As responses to rejection letters went, this one was a doozy. Tell some nut you’re not interested in publishing his book on (impossibly) ancient cults in the North American hinterlands and he sends you a thirty-five pound box. With no return address.
Better, at least, than rejecting “The Confessions of a Self-Taught Pyromancer.” (She tried to burn down my apartment.)
This time, it was a single piece of blank sandstone. Well, maybe not blank. If I hold it up to the light, I think there’s something scratched onto the surface. Petroglyphs? Letters. Hard to look at. Maybe I can trace it?
Image Credit: Ray Friskierisky