Somewhere, deep in our garage, I think I still have my first rejection from _The Atlantic_ (ca. 1990). Blue embossed type on heavy card stock if memory serves. Classy. Distinguished. Albeit, not signed. And, I can’t begin to explain the emotional complexity of finding that modest little piece of cardboard in the mailbox of my $275/month garage apartment in Sarasota, Florida. To be dead honest? Sure, I was superficially bummed that the joyless purple knob to which I’d subjected my favorite magazine had not been greeted with an offer for a regular column. What talentless 22-year-old with a _Cultural Studies_ degree from a public college wouldn’t be? But, that disappointment was quickly displaced by a more pure awe and terror at what the card had really meant; it meant that an adult human at _The Atlantic_ had read something I’d written.