I want to help you get there. You may never be as prestigious or “literary” as I, but the fact that you are still reading this says that you’re at least willing to inquire about such a scholarly endeavor.
As a world-renowned writer published in world-renowned magazines, I have come to the point in my reputable life in which I would like to bestow my world-renowned knowledge upon you, the illustrious hopeful. Let’s not squander any more time!

      I shall start with a brief overview of what the editors of The New Yorker are generally looking for. These are things that can make or break your sale right from the start, so pay earnest attention, as your potential world-renowned author reputableness might very well depend on it.

      First and foremost: you should be from Long Island. If you are from Long Island there is a chance you might get published on that merit alone. (Note: if you can’t be from Long Island, an acceptable alternative is Staten Island, due to the fact that it is also an island.) Long Island is the chosen location for stories published in The New Yorker for two specific reasons:

1. It has history.
2. It’s in New York and full of rich white people.

      A surefire way to catch an editor’s eye is to talk about the city and suburbs, or maybe touch on “The Boom Years.” If you really want to wow them, make sure you throw in some mention of the birth of Long Island, Colonial Long Island, or the Revolution. Just a passing throwaway sentence involving any one of these things is certain to get your manuscript noticed.

EXAMPLE:
Daisy never liked the way she looked in black, even though she knew that the Italian explorer, Giovanni da Verrazano, was wearing black in 1524 when he hit the mainland at the wide hip of present-day Cape Hatteras, N.C., where he slowly moved north and found Long Island, a pleasant place, situated amongst little steep hills. Through deep studious, contemplative rapt, Daisy objectively achieved the solo privity: If I’m wearing black, the possibilities for adventure are endless!

      Wow! It just sucks the reader right in and forces them to continue—or persevere—from one invigorating sentence to the next. And note how, with my own world-renowned literary cleverness, I used the word privity. This brings us to the next matter at hand, which is:

MAKE SURE YOU USE A LOT OF BIG WORDS.

      Even if you don’t know what they mean, throw them in. The editors at The New Yorker will be extremely impressed that you thought to use them rather than make coherent sentences. So pleased, in fact, that you may actually have some trouble if you ever meet this editor in person and they happen to be of the opposite gender, or swinging with your own (very common). Yes, no matter how abstrusely recondite it may be, it is superior to consciously usufruct as many dispensable and superfluous words as humanly surmountable. This will definitely bring you closer to that big sale. They love it. I’m not prevaricating!

      And now that you know to use big words, whether you understand their meanings or not, the next step is knowing how to use them. Adverbs with –ly are pretty much the way to go. If you can construct a sentence that is powerfully moving, grimly true, and handsomely, gracefully, delicately cute, you are truly on the road to successfully and proudly succeeding at what millions of other desperately striving authors so yearningly hope to achieve. Consider:

Jerry laughed heartily, with genuinely clear, sincerely and purely defined amusement. Vigorously he turned the car precisely around in the steeply slanted driveway and casually started his wearily long drive home.

      Rolls right off the tongue, wouldn’t you concur? Also, any verb other than “said” is always preferable when dealing with speaker attributions. People don’t “say” things, they “exclaim” them, or “demand” them. They “snarl” and “mutter” and “ejaculate.” Find the biggest words you can and use them instead. “The bigger the word the better,” I soliloquize.

      If you’re not having any luck by this point, if your story feels forced or like it might actually be going somewhere, just do what F. Scott Fitzgerald did when he found himself in a rut and had a deadline. Rip off an excerpt from The Great Gatsby and just send it out. A note of caution, however: if you do this, make sure you add a lot more –ly adverbs.

      Last but certainly not least, it is time to discuss Plot, Character, Conflict, and Resolution. These are simple rules but I hope you will remember them, and take them to heart.

PLOT: Don’t have one. If you even see an inkling of plot creeping subtly into your story, get yourself a blank sheet of paper and start over. The secret is to make sure that absolutely nothing is going on.

CHARACTER: This was explained a little above. Rule of thumb is that all characters must be from Long Island. They should be rich and definitely white, and at least one should smoke a pipe. Also, every character should whine a lot.

CONFLICT: Be careful here. People who read The New Yorker don’t want to read about people with problems, so make sure you don’t give your characters any.

RESOLUTION: This is where it gets fun. Since there is no conflict or plot and your characters are all whiney bitches, you can feel free to end the story in any way you choose, as long as it’s happy and involves upper class white people from Long Island enjoying their money. I suggest all the characters having a glass of Chardonnay outside by the swimming pool, or maybe have someone petting a dog, or waxing a fantastically expensive car. Pay off is essential. A story is supposed to be true to life, right? So after all this whining let’s give the readers their money’s worth. Don’t be afraid to expand on my suggestions, or to come up with your own. But do not, under any circumstances, have the dog enjoying a glass of Chardonnay while waxing a car by the pool. This touches upon imagination, and what might have been a perfectly good story up to this point will be rejected outright.

      Now that you’ve finished your first draft, go through it once or twice and ask yourself these questions:

• Have I used enough big words?
• Do I have as many –ly adverbs as humanly possible?
• Am I certain there is no conflict?
• Have I mentioned Long Island at least once, if not several times?

      Once you’ve accomplished this, your manuscript is ready to go into the mail. Your name will soon be up in lights. You too will be a prestigious world-renowned lugubrious prevaricator, and the checks will start rolling in. I promise you, if you follow these cardinal rules of good writing it will literally happen overnight.