This morning, when I realized it was Friday the 13th, I considered the many magazines that I have helped to kill. There have been several . . . and all of them seem to be linked to my publication in those respective periodicals.
Take The Wittenburg Door, for instance. Now there was a magazine that published a great deal of my religious satire, but about a year ago, they went belly up. The web site is still there, but there's nothing new on it . . . as if, after I killed it, I am forced to stare into its blank eyes.
Pangolin Papers was another literary magazine that loved working with me, but as soon as I began having some great success there, it went bankrupt. No thanks to me.
Perhaps I am one of those authors who kills magazines.
Or, as one of my agents once told me about getting published with New York firms: "No one will work with you here. You'll never work in this town again."
But I do have my knives and chain saw. And I'm still writing. I thought publishers were made of sterner stuff.
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