Yesterday my agent, the inimitable Janet Reid, stuffed copies of my novel into a tremendous cannon and fired them over the island of Manhattan. The sound was unbelievable, even as far away as Coney Island. A small dog barked at the sound. Copies of the bound pages, wrapped in a simple brown paper, could be seen crashing through publishers' windows, splintering glass, and sending editors running for cover under their slush piles. Some editorial assistants, it has been reported, were lost in the blast.
Now I must have patience. And sit. And wait.
You know, I've heard editors prefer submissions reeking of gun powder and decorated with sightly scorch marks. Since I don't own a cannon, I might start rubbing mine in an ashtray just to grab their attention.
Good luck! Keep us updated.
You could always just put some burning embers between the pages. That should do it.