I just saw the new adaptation of Anna Karenina. My grandparents and I caught the matinee at a theater in the nearby town of __________. Being the youngest person in the theater by about 40 years – everyone else was retired: what was my excuse for having two hours to devote to classic russian literature as brought to life by Keira Knightly and Jude Law?- I munched on my bucket of popcorn and contemplated my unemployment (my two favorite activities these days).
Earlier that morning, I had received a polite decline from The Guardian: Comment is Free section to a pitch I submitted on the Anti-US protests. I had written an outline of my argument as per the guidelines and sent it in. The Middle East editor, clearly myopic, wrote back a thanks but no thanks – “also in future don’t send us the whole piece.” Devastated – “did he think that outline was my article?? No wonder he didn’t want to run it. Did he even read it?” – I toyed with the idea of submitting the finished product. Surely once he was confronted face to face with my verbal brilliance and analytic insight he wouldn’t be able to refuse. Plus, I had his email now, couldn’t hurt. I would start off with something really self-deprecating and British-y: “Sorry if this seems impertinent, but I just wanted to make sure you actually saw the piece.” And I would definitely apologize at least twice for wasting his time.
I wrote the email thrice, deleted it thrice, then went upstairs to grab my sweater (movie theaters are cold, my teita reminded me).
The film was visually stunning and experimental – playing with the idea of performance and theater as it is largely filmed on a stage with prop toy trains morphing into life size ones and bits of torn paper becoming fallen snow. What it lacked in emotional substance it made up for in style. Kind of balletic. None of this is relevant. A scene in the movie has Vronsky (the lover’s) scandalous mother giving a choice piece of advice to Anna:
I’d rather live life wishing I hadn’t than wishing I had.
There it was! The soundbite I had been waiting for. The verbal courage I needed. Too right, Vronsky’s mom! Popcorn frozen midway to mouth, I resolved to email the editor. Never mind [SPOILER ALERT] that these ominous words mark the beginning of the end for poor Anna. Who cares that I was patently ignoring the cautionary part of this cautionary tale? I’m pretty sure living life “wishing you had” (as my own mom would advise) doesn’t usually result in one throwing one’s self in front of a roaring steam train, toy or otherwise. Don’t matter. I emailed Mr. Editor as soon as i got home.
Within two seconds, literally in the time it took me to rescan my first sentence to check for typos (none!), came his response:
sorry-no.
Well geez. You didn’t have to be so curt about it, at least let a girl down easy. What stung most, aside from that dash (seriously dude, you’re better than that. Words are, after all your business) is that I knew he hadn’t read my (verbally brilliant) article. It reminded me of the time in college, plastic solo cup in hand, I went up to this guy and made some lame joke, and he said “sorry, not gonna happen.” I hated being DE-nied before I could even lay down my A game.
Ah the bitter sting of rejection. I wonder if Anna would take it all back if she could.
anti.hero.ine 