A little while ago, I sat down at my computer and very purposefully set out to write an essay for the Modern Love section of the New York Times. Since I discovered it in June of 2009, I have stalked it mercilessly and begun worship at the shrine of Daniel Jones (as far as I'm concerned, he's right up there with Emma Thompson). So I sat myself down and wrote about my (modern?) love. I sent it in, knowing that even if it got rejected, I could still post it here: it wouldn't die of shame in the depths of my hard drive.
It is remarkably easy to be philosophical in advance and even more remarkably difficult to remain so when something sucks. Like an essay being rejected.
I remind myself, though, that being rejected outright is enormously better than being accepted, encouraged, then at the last minute rejected (see my Newsweek trauma for details). So I still love me some Daniel Jones, and proudly present my Modern Love submission. Even if the NYT didn't, those nice folks at Dylan's Middleground (yes, namely me) loved it.
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