Dear Joseph (we’re both adults, so I can call you by your first name),
I regret to inform you that we cannot accept your book Heart of Darkness for publication. I loved how short it was, but I hated how dumb it was.
Your story makes no sense. Marlow—is that a first name? Last name? Beyoncé situation?—spends the whole time being like, “Oh no, it keeps getting darker as I go down this boring-ass river, which I could have predicted because I’m going toward a place literally called the heart of darkness.”
Just turn around and go home, dude! It’s not like you went to Great Wall Szechuan with your gorgeous daughter and your loser boyfriend, Gary, and you and Dani got in a fight in front of Jake with the great bangs, and then you read the same fortune cookie at the same time just as lightning struck the restaurant, which made you switch bodies and now you’re stuck. That’s a real problem with some actual stakes. And as my shining daughter’s English teacher, Mrs. Dotmore, always says, without stakes, a story is just a bore-y. Mrs. Dotmore has six cats.

