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I can't remember when I started applying for the NEA--certainly before there were alternate years for prose and poetry submissions. It was an annual, and then a bi-annual ritual, poking around in my manuscripts for that pristine thirty-page sample of what I had done and more importantly, what I could do if given the chance.
Every year, another friend won an NEA, and I opened my flat letter of polite rejection. Then, two years ago, I got a note. Someone had scribbled on the bottom of the letter that I should keep trying.
Fire shot through my veins. Years ago, when I began sending out my short stories, I papered the high walls of a Victorian bathroom with rejection slips. Gradually, scribbles from busy editors showed up on those walls: dashes of encouragement, or, just as impressive, handwritten statements of refusal.
I was emerging from the slush pile; eventually, I landed on the pages of The New Yorker. From there, I published a book of stories with the last of the old-time publishers, Seymour Lawrence. Following the advice of my agent, who told me, "You can't write all the time; you're supposed to live," I spent the next decade in dogged pursuit of experience.