LOST WEEKEND

by Robert Lopresti

Friday 6 PM. Get home. Open the mail. Big brown self-addressed envelope contains one of my stories. The rejection note is one typed sentence: I found the story compelling, but not what we are looking for right now. Then the editor’s hand-signed name. White wine is cold and compelling. Pour a glass.

7 PM. Check the letter to make sure name is correct. Sometimes the wrong letter gets in an envelope. It’s my name, all right. Damn.

9 PM. Have an idea while pushing dinner around plate. Over coffee check a dictionary to see if compelling has a secondary, unfamiliar meaning, such as loathsome, or boring. Apparently not.

11 PM. Just before bed, check two more dictionaries. No luck.

Saturday 7 AM. Had another idea during the night. Find rejection letter. Compare it to other letters from same editor accepting stories. Same type font. Check his signature for changes that might indicate drunkenness, early onset Alzheimer’s, or possible duress, such as being forced to sign at gun point. No luck. Damn.

10 AM. Check yellow pages for handwriting experts. County is awash in Graphic Designers and Gratings salesmen, but bereft of Graphologists.

Noon. Over flavorless, uninspired lunch reconsider avocation. Perhaps not too late to take up knitting.

2 PM. Examine returned story page by page. Find editor has added a comma to first sentence by pen. Consider it a dubious addition. Worth calling editor and arguing? Probably not.

3 PM. No other corrections were added to manuscript. Cheered by thought that the story had no other flaws. Or perhaps editor stopped reading after the first comma problem. Too early for wine?

5 PM. Resolve to edit story from scratch, examining it as outsider, testing each and every word for perfection.

5:15 PM. Consider taking up butterfly collecting.

7 PM. Go out to eat. Consider reciting the first sentence to other diners and asking whether they think a comma is needed. Restrained by wife.

Sunday 8 AM. Go for morning walk in the clear, bracing autumn air. Don’t spare thought for pathetically unhappy editor, sniping at better writers than he will ever be.

11 AM. Hold rejection letter up to strong light, searching for invisible ink or other secret messages. Nothing.

2 PM. Get idea for a new story. Pull out notebook and put down a page and a half of thoughts. Butterfly collecting will have to wait.

7 PM. Print new copy of first page, including debatable comma. Print labels for outer and inner envelopes.

Monday 9 AM. Mail story to a different magazine. One editor’s opinion is only one editor’s opinion.