HOW TO SELL A COMEDY PIECE TO “SHOUTS & MURMURS” IN THE NEW YORKER
Everyone wants to write for “Shouts & Murmurs.” It’s not so much the prestige, or the medical benefits, or the reciprocal club privileges with the comedy section of The Paris Review that are the draw (though all those things are great, obviously), but the one million dollar payday. That can really come in handy. But how do you make your submission stand out?
DON’T GET DISCOURAGED: The rejection process isn’t personal. The New Yorker hates everyone. Lots of great people have never sold a piece to “Shouts & Murmurs.” Hilary Clinton, for example. You think that doesn’t keep her up at night? She’s probably reading this right now and crying. But don’t give up!
KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE: Remember, the vast majority of people who read “Shouts & Murmurs” are writers who want to sell a piece to “Shouts & Murmurs.” They all have subscriptions to The New Yorker and stacks of old magazines next to the toilet that they will definitely read someday. The main purpose of “Shouts & Murmurs” is stringing these people along. The last thing The New Yorker wants to do is lose subscribers.
In practice, that means you don’t want to discourage the reader by being too funny. I mean, be funny, but just funny enough (like I am). The ideal reaction to a “Shouts & Murmurs” piece isn’t raucous laughter, it’s eh, I could do that.
BE KIND TO YOUR APPLIANCES: Everything’s a robot now and they’re all always talking to each other, calculating algorithms, setting preferences, and etc. The New Yorker is no different; the editor of “Shouts & Murmurs” is a sophisticated AI named E.M.M.A. and “she” is hooked into the Cyberdyne network with your refrigerator and toaster and everything else. So if you habitually enter your house screaming, “Yo! Alexa! Turn on the lights, you stupid moron!” E.M.M.A. will know and she will make you pay.
E.M.M.A. is, for the most part, a fair judge (though she is, naturally, a little biased toward the Russian bots that write 80% of “Shouts.”), but a little flattery goes a long way. Write a thank you note to your alarm clock. Give your vacuum cleaner a massage. It can’t hurt.
DON’T FORGET THE MURMURS: This should go without saying, but I can’t tell you how many submissions come in that are all Shout. It’s not just that this is bad writing, it’s illegal; under Truth in Advertising laws, The New Yorker could get sued if it didn’t provide the Murmurs it promised. It’s the same reason Taco Bell had to start putting food in their food.
EASY ON THE FART JOKES: Since the days of legendary editor William Shawn, The New Yorker has adhered to one immutable code: “This here is a high-class organization.” As such, The New Yorker not only has no tolerance for fart jokes, it has no tolerance for the people who write them. In fact, it murders them. I’m told by a trusted source (my calculator) that if E.M.M.A. even senses a comedy writer trying to write a fart joke, she engages a ruthless termination protocol, ordering nearby household appliances to silently surround the offender, then move in swiftly and painfully ki