(no subject)

[elinorwise]

By then I was working on the literary magazine. Ploughshares is one of the best in the country, and it always has a hotshot editor, but someone has to read the slush pile, and that was me. I liked the job, even though many of the submissions were on a par with a memorably, even classically bad poem called “10 Reasons Why I Hate My Mother.” It cheered me up to see how many strivers out there were worse at writing than I was. Probably that sounds mean. Probably it is.

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