Have you ever asked why so many writers take to drink? Well, you would drink too if you received a rejection letter like these writers might have received.
Dear Mr. Faulkner (Absalom, Absalom): You are very good with the long sentences. But you seem to be stuck way too much in the past.
Dear Miss Mitchell (Gone With the wind): The Civil War is over. Get over it.
Dear Mr. Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea): Our audience is an adult audience. Unfortunately your sentences are not above the sixth grade reading level.
Dear Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer): Could you give us more sex and less story please?
Dear Mr. Steinbeck (Grapes of Wrath): We don’t do wine books.
Dear Miss Austen (Pride and Prejudice): Nothing seems to happen in your novels. If you could write something with a story like Fifty Shades of Grey, we could see our way to publishing. Call it Fifty Shades of Mr. Darcy.
Dear Mr. Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby): I am sorry but I don’t think our readers will be able to identify with your Gatsby character. He is way too rich and those parties he throws are much too sinful. Now if he loved Jesus, and was a lost soul that converted to the Lord, you would have something.
Dear Arthur Conan Doyle (A Study in Scarlet): Your detective, Sherlock Holmes, is much too smart for our readers.
Dear Mr. Dickens (A Christmas Carol): That Scrooge fellow makes all us capitalists look bad. Then you have to go and turn him into a communist.
Dear Mr. Heller (Catch 22): Very interesting book. It really isn’t about baseball, is it?
Dear Mr. Vonnegut (Slaughterhouse Five): There are no such things as aliens.
Dear Mr. Tolstoy (War and Peace): Make up your mind. Is it war or is it peace?
Dear Miss Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird): We are not interested in instruction manuals on how to murder birds.
Dear Senor Marquez (One Hundred Years of Solitude): Nobody around here reads Spanish. That is Spanish, isn’t it?
Dear Mr. Adams (A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy): In what galaxy is hitchhiking allowed?
Dear Mr. Dante Alighieri (The Divine Comedy): We did not find your book funny. Not funny at all.
Dear Mr. Gibran (The Prophet): If you are a prophet, why didn’t you predict that we wouldn’t publish your book?
Dear Mr. Joyce (Ulysses): Where did you hide all your commas anyway?
Dear God (The Bible): Not sure what genre to put this one under. Geneology? History? Poetry? Motivation? Fantasy? Biography? Besides nobody will ever believe that story about the guy and the whale. And that book about a guy named Job is a real downer.