“The Heat Wimp” — that’s me.

Dorothy Parker’s Ashes

I unabashedly enjoy this publication: Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. I’ve been reading it for at least three years, maybe more. I love their mission, their muse, their layout. When a new issue arrives in my inbox, I pop right over to read it. Each issue has a theme, and all the essays are short little works that usually hit just right, if you know what I mean. If you don’t, well, tough cookie, I can’t explain.

And because I admired DPA, I wanted DPA to publish me. Badly.

Am I allowed to be this honest?

Now, every writer has their bucket list of dream publications. Salinger’s was The New Yorker. I am not Salinger, and I know better than to expect the New Yorker to publish me. But I can dream of Ploughshares and Sequestrum, can I not? Not to mention Rattle.

Rattle is an amazing publication. The first time I entered the poem of the year contest, I sent off my favorite poem just positive that it would win. And of course it didn’t. As it turns out, none of the other markets I’ve sent this poem to share my enthusiasm for it, but still, it remains my favorite poem I’ve ever written. Anyway, after that first time entering Rattle’s contest, I knew I’d never win because each year I read the Reader’s Choice contestants, and most of them are brilliant, and we only get to vote for one. It is almost impossible. So no, I don’t enter that contest expecting recognition. I just enter to renew my subscription.

But I wanted Persimmon Tree to publish me. And Thin Skin. And they have.

Back to Dorothy Parker’s Ashes.

I just looked through my spreadsheet, and I’ve (unsuccessfully) submitted to DPA six times. SIX. This is dogged persistence on my part. I generally don’t allow a publication to hurt my feelings that many times. I mean, a person can only take so much scalding rejection, even though scalding rejection is the name of the game when it comes to submitting your work to the world of literary journals.

One thing I sent was just wrong for this publication, so of course they declined (it has found a home elsewhere). At some point I sent a piece about my minivan that I have no memory of, so it probably wasn’t very good. For their “Secrets” call, I sent a very good piece and wondered why they said no. When the issue came out it turned out my secret was a very common secret.

I sent a sweet piece about my sister for the “Myth” call, which disappeared, which leads me to believe they didn’t receive enough quality submissions to go ahead with a full issue. For the “Body” call, they rejected my piece but sent a personal note that said, “I’m sorry you had to go through all that.” Which was sweet.

Heartbreak came with their “Cops” call. I sent a piece called “Married to One.” I received a note asking for some specific changes. I made them, sent it back and received a “Wonderful, this is great, send your bio right now!” note. I did! I waited for the Cops issue. And waited. And the issue came out and my piece was not in it. I was crushed.

BUT NOT CRUSHED ENOUGH, apparently.

Always a glutton for punishment, I answered their “Heat” call. And GUESS WHAT. On my seventh try, I received an acceptance and thanks for my delightful essay. And the clouds lifted, and the sun shone, and small birds flitted around my head, singing notes of joy.

Not exaggerating. I really love this magazine.

Read my essay here: The Heat Wimp