Pizza Today, who refused to run my story in their publication.

I guess he was amused because though he passed the work he took the time to pen a most unusual rejection letter, which I was so happy to find.