Essay "Being Rejected by Radicals"

"The publishers didn't look like they were living in geodesic domes and eating green beans they grew. This seemed to be a giant lie--a trick."

by W. Clinton Mainland     

Since I've started writing and submitting, I've gotten rejected. No big surprise--that's part of the deal. As they say, the best baseball players only actually hit the ball 30% of the time.  

The danger of being rejected is not just failure--no, it's finding out that someone else might be smarter. Might know more than you. It's overcoming deep questions of self worth. It's a battle between right and wrong. And, sometimes, the actual meaning of life can come into question.  

Like my recent battle with the radicals:  

I submitted a piece to a journal of the radical mind. I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but they paid well, and I said, whatever. They sent me back a rejection immediately saying thanks, but unfortunately, it wasn't hard hitting enough.  

I picked up some issues of their magazine - which is beautiful and angry all at once. I sent something else. Their response? Not enough corporate gluttony.  

I walked about in a tailspin, considering corporate wrongdoing and abuse of power. I imagined board of directors laughing at the plight of the common man. I talked to my hair dresser—as he was layering on products on my spiked hairdo. "Are those products contributing to corporate gluttony?" I asked.  

"No," he said. "They are all made by Amish people."

"Really?" I asked.  

"Yep. Vidal Sassoon is actually Amish."  

I went shopping with my girlfriend. Everywhere we went was a mall or in a mall or some example of the corporate world's existence. We didn't go into a single shop of a sole proprietor.  

"My God," I said. "Those freaks are onto something."  

But what? I read their magazine again, trying to find the answer. Then simple questions arose: how is the magazine printed? Who makes their computers? How is anything done without somehow working within the corporate framework? Has our whole life been subjected to being pawns for massive corporations? Are we them or are they us?  

The publishers didn't look like they were living in geodesic domes and eating green beans they grew. This seemed to be a giant lie--a trick.

"Would you get over it?" said my girlfriend. "You're not a radical.  Actually, you're kind of boring."  

Finally, I broke free of this and decided to get away from these people.

I wrote the editor an email and told him to leave me alone - no more subversive mental games. I don't care if they do pay a dollar a word.  

Several days later, my stepfather was over. He's definitely a product of corporate gluttony and abuse--he's a Doctor. After all, they mostly prescribe remedies from mega-corporations for their patients. They believe in better living through chemicals. I showed him the magazine as kind of a joke. I showed him what I had overcome.  

As I turned, he was tearing out the subscription flyer. He said, "I think I need this."