Cream Rises
I drink my coffee black. I wouldn’t know.
I’ve been reading manuscripts. Hundreds of manuscripts. For the Paris Review. Ones delivered with short cover letters: Attached for your consideration. And long ones: It was on one of those eerily humid Mojave Desert mornings that I decided finally to send you this story…. Most of them are MFA students who’ve been nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Joyce Carol Oates. But then there was this one: At the age of 73, I’m new to writing and would gladly take any advice you offer.
There are thousands of them. Approximately one will be published this year. At least with the needle in the haystack, you can burn the hay. I’m looking for a string of hay in the needle-stack. By the time I find it, I’ll probably be blind.
