One of the little joys I look forward to as a freelance illustrator is opening my mailbox and finding a long-lost portfolio, returned at last to me by an art director. The sweetness of being reunited with my illustrations far outweighs the photocopied rejection slip enclosed, and many times I find that... ah, forget it.

Opening the mailbox and seeing an envelope addressed to me in my own handwriting isn't exactly devastating, but I generally greet the envelope with resignation, like it's an old boyfriend who just won't get the hint and stay away. (Because oh, yes, I'm so sick of that experience, which happens to me all the time because I am so magnetic and alluring.)

I sent out a portfolio last June to a company in Michigan, and got it back yesterday. I figured it had been lost, actually, after ten months, but no: there it was, wasting away in my mailbox, in an envelope too slim to contain pages of lucrative contracts or wads of cash.

I've been wanting to send that portfolio to another publisher, so I didn't care too much about the rejection, but for kicks, I read the letter, fuzzily photocopied at a slant on the page, and praising the quality, character and talent displayed in my work. Art directors are busy people--I didn't expect an engraved plaque, but I was a little surprised by the last paragraph, which wished me "the best succuss in the future."

The best succuss.

I think it's a subtle way to work "sucks" or maybe "suck us" into the otherwise polite letter, and that makes me admire the writer that much more. It's sly, and can always be written off as a typographical error.

I wish you succuss.
Succuss in your endeavors.
You deserve nothing but succuss.

I plan to use this word myself now, and invite you to do the same. It's the little things that make life worth living.

Succuss forever.

Star of the day. . .Mike Judge