My 14 Rejected New Yorker Cartoon Submissions That I Decided To Share Here

If you’ve ever submitted cartoons to The New Yorker, you already know the emotional arc:
hope, refresh, refresh, refresh, and then a polite email that reads like a velvet hammer.
The first time it happens, you stare at the screen like it personally ate your lunch. The tenth time, you develop a hobby.
By the fourteenth time, you start thinking, “You know what? These jokes deserve daylighteven if they’re the kind of daylight you get under fluorescent office bulbs.”

So here they are: fourteen rejected cartoon submissions I decided to share anywaycomplete with the kinds of notes I wish I’d gotten,
the patterns I started noticing, and the small humiliations that somehow turned into a creative routine. This is not a complaint post.
It’s a “look what the editorial process gently punted into the bushes” post. Also, it’s a love letter to the weird little alchemy of the
single-panel gag cartoon, where one drawing has to do the work of a whole sitcom episode, but in a tuxedo.

Why Rejection Is Basically the House Style

A rejection from a top humor market doesn’t mean your cartoon is “bad.” It often means your cartoon is “good… but not today… and not in that slot…
and not when they already bought something with a similar rhythm… and also the editor is human and has already looked at an avalanche of drawings
this week.” Cartoon editors aren’t choosing the funniest thing in the universe; they’re choosing the funniest thing that fits
this issue, alongside a dozen other cartoons, plus essays about war and a profile of a cello prodigy who only eats olives.

If you’ve read about how the pipeline works, the scale alone explains a lot. Editors sift through an enormous volume of submissions and end up printing
only a small set of cartoons in each issue. That mismatchbig pile, tiny magazinecreates a simple truth:
rejection is the default setting. Once I accepted that, I stopped treating “no” like a verdict and started treating it like
a weather report: “Cloudy today, chance of cartoons later.”

What Editors Tend to Reward in a Single-Panel Cartoon

1) One clear idea, seen instantly

The best New Yorker–style cartoon concepts read at a glance. You shouldn’t need a paragraph of caption to understand the premise.
The drawing does a chunk of the joke-telling, and the caption lands the last step.

2) Two layers: the obvious read and the hidden read

My biggest lesson: a solid gag is fine; a solid gag plus a second meaning is better. A joke that’s only “literal funny” can feel like a one-liner.
A joke that also says something about modern life (work, status, tech, relationships) tends to linger.

3) Specificity without homework

Specific details (a particular product, a particular workplace ritual, a particular social behavior) can make a cartoon feel real.
But if the reader needs to know niche lore, the joke becomes a quiz, and nobody subscribed for a quiz.

4) Original angle on familiar terrain

Offices, therapy, relationships, class, pets, smartphones, and existential dread are extremely fertile groundand extremely crowded ground.
Editors have seen a thousand “Zoom meeting” cartoons. The goal is to find the version nobody’s seen, or the version that turns left
where every other cartoon turns right.

My 14 Rejected Submissions (and the Notes I Gave Myself After)

A quick caveat: The New Yorker reviews finished cartoons, not raw ideas. What I’m sharing below are the concepts and captions
in text formbasically the “director’s cut” of what I submitted as complete drawings.

#1. “Synergy, But Make It Pastoral”

Scene: A medieval village. Two peasants stand over a literal pitchfork stuck in a “Vision Board” nailed to a barn.

Caption: “We’re not pivotingwe’re simply embracing a more agrarian synergy.”

Why it probably got rejected: The collision is funny, but “synergy/pivot” is a well-worn corporate lane.

What I’d tweak: Replace jargon with one unexpected modern phrase that feels freshly overheard.

#2. “Therapy Speak, Ancient Edition”

Scene: Two gladiators in a coliseum. One holds up a tiny notecard like it’s a mantra.

Caption: “I’m choosing to set a boundary with your spear.”

Why it probably got rejected: Therapy-language cartoons are popular, which means the bar is extremely high.

What I’d tweak: Give it a second layermaybe the crowd is chanting “BOUND-A-RY!”

#3. “The Subscription Model for Human Interaction”

Scene: A couple at dinner. A waiter presents a bill that has checkboxes: “Basic eye contact,” “Premium listening,” “Ad-free empathy.”

Caption: “We discontinued ‘uninterrupted conversation,’ but you can add it for $9.99 a month.”

Why it probably got rejected: A strong premise, but the caption risks becoming a list of jokes instead of one clean punch.

What I’d tweak: Choose one killer add-on and let the reader imagine the rest.

#4. “A Smart Fridge With Commitment Issues”

Scene: A refrigerator wearing a tiny scarf, staring out a rainy window like a romantic lead.

Caption: “I can’t label us, but I can label your leftovers.”

Why it probably got rejected: Anthropomorphic appliances can read as “cute” rather than “sharp.”

What I’d tweak: Add a human who looks genuinely devastated by the fridge’s emotional unavailability.

#5. “Work-Life Balance (Now With More Work)”

Scene: A yoga studio. Everyone is in child’s pose while a manager with a headset whispers to each person.

Caption: “Great stretchnow circle back on those deliverables.”

Why it probably got rejected: The joke lands fast, but it’s a familiar “work invades everything” beat.

What I’d tweak: Make the manager a yoga instructor: “Inhale. Exhale. Optimize.”

#6. “The Museum Audio Guide for Your Own Life”

Scene: A person standing in their messy kitchen wearing museum headphones, staring at a sink full of dishes like it’s an exhibit.

Caption: “Notice the bold use of denial in the late-period adulthood.”

Why it probably got rejected: Slightly too “relatable internet humor” unless the image is extremely elegant.

What I’d tweak: Add a small placard: “Untitled (Avoidance), mixed media.”

#7. “A LinkedIn Post From a Pirate”

Scene: A pirate at a ship’s wheel taking a selfie while the crew battles a storm.

Caption: “Thrilled to announce I’m sailing into a new chapter.”

Why it probably got rejected: LinkedIn satire is plentiful. Also, pirates are dangerously close to “costume gag.”

What I’d tweak: Make it a modern CEO on a pirate shipthen it becomes about ambition, not pirates.

#8. “The Minimalist’s Haunted House”

Scene: A haunted mansion with one single chair in the middle of an enormous empty room. A ghost is gesturing proudly.

Caption: “We declutteredemotionally and spectrally.”

Why it probably got rejected: Cute image, but the caption doesn’t fully surprise.

What I’d tweak: Make the ghost a minimalist influencer: “Link in bio for my ectoplasm storage bins.”

#9. “Customer Support for Existential Questions”

Scene: A person on hold with a headset. The screen says: “Your meaning is important to us.”

Caption: “Press 1 for purpose. Press 2 to scream into the void.”

Why it probably got rejected: “Press 1” jokes can feel like a format rather than an original idea.

What I’d tweak: One unexpected option: “Press 7 if you accidentally chose finance.”

#10. “The HR Training Video in the Cave”

Scene: Cavemen watching a stone wall where someone has drawn a stick-figure slideshow. A facilitator holds a pointer stick.

Caption: “Let’s review our updated mammoth-hunting harassment policy.”

Why it probably got rejected: Time-travel workplace jokes are a known lane.

What I’d tweak: Make the policy absurdly specific: “No clubing in the break cave.”

#11. “The Farmer’s Market of Personalities”

Scene: A market stall labeled “IDENTITIES.” Bins contain: “Chill,” “Ambitious,” “Enigmatic,” “Has Read One Poem.”

Caption: “I’ll take two ‘low-maintenance’ and a bunch of ‘mysterious,’ please.”

Why it probably got rejected: The concept is funny, but the bins risk becoming too wordy in the art.

What I’d tweak: Show only one bin: “Emotionally Available (Seasonal).”

#12. “A Dating App for Books”

Scene: Two books on a couch, one holding a phone with a profile: “Likes: being misunderstood. Dislikes: beaches.”

Caption: “I’m looking for something serious, but with a breezy dust jacket.”

Why it probably got rejected: Bookish anthropomorphism can skew whimsical without the bite.

What I’d tweak: Add a third book interrupting: “Actually, I’m a podcast now.”

#13. “The Algorithm That Knows Your Childhood”

Scene: A phone shows an ad: “We noticed you were ignored in third grade. Buy these sneakers.”

Caption: “Finallytargeted advertising that targets.”

Why it probably got rejected: Strong theme, but the caption is slightly too neat and self-aware.

What I’d tweak: Let the phone be cheerful: “A little treat for your formative wound!”

#14. “The Office Plant’s Performance Review”

Scene: A ficus sits across from a manager. A tiny document reads “Q4 Goals.” The plant is visibly wilting with anxiety.

Caption: “We love your growth mindsetless so your actual growth.”

Why it probably got rejected: It’s close, but it might feel like a cousin of other office-review cartoons.

What I’d tweak: One surreal detail: the plant has been “promoted” to “Senior Oxygen.”

What I Learned From Getting Rejected 14 Times in a Row

My best cartoons were the clearest, not the cleverest

I used to chase cleverness like it owed me money. But clarity wins. If the reader has to decode the premise,
the punchline arrives late, sweaty, and apologetic.

“More words” is usually me panicking in public

When I didn’t trust the drawing, I stuffed the caption like it was a carry-on bag. Editors can smell that.
The moment I started deleting words, the cartoons got funnier. It’s annoying how often that works.

The “New Yorker vibe” is less about style and more about angle

You can draw with linework as elegant as a ballet or as wobbly as a caffeinated worm. The real test is the angle:
does the cartoon see something familiar in a way that feels new? Does it surprise without trying too hard to surprise?

Batching helps, because it lowers the emotional stakes

Sending a single cartoon feels like walking a lone puppy into a dog show. Sending a batch feels like you’re running a small
(and mildly chaotic) talent agency. If one gets rejected, you still have other little weirdos on the roster.

Practical Tips for Submitting Cartoons Without Losing Your Mind

Build a repeatable idea pipeline

• Collect overheard phrases (especially corporate and therapeutic ones) and test them in unexpected settings.
• Write “what if” prompts daily: “What if customer service handled emotions?” “What if plants had HR?”
• Sketch fast and ugly to find the joke; draw pretty later.

Think like an editor for five minutes

Before you submit, ask: “Is this too close to a joke I’ve already seen?” and “Could this be anyone’s cartoon?”
If the answer is yes, make one bold choice: a setting shift, a character swap, or a caption that turns the premise sideways.

Protect your delight

The best cartoonists I know have a secret: they’re not trying to impress the internet; they’re trying to make themselves laugh in a very specific way.
Editors may buy it or pass on it, but the internal giggle is the fuel supply. Guard it.

Extra : My Rejection-Season Field Notes (a.k.a. Cartoonist Weather)

Here’s the part nobody glamorizes: the day-to-day experience of submitting cartoons is mostly administration and self-management.
It’s not a montage of genius. It’s a montage of scanning, cropping, naming files, and then wondering if the file name should be “cartoon_final_FINAL2.jpg”
or if that invites cosmic punishment. (It does.)

I fell into a routine that saved my sanity. First, I separated making from submitting. Making is playful and messy.
Submitting is a checklist. If I tried to do both in the same mood, I’d start negotiating with myself like a hostage situation:
“What if we don’t submit this one and just… admire it privately forever?” The checklist prevented that. The checklist said,
“No, we submit it, because that’s what we do. Also, please put pants on.”

Second, I started treating rejection like a data point, not a diary entry. Early on, every “no” felt personal, like the editor had zoomed in
on my soul and circled the part that said “tries hard.” Later, I realized most rejections aren’t messages; they’re outcomes. They don’t explain
what didn’t work because they’re not written to teach youthey’re written to keep the whole machine moving. That sounds cold, but it’s liberating.
Once you accept that, you stop begging the rejection for meaning and start making your own meaning: “Okay, what can I learn anyway?”

Third, I built a tiny post-rejection ritual that was equal parts mature and ridiculous. Mature: I’d open my folder of submissions and mark each cartoon
with one sentence: “Too wordy.” “Good idea, soft punch.” “Great image, unclear premise.” Ridiculous: I’d then make myself a ceremonial snack,
because I am basically a small Victorian child who needs a treat after receiving bad news by telegram. The snack was not a reward for being rejected;
it was a reward for being consistent. Consistency is the skill that outlives inspiration.

Finally, I learned to keep a “rejected but not dead” pile. Some cartoons are wrong forever. Others are wrong right now.
When an idea is close, I’ll rewrite the caption ten different ways, or I’ll redraw the scene to remove clutter, or I’ll swap the setting:
boardroom to breakroom, castle to co-working space, therapist office to submarine. The weird truth is that a rejection can be an editing note
if you let it be. Not a detailed note. More like a fortune cookie that says, “Try again, but with fewer words and more courage.”

And yes, I still want to get a cartoon accepted. Of course I do. But I also love this phase: the phase where the work is becoming mine.
Rejection forces you to find your voice without external validation, which is irritating and also kind of the point. If nothing else,
it’s taught me that humor is a long game. A cartoon can fail for a hundred reasons. But if you keep drawingand keep your curiosity intact
you start to build something editors can recognize from across a crowded inbox: a point of view.

Conclusion

These fourteen rejected submissions didn’t make it into print, but they did something sneakier: they made me better.
Each “no” pushed me toward clearer premises, tighter captions, and jokes that carry more than one meaning.
If you’re submitting cartoons (to The New Yorker or anywhere else), I hope this offers two comforts:
rejection is normal, and your rejected work can still be usefulsometimes even funnier in hindsight.
Keep drawing. Keep trimming. Keep surprising yourself. And if you need a ritual snack after a rejection email, I fully support that as a creative practice.