I was sulking. I draped over my couch like an afghan. The writer’s magazine I held would soon expire. Finally. Then all those published writers could stop gloating. These writers seemed to mock my unfulfilled dreams, but now there was an upside. I’d not be renewing.
I was a 20-year English professor who had articles, chapters, and short stories in print when my first novel manuscript had gotten a “no” from a Cadillac of an editor. Then many revisions later, more editors pronounced the same verdict. Into the bottom file went , and I busily started a new manuscript, , only to stall out after
