A new year, and the slush in the slush pile grows ever deeper. I don’t know how the rest of your toiling editorial minions are doing, but I continue to roll the existential rock of America’s unpublished aspiring—at least my share of it. All of which is only to say that I read my share of crud this week (and no, I haven’t been smoking what W. C. Fields called “the illicit sponduix,” either—I’m just having a prolix day). With your concurrence, I’m returning ...
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