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"My life is but a seeking after life;/ I live but in a great desire to live."
unspunemily
Reading Edna St Vincent Millay strikes me in two ways. First, it makes me feel that I'll never ever be a poet anywhere near great enough to touch the heights I wish I could touch. But that's just the critic talking. Second, I wish I lived in a time when a small publication rejecting poems sent a note written by the publisher along with it. Sigh. Please tell me the literary world full of people passionate about words isn't as dead and cold as I feel like it is! There was an awesome article about this in the New Yorker a few months ago. It talked about the fact that the publishing world used to be one of the few pure businesses; It was about giving good writing to the masses, and that was it. Now, of course, it's only a business, and writers can only pray to be that discovered needle in the haystack of shitty manuscripts.

All this whining and I haven't sent anything out in over a year. Boo on me.

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