The worst moment in a writer’s life is the day he receives his first rejection slip. The second worst is the day his first book is published.
The former because it only takes one person—one person—to prevent what would have been a remarkable and brilliant early debut. One person, whom the writer is sure was a summer intern from Barnard with a fondness for capri pants and a smug conviction in her ability to assess genius, to deep-six his career. One skinny, privileged-enough-to-survive-being underpaid assistant, who now most likely was a spinning instructor with an eating disorder, to reject him. Read more »