Bears

So I get home from work and I'm feeling like poo. I always reserve one day a month to plow through the pile of unsolicited manuscripts and systematically reject them all, and today was the day. The manuscripts were wretched--more than a few of them went into my File o' Shame--but it's never easy to write an email that's going to break someone's heart.

Dear _______,


It was with great pleasure that I received your manuscript, ___________. Thank you so much for giving our company the opportunity to review it! You've poured your heart and soul into your writing, and it's my earnest hope that you'll see your work in print soon. However, your manuscript doesn't fit our editorial needs. I wish you the very best as you continue to seek a publishing home. 


Kind regards,


Kate


After a few hours of this the replies to the rejections start to come in, thanking me for my time and enthusiasm and saying that while they're disappointed, they're not going to give up trying. I hate these emails, and hate knowing that I've ruined someone's day, no matter how crappy their manuscript was.

So I spent the day breaking hearts and came home and the hubby took one look at me and said "I'll run a bubble bath." Splendid man. He filled the tub extra full of bubbles and brought me a tall glass of wine and lit candles and brought me a cookbook to read--the man knows me so well. And after fifteen minutes or so he came to check on me. (During this fifteen minutes I had consumed most of the wine.) I asked about his day, and he told me about a site visit he'd done. He'd visited some old building downtown and taken measurements, and as he described the architecture he noted that the windows were no longer functioning.

"Sorry?" said I. "Had the windows been boarded up or something?"

"No, they'd been sealed shut so they wouldn't open."

"But they were still functioning in the sense of letting in light," I said.

"Their primary purpose was to ventilate the building, so they don't function that way anymore," said the hubby.

"The primary purpose of a window is to let in light," said I. "A door's primary purpose is to ventilate the building. And keep out bears."

I should remind you that I'd consumed that glass of wine very quickly on an empty stomach.

"Bears? You think a door can keep a bear out if it wants to get in?"

"A heck of a lot more effectively than an open window," said I, by which I think we can all agree that I won that particular conversation.

Maybe, for the health of my marriage, I should stop thinking of conversations as something that can be won. Or maybe we should bear children quickly so our conversations stop revolving around bear attacks and start concerning poop and vomit. I'll work on that.