Wanna Be a Writer? Me Neither

I was twelve and read a few Dorothy Parker poems. I wrote a bleak witty poem and sent it to The New Yorker. I figured that my being twelve guaranteed a kind of shock value and they would take it. When I got the polite rejection letter, I was hooked. They had taken me seriously. I was a WRITER.

Indeed, I was…and am…and will be again as soon as I get off-line.

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