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.
I’ll give you a warning that was given to me by the head of the RKO Reader’s Department when I worked there as a reader years ago. He said: “You’ll be reading a seemingly endless number of hideously bad manuscripts. But the day will come when you’ll find one that’s only mediocre — and it will be such a relief that you’ll come running into my office to tell me you’ve discovered a great writer.”
P.S. I did exactly that.
P.P.S So much for warnings.