Diary of a Mad Editor

Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category

He’s Says He Was Only Joking, but I’m Thinking He’s Just a Joke

You ever hear the saying, “when you’ve dug yourself into a hole, quit digging”? Well . . . that’s some good advice for Mr. Dean Grondo, wannabe story writer who was featured in a previous post, “He Must’ve Written His Story in Crayon.” Grondo decided to respond to that post with the following comment:

“You guys are makin’ me giggle
I think Cindy and everybody missed the part where it says,
‘Due to time constraints I’m forced to use this form letter and I offer my apoligy for this.’
It’s a fucking joke!
Sorry Cindy, whoever you are, that my apparently bad joke screwed with your head. But, how could you guys not know that this was a joke?!!!!!!!!!!Insofar as my FALLOUT from all this….
Boo Fucking Hoo”

— Dean Grondo

Don’t get me wrong, people — I sincerely love comments and wish I got more of them, but explain to me how this comment helps Dean Grondo argue his case. He must belong to the wine of the month club (read: “whine”). I don’t believe Grondo was “joking” when he responded to Cindy’s rejection of his story and I will get to that in a moment. First, though, let’s assume for the time being that Grondo was joking. What was the point of his joke? Why would anyone receiving his “joke” find it amusing? I’ve stated this before and I guess it’s one of those things I’ll be repeating over and over (because you can’t repeat things often enough for the brain dead fucking retarded among us), but if you absolutely must respond to a rejection, respond with a polite “thank you” for taking the time to read the submission. Because a little good will goes a long way.

Now I don’t believe this “joke” was intended as a joke because it obviously was made solely to amuse the douchebag who sent it and not intended to entertain Cindy. And considering the nature of Grondo’s rejected story (according to Cindy because, like I stated in the post, I didn’t read it) Grondo either didn’t read or intentionally disregarded Yellow Mama’s submission guidelines, which in itself can and does ruffle the feathers of a hard-working editor. So we have a guy who doesn’t respect editors, who doesn’t respect the submission process and thinks it’s perfectly reasonable to attack editors who don’t automatically bow down before his awesome ego.

Grondo should’ve taken my advice and simply apologized for being an asshole. Of course, I’ve never met a genuine asshole who was at all apologetic about being an asshole so I didn’t really expect an act of contrition from him. But, even an asshole should know when he’s beat. Now that the shoe is on the other foot, Grondo should just shut up and wear it. Because, while I can’t speak for Cindy, I can certainly do this until they drag my corpse away. So if he thinks he knows what fallout is . . . just keep digging that hole, brother.

He Must’ve Written His Story in Crayon

I think I mentioned in a blog awhile back that editors of literary magazines gossip about writers just like writers trade gossip about editors. Yes we do. We chat about writers we like and writers who are difficult, dreadfully untalented or a few cans short of a six-pack. And so, it wasn’t much of a surprise when Cindy Rosmus, editor of Yellow Mama emailed me today to ask me if I’d ever heard of a guy named Dean Grondo:

John:
Attached is the correspondence between me & this complete asshole whose story I rejected on 9/4.
Ever hear of this jerk?
If not, be forewarned!

I hadn’t heard of him. Cindy was irked to say the least about a rude response to a rejection she’d sent him. Apparently, he’d submitted a story. I haven’t read the story so I cannot attest to the fairness of the initial rejection — although, knowing Cindy, I suspect she had good reason to give the man the big kiss-off:

Dear DC:

Thanks for sending “You Have God to Be Kidding.” Sorry, but I can’t use it for YELLOW MAMA.
Good luck placing it elsewhere.

Sincerely,

Cindy Rosmus,

YELLOW MAMA

But, this guy responded with the following:

Every 6 weeks it’s the same fucking thing! I send these goddamned “What happened to my story?” flares out to you incompetant assholes who wouldn’t know how to publish a fucking Bazooka Joe gum wrapper! So: WHERE’S MY STORY?! DID YOU USE IT? WHERE’S FUCKING THE MONEY!? Due to time constraints I’m forced to use this form letter and I offer my apoligy for this.
Dean Grondo

PS: YOU GOT MY ADDRESS FOR THE MONEY?!

Nice, huh . . . Way to impress an editor, guy. Seriously, I don’t know what I find more insulting — his tone or the fact that he seems to be an illiterate fucktard.

Cindy responded:

Dear DC:

Check the date on this. You’ll see I didn’t wait 6 weeks, just 5 days and I am not an “incompetent asshole. ”

That is no way way to write a query letter.

Cindy Rosmus.

YELLOW MAMA

Apparently, this cretin is starting to get a bit of a reputation for this sort of behavior with editors who reject his work. One editor (who didn’t want to be named on this blog) reported his own encounter with Dean Grondo this way:

. . . he sent me something once, and I told him in a very polite way I couldn’t use it, and he called me, quote: ”An unprofessional faggot punk.” I told him, he was an unprofessional asshole, and he replied ”You wouldn’t say that to my face.”
To which I replied, ”Oh, yes, I WOULD.”
Stay clear of him. I think he is unbalanced. “

Unbalanced? Who knows? But he’s certainly not an uncommon occurence in the small press and he’s certainly not original. What he is, truly, is dumb, dumb, dumb. Just a widdle ole baby kicking and screaming in his widdle ole baby bedding. And that’s too bad. It’s counter-productive for any writer to take a rejection personally. Getting one rejection from an editor doesn’t necessarily mean that everything you will submit to that editor will be rejected in the future. So, who really loses when a writer, having gotten a rejection, responds with an insult? The editor? No. Hell no! An editor has plenty of material to choose from, so he doesn’t need your work in particular. He will just stick your name on his personal blacklist and probably warn other editors about your dumb ass — and they’ll tell 2 editor friends and they’ll tell 2 editor friends and so on . . . and so on . . . . You will get the reputation for being an asshole. Even if you are a decent writer, you will eventually get to a point where almost no one will read your work. And if you are a shit writer and you have the personality to match . . . well, you see my point, don’t you. So let that be a lesson to you, Dean Grondo. Were I you, I’d write a nice, long apology letter to Cindy and any other editor you’ve ticked-off with plenty of ass-kissing and groveling. Blame your behavior on an aneurysm or a personality disorder. Who gives a fuck? Just get your mind right if you want to be a writer and be taken seriously and respected.

He Was Just a Bellhop on the Elevator to Hell

I received an email recently from a guy who I hadn’t heard from in awhile, asking me why I didn’t mention David Foster Wallace’s recent suicide on my blog. “I know you weren’t exactly a fan,” he wrote, “I thought you’d have something to say about it.” Well . . . no, I hadn’t planned on it precisely because I’m not a fan of DFW’s writing. But since you mentioned it, guy, I’ll put my two cents in.

Probably, the major reason I’ve never been a fan of Wallace’s work has less to do with him than with postmodernism in general. Postmodernism is one of those things that makes for great chatter in the confines of a graduate school classroom, but has little appeal to me outside in the real world. I’ve always thought of David Foster Wallace as a terribly clever stylist but an ultimately empty storyteller too easily lost in the minutia of “words, words, words ….” And really, as far as DFW was concerned you were either in my camp or otherwise a fanboy. He wasn’t a writer who inspired indifference — which is, I suppose, the closest thing to a compliment I can express. I kind of feel the same way about DFW’s writing that I feel about coffee. Everyone I know drinks coffee, but I’ve never acquired a taste for it. I mean, I’ve tried to like coffee — I’ve tried it about four times since I was four years-old (which rounds out to about once a decade) and I’ve never enjoyed it. By the same token, I’ve tried to read and enjoy Wallace’s writing over the years and couldn’t manage it. I’ve often thought that his so-called masterpiece, Infinite Jest was actually a joke played on the reader. I only actually know one person who’s read the thing cover-to-cover and claims to have enjoyed it and even he said that he didn’t get into it until about “page 700.” I’d say that after 700 pages of a 1000-plus page opus, you’re already pretty well into it, so if it takes you that long to feel as if you’re into it . . . well, I rest my case.

As for David Foster Wallace, I don’t think I could write a glowing obituary of the man. I didn’t know him. I didn’t enjoy reading his work. And it’s not like this guy came to some heroic or otherwise brave end. The fucker hanged himself! Don’t get me wrong, I can embrace the notion that suicide is sometimes a noble thing — like when a unmarried soldier throws himself on a grenade to spare the life of a buddy who’s married with six kids so that guy can go home safe to his family. Or, when a terminally ill woman is face with a choice between dying after much suffering or dying in peace wit some dignity. David Foster Wallace’s death wasn’t such an occasion. I can’t feel sorry for him. I feel sorry for his poor wife who discovered his body. I feel sorry for his parents. I feel sorry for those fans who will miss his presence in the literary world. But sorrow for him? Since David Foster Wallace was a self-proclaimed truth-seeker, here’s a little truth: His life and death don’t amount to spit in the grand scheme of the universe. And I think that’s ultimately what drove him to suicide. In his 2005, commencement address at Kenyon College, he said, “Worship your intellect, being seen as smart — you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. ” I think he was talking about himself. Just my humble opinion. I think the truth of his own existence ate away at him. I think it made him unhappy. I think he couldn’t carry his own luggage spiritually, emotionally or intellectually and it did him in. But it’s politically incorrect these days to call a suicide a coward. We’re supposed to blame society or something. Treat the suicide with deference rather than with shame. Pity that I’m not a politically correct individual.

What I know is this: though a star in his short life, David Foster Wallace will be forgotten. His books, will sell well for a time because of his death, but will eventually fall out of fashion. His writing and his death will just be more chatter for the graduate writing programs. He has become a cliche and not a proper example for the next generation of writers to follow.