As the rejections rolled in, I began to feel sorry for this story in the same way you pity a one-hit wonder who ends up on infomercials: two parts schadenfreude, one part authentic compassion. This poor story, like the sly dude chosen by the dance-floor starlet, thought he had it all. Here he was convinced that he could effortlessly charm the panties off of any university-based handout with “Review” in the title. What the hell happened?
Friday, March 22, 2013
… The New Yorker Rejects Itself: A Quasi-Scientific Analysis of Slush Piles | The Review Review. (Hat tip, Dave Lull.)