Right now I’m in the middle of the semi-annual self-flagellation that I call “sending out comics to syndicates.” That’s right! Every year I try my luck at the pot o’ gold, the summit of four-panel cartooning: syndication. Like your Bar Mitzvah, being syndicated means a lot of things. You get your strip in national newspapers (not the New York Times, though!), you get actual money for your work, and most importantly you get to call yourself a syndicated cartoonist at cocktail parties. I attend a bevy of cocktail parties.
I have been submitting comics since about 2001. I’ve become something of an expert on the syndicates’ rejection process. What follows is a brief outline of what I can expect over the next six months or so.
The first level of rejection is quite painless. Between one week and one month after the time I send out the packet, I’ll receive my comics back in the mail along with a xeroxed, form rejection letter. It is doubtful a human being read my comics, despite the xeroxed letter’s false promises. My guess is a trained monkey takes the comics packets out of their original envelopes, pulls a xeroxed letter from a large pile, then seals both comics and letter into my self-addressed, stamped envelope. He may even spit on my cover letter before crumpling and throwing it towards an overfilled trash can.
If I receive an answer between 1 and 3 months after submission (Level 2), I will still likely receive a form rejection letter. However, the odds are in my favor that a person has at least halfheartedly flipped through my submission. She or he may have even chuckled at one of the jokes before cramming the packet back into my self-addressed, stamped return envelope along with the xeroxed rejection letter. Although still dispiriting, this non-response is better than Level 1.
Level 3 comes 3 to 6 months after I send out my submission. It is by far the best kind of rejection I have received to date. I still get my comics returned to me with a rejection letter, but this time the letter is personalized. It is either a handwritten note on the xeroxed rejection letter or it is an entirely unique, typed response. These letters offer real advice and criticism and prove that, not only did a human being read my comics, she or he thought highly enough of them to respond in kind. These are the rejections every cartoonist – nay, every writer – needs to keep the hope alive that someday their characters will dance and sing in front of millions of bleary-eyed readers.
After syndication, of course, comes instant wealth and fame. Ask any syndicated cartoonist. That is, if you can get past their moat, security guards, and laser-guided stealth missiles.