Road Kill Rejection

Last week an editor rejected an article I wrote about Road Kill.  Believe me, it was a great piece--a body of work that was gutsy and robust.  The essay wasn't bloated, and I had flattened out the details until the whole piece was slim and fat free.  In short, I killed it.

The editor, on the other hand, wasn't biting . . . and she thought the piece stunk. 

I had mastered my research, however.  With calls to the Indiana Department of Natural Resources, I was able to obtain some marvelous quotes about the proliferation of coyote, red fox, raccoon and possum in our various neighborhoods.  These animals are everywhere, and that's why we flatten them.

And, in case you didn't know . . . you can keep your fresh road kill.  You've got first dibs. (I'm not kidding, there are laws for these things!)  So go ahead, fill the trunk.

Naturally, my wife wanted to know how I got off on a road kill tangent, and she never was sold on my road kill essay.  "No one's going to pay you for that," she told me last week over a plate of fricasseed squirrel heads and possum feet.

"You're buying it," I said flippantly.  "In fact, you're eating it." 

Since I cook most of our meals, I can say things like this, and I love waiting for the reactions from the family.  It's amazing how I can torture a pound of ground turkey meat and make it look like something scraped fresh from the asphalt.  It's an art, but I've mastered it.

I'm not sure if I will sell my road kill essay.  I may not even submit it again.  After all, rejection is tough . . . and I don't like being squashed repeatedly before dinner.