The New Yorker

Skipping reading before bed is like skipping breakfast. I can do it, but it doesn’t feel very good.

I got to bed late, so didn’t have time to read as long as I like to before falling asleep. I had finished Little Children the night before,  so was happy that the latest New Yorker came in the mail. I just read the cartoons in the back and one movie review. It wasn’t enough but tided (tode?) me over.

I first subscribed to the New Yorker when I was living in California when a writing instructor recycled his copies to the class.

My friends teased me for being pretentious – I didn’t even live in New York. But it is one of the few print magazines still around that publishes fiction – established authors (Alice Munro, T.C. Boyle, George Saunders) as well as newer authors. They also have a summer reading issue that includes many debut pieces of fiction.

I have a love/hate relationship with the fiction issue, which came two weeks ago.

One one hand, I’m excited to read so many different stories all gathered in one place. But then, every summer, a tiny bit of me dies inside because I’m not included. Over the years, I’ve submitted three stories to the New Yorker, each resulting in a Post-It note boilerplate rejection slip.

I tell myself that my fiction is too edgy for them, I’m not mainstream, but of course, the moment they do accept a story, I will be shouting about it from the rooftops!

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