Brad Foster, 2018 ©
Ever heard of Andrew Tulane, the renowned author?
No?
Didn’t think so.
That’s because he’ll never exist.
Andrew Tulane, the man, does exist — at least for the time being. There he is, working on his next story. His hopes are high — he’s sure this one will finally win the contest this year. The rejection notices — had he kept the letters (which he burned) and printed out the e-mailed ones that he’d deleted — could have served as a growth chart from when he began writing at twelve to his current age of thirty-one.
He’s just finished his story that had consumed months of his time. He fills out the online form and pays the fee. Now, he’s sitting back and relishing the success of completion. Andrew doesn’t expect to know the results for at least two months.
Which is why he’s completely surprised to see the familiar rejection email in the next few days:
“Thank you for sending us ‘Kayko of the Mountain’ for consideration in this year’s contest. We received many fantastic entries and unfortunately, yours was not one of them. Thank you for your submission and we wish you the best with this piece.”
Andrew noticed the date of this email was post-dated two months from now. He emailed the coordinators, who brusquely emailed him that the contest has not even closed yet, and to please be patient. Alright, then, and he thought nothing else of it.
