I recently submitted a short story to an amazing, highly reputable publication. I was rejected, but not because the story stank (hooray!)
The kind and generous reviewer (read: I'd like to submit again so I still love you a lot!) told me that the tone was off from the rest of the pieces they planned to publish for that issue. He said my piece was light and funny, and that their latest edition would be full of dark and serious fare. He advised me to re-apply after a few more cycles.
When I say the reviewer was generous, I mean it. He didn't have to tell me why I was rejected, and he didn't have to encourage me to apply later on. It was above and beyond what most people do in this hyper-busy, callous industry. It's more than what I would do, for I prefer the "Ignore-and-Dash" method when it comes to rejecting employees.
But, what did throw me off is this: I swear on my life that I didn't mean for my piece to be light and funny.
I mean, I didn't think it was Crime and Punishment or anything, but I honestly believed it was one of the most serious things I have ever written. Some real pathos to the face! A true Bildungsroman! Yes, there's humor, but dark humor. The "wow this shit is makin' me think" humor, not the "hahahahahahaha *snort*" humor. Even then, I believed the humor was trumped by a dead-ass, if not gratingly serious message: the protagonist is way fucked up by all accounts, and this isn't going to end well. So, go be sad.
That I was completely wrong about the piece -- at least according to this guy who has many, many more degrees than me -- says a lot about me. This picture also says a lot about me.
Lesson: you can't escape who you are. I will never be Dostoevsky unless you're just asking me to wear a fake beard and eat a lot of goulash. Thankfully, I do both, often.
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