Failing Professionally

While I wait for my solid gold official MWF blogger medallion to arrive in the mail, I have been in a somewhat pensive mood. Staring through rain soaked windowpanes with Richard Marx on repeat will do that to a man. On paper I am a comedian and writer, but I have no novels under my belt to boast of, so can I really claim that latter title? I still have a Clark Kent style day job to pay my bills. You know your day job sucks when people ask, “So what are you studying?” and you can only reply “nothing”. At which point, the person asking usually looks sadder than I feel.

I am a failure. I am such a spectacular failure one could almost say it’s my calling. I would of course love to be a greater success, but where would I find the time? I’m too busy failing to succeed. I suppose I could slot achievement somewhere into my schedule between “not realising my dreams” and “realising my dreams won’t be realised”.

I have achieved very little in this life. I’d write an autobiography but I fear it would be little more than a pamphlet. One that would most likely have one of the following titles: “What’s a Keck?” “How to boil Mi-Goreng in your lonely tears” or “My parachute is made of good intentions”. I have lofty hopes this best selling autobiography will soon be found under the bottoms, and to a lesser extent, the chairs of Ellen DeGeneres’ audience.

So while I wait for celebrity endorsements to make my cup-of-soup runneth over, I thought it might be interesting to show you some of my past rejection letters. Over the years I have steadily amassed rejection letters in the same fashion that my friends amassed things like ‘goals’ and ‘savings’.

The first rejection letter is from one of Australia’s largest publishing houses, whose name has been omitted so that they can’t sue me for the tinned baked beans I plan on bequeathing to my grandchildren some day.

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Dear Mr. Keck,

Thank you for your submission. While we at ___________ are always keen to receive new manuscripts, we regret to inform you we have chosen not to publish your fantasy political vampire epic “Baritone Fist: The Mark Latham vampire punching chronicles”.

We rejected your submission for a couple of reasons. Firstly, no one in our office has even heard of Mark Latham. Secondly, we have a policy of only accepting manuscripts. Sending a poorly drawn stick figure standing on a pile of money screaming, “Suck it Dan Brown” does not fall within our submission guidelines.

Best of luck with… you.

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Perhaps jumping straight into a full book was a tad ambitious. I set my sights a little lower. A lot lower really. I set my sights on writing for a newspaper, that for legal reasons, we’ll call Uncle Rupert’s Jenga of Truth.

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Dear Mr. Keck,

I’m not entirely sure how you found my email address, but I’m sorry to tell you that Uncle Rupert’s Jenga of Truth have already filled the position of senior pun headline writer. However, we did enjoy your submissions, particularly “Ike Beats Tina to Death”.

Thanks also for your lovely appraisal of our paper. We pride ourselves on the quality of Uncle Rupert’s Jenga of Truth. The fact that you took the time out to tell us your thoughts really means something. I loved this part of your email – “You can always judge the journalistic integrity of a publication by the cup size of the blonde on the front cover giving away footy cards” . Could not agree with you more Mr. Keck.

Stay golden Pun Boy.

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Here is my final rejection letter I’ll share with you. I have a strong love of words, so if a novel wasn’t feasible and there was no room for my elite pun skills, I had only one place to turn that would still make use of my wordsmithery. That’s a word right?

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Dear Mr. Keck,

Thank you for your correspondence. Merriam-Webster have built our entire business on the written word. However, we don’t actually pay people to make up new words.

If we did employ people to make up new words, my colleagues and I would have picked these out of the seventy-three suggestions you sent.

Parlybarge
Par•ly•barge

1      Someone who designs nightclub toilets that are so minimalist, you don’t know what the urinal looks like and end up pissing on a mirror.

SammyWoodrow
Sam•my•Wood•row

1      A man defecating in a busy intersection who refuses to break eye contact with you until he’s finished.

Shaky J Fox
Shak•y•J•Fox

1      A Shaky J Fox refers to someone so pretentious that they wear an iPhone on each finger. If they dial their knuckles whilst sexually gratifying themselves, this is known as a ‘Shaky Pony Fun Town’.

Please continue your ‘art’.

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As you can see, I still have a long way to go. I’ll let you know when I’m scheduled to appear on Ellen. In the meantime, if you’re all too familiar with the gut punch of rejection, you can sign up to be a part of one of the workshops, seminars, and master classes that are part of the Melbourne Writers Festival Professional Development Program and pick up the necessary skills to truly lay claim to the title ‘Writer’ and not just ‘part-time failure’.