I'll be honest with you. I don't know what's going on. I shouldn't pretend that I do, or say things that make it seem like I might know but am unwilling to share. I can't make heads or tails, can't do the math, can't see the forest for the trees. But that's about something else, not this: #9 received today. The point of sending my story to 17 places was to increase my chances. Now it's become a exercise in masochism. I understand why a lot of the great writers drank.
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