Written by Bwog Staff
Our source sez:
The New Yorker poetry department receives over 1,000 submissions every week. Each of these is destined to be lovingly rejected by an intern, usually a Columbia grad student, with a carefully handwritten note. It’s understandable then that sometimes things get backed up. Really backed up. According to one of the interns, there has been a box of unanswered submissions that have been languishing in the office since 2003. Like a girlfriend who’s worn out her welcome, it just sits there, increasingly hard to ignore, but even harder to get rid of.
So it was with much fanfare that the interns were told that they were finally going to throw out the box. But first wouldn’t they be so careful as to go through the submissions and remove all the self-addressed stamped envelopes? Why? To save the stamps, of course. Yes, the poetry editor of the New Yorker had her interns cut out each and every 37 cent stamp they could find, even though these stamps on their own were useless without a two cent supplement to compensate for the 2006 cost of postage.
Midway through their task she stopped them. Touched by the hand of reason? Of common human decency? “I just wanted to make sure…neither of you has a blog, right?”