Contents:

Aleksandar Ševo: Our Daily Haiku

Anita Virgil: A Prize Poem

Dragan J. Ristić: Haiku: East and West

Jim Kacian: Speech on Haiku in the Balkans

H. F. Noyes: Silence and Outreach in Haiku

H. F. Noyes: A Favourite Haiku

Susumu Takiguchi: Can the Spirit of Haiku be Translated?

Saša Važić: Roads and Side-Roads

Interview with an'ya

Interview with Dimitar Anakiev

Interview with Robert Wilson

 

Jim Kacian

 

What Do Editors Really Want?


Hopefully the title of this piece will tell you everything you need to know about the content I hope to impart. Of course this will be biased towards my own experiences and practices, but I think much of what I discuss here will be germane with most other editors in haiku, and in other fields as well.

Let us begin with some presumptions. Let's presume we know at least one side of the relationship between writer and editor. I'm going to suppose you know why you write, and what your hopes and expectations are, and what keeps you writing. If you don't know these things, it would be ridiculous for me to suggest what your publishing endeavors are or ought to be, and you probably should be looking for a Career Counseling seminar instead. . .

But I presume something drives you to write, and we could stop right there--writing may be an end unto itself. There is no need to go anywhere else with one's verbal effusions. We can simply write and burn, as Ezra Pound famously did. (For those of you who don't know, Pound claims to have written a sonnet a day for an entire year, then sent the entire lot up in smoke. Of course, it sounds quite a lot like myth-making, and the poet was not above putting the best spin on things pertaining to himself. So it is likely not to have been a whole year's worth, and it is unlikely that he wouldn't have plundered the best lines, images and effects for other poems which followed. Still, the impulse is there.)

If not burn, perhaps we can write and horde, stuffing our work into the bottom drawer. But even this, at an objective remove, begins to look like something else, something like hope. Perhaps someone will discover my work when I'm gone, perhaps I will be lionized beyond my time, perhaps, perhaps. And so we begin to enter a realm quite outside writing--the realm of making writing pay. Payment comes in many denominations: coin of the realm, fame, collegial esteem, and so on.

Even nursing the faint glimmer that I will be reckoned with after my death is a reward, though one of the saddest sort. So the first distinction I would like to make is between the notion (and perhaps it is only a notion) of pure writing, and that of writing for gain. Do I know any "pure" writers? Actually, and surprisingly, I think the answer is yes. But none of them are in this room at the moment. A pure writer has no need to be concerned with what an editor might have to say, since he has no one to please but himself. But we "impure" writers are constantly collaborating with editors, for a variety of reasons, and it is this relationship that I want to address here.

And to that end, I offer a couple of working premises. I can't say these points will be true for all editors, but I know they are true for most: First: Any writer is free to write anything he or she likes, and to call it anything he or she wants. You want to write 300 pages of prose and call it a haiku? Go ahead, no one will stop you. An editor is less interested in what you call a piece, or what its traditional qualities are, than in whether or not the piece makes the reader experience its impact directly.

Second: The better the artist, the more control he has over the consequences of the choices he makes. An editor is an evaluator of the control exercised, but is less interested in whether the poet has achieved her effect through control or through accident--if a poem works, it works.

And Third: Writers want the best possible end-product. Editors want the best possible end-product. It is not here where writers and editors usually disagree--rather, it is in the evaluation of whether or not a piece of writing achieves this goal.

These three concepts shape the relationship between writer and editor, and we will do well to keep these three ideas in mind as we proceed.

Okay, so you know why you write. Why do you want to publish?

We publish to tell our current friends and future admirers what we've been up to, holed up in our garret these many months of rain. We publish in hopes that our work will kindle the public's imagination, that we will be recognized for the geniuses we most certainly are, and in hopes that a spontaneous and bounteous eruption of adulation and money will be heaped upon us. We publish so our grandchildren will have some sense of who we were other than the tired and decrepit souls they knew in our declining years. We publish to compete with others, including our personal enemies, who are doing likewise. We publish to see what we look like in black and white, in objectivity, amongst the work of others. We publish to tell a story, often the story of our selves. We publish to push society down one path and athwart another. We publish because the voices in our heads say we must. We publish because the voices outside our heads say we can't. We publish for these and thousands of other reasons. We publish, at last, because we are homo literarius and cannot help ourselves. In Genesis the point is made that the Fall of Man was the result of eating of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil. I contend it was inevitable, fruit or not--language, our most basic uniting and dividing characteristic, was already a present reality, and a fall from grace was really just a matter of time.

If it is obvious we publish for a variety of reasons, it is equally obvious that publishing and writing are not the same thing. Writing is, more or less, solitary and iterative. Publishing is, more or less, social and reiterative. Writing does nothing to hone one's skill in publishing, and publishing does nothing to further one's ability to write (if we except the advantage gained by those who make a living from their writing, in which case it makes further writing possible). For most of us, the impulse to expression requires not just the satisfaction of its voicing, but an audience as well. It is not enough to identify our circumstances and articulate them: others must know we have done so. This seems so basic that it might almost go unnoticed. Which brings us to our dilemma: here we are, articulating away in full genius mode, confident that we are saying exactly what must be said--which reminds me of Allen Ginsberg's less than flattering though probably well-intentioned foreword to Gregory Corso's first book of poetry, Gasoline: "But what's he saying?" Ginsberg queries in the middle of a breathless bit of prose, and there is a bit of a pause in our minds if not in the text. Then he goes on: "Who cares? It's said!" And there are congratulations all around, but I wonder if Corso felt that his significances are so meager they might be dismissed so easily out of hand. In any case, we are as confident as Ginsberg, and know we are the Answer with a capital A, and so we write it down hot and as soon as the smoke clears send it off in an envelope (SASE, of course) only to come into the clutches of--the editor.

Pity the poor creature. Hunched from want of exercise, pale from lack of daytime exposure, fingers stained with ink and nicotine, teeth yellowed with coffee, shabbily clothed, with a distracted air, a toady to economic whim and public fashion. Somehow, in this unfairest of worlds, my chef d'oeuvre must pass through this ogre's hands before it can set the world aright. There is something terribly wrong with this picture.

And yet we must place ourselves in his gnarled hands time and again, must request, must DEFER. Surely there has been some mistake in the arrangement of power here. It can not be doubted, once having conjured this image, that poetry is indeed a battleground, and that blood will be spilled.

But draw back a moment from this Dickensian reverie: ask yourself if you might find mercy for such a creature. And if you can, it will certainly be because you recognize the editor in yourselves.

In fact we are all editors. We all have our likes and dislikes, and if sometimes we can't say why, more often we can. What most of us lack, as editors, is a vehicle, a place where our opinion of what is good and bad can be placed in the public record. If we had such a vehicle, it would have a certain shape and feel, and others would know it by this shape and feel, just as now we know Frogpond to be distinct from acorn and from Raw Nervz and again from Haiku Headlines.

As proof of your editorial bent, I offer the following test. I would like you to consider a series of poems. They are all translations of the famous Basho poem furuike ya, and have been taken from Hiroaki Sato's seminal book One Hundred Frogs. I have chosen these poems because, since the content of all the poems is nearly the same, the issue of accepting or rejecting over the issue of content is eliminated. We all know the poem, and what it supposedly is about: there is a pond, and a frog, and the interaction between them creates a moment of resolution. I ask you not to judge these on their merits as translations, but simply as poems in and of themselves. Imagine yourselves as editors, and these are amongst the poems submitted to you for the next issue of your journal Fabulous Haiku. How would you choose amongst them?

Since you will not be selecting on the basis of content, it must be the other elements which recommend these poems, or dismiss them. I've chosen 3 to focus on: firstly, the quality I will call "haikuness"; secondly, style; and thirdly, sensibility. Then for fun we'll guess which current journals would be inclined to accept certain poems based on our understanding of their haiku sensibility and goals.

For this first batch, consider the following poems in terms of their "haikuness", by which I mean how much they coincide with what you think haiku ought to be like. This is a very complicated idea, and I don't wish to explain any further, so ask yourselves, what do I think a haiku ought to be like, and how close are these poems to that goal. Again, please read these as though they were straight poems, and the name attached is that of the author, not the translator.

     
1. Old pond--
frogs jumped in--
sound of water. 
Lafcadio Hearn 
      
2. Stillness 
Into the calm old lake 
A frog with flying leap goes plop!
The peaceful hush to break. 
William J. Porter 

3. The old pond, yes! 
A frog jumping in. 
The water's noise! 
G. S. Fraser 
      
4. The old pond; 
A frog jumps in,-- 
The sound of the water. 
R. H. Blyth 
      
5. Old pond: 
frog jump-
in water-sound. 
Harold G. Henderson 


Which poem would you be inclined to accept and publish?

The first seems to work well enough The first cluster places us in the context, the second provides the primary image, and the third suggests the resolution. However, a couple of things do jump out at me (pardon the pun): first of all, dashes within a one-liner are not very commonly used, mainly because they attract the eye, and so distract us from the poem itself. Does the poet gain anything from this practice? I don't believe so, so I might question its use. Secondly, the choice of the past tense--jumped--is at odds with current practice of remaining in the present tense. Which desn't mean it can't be done, of course, but again we do well to ask, does the poet gain an advantage from varying from usual practice? If the answer is no, then its use is more distraction than advantage, and so its use again ought to be reconsidered. Thirdly, the language is a bit truncated, what we might call Tarzan English, especially the third segment, and a more natural idiom might be considered. Finally, the use of the plural, while not eschewed, often diffuses the effect of the image instead of concentrating it as the singular is apt to do. So I think all of these issues combine to make this poem only a maybe.

The second poem is even farther afield. It begins, for instance, with a title. This may have been less an issue at the time of its creation, but today we largely recognize a title to be an additional line, and especially a device to set context usually not given to haiku. It carries, in addition, a somewhat fusty and old-fashioned flavor to it. But the problems don't end there: the poem's diction, with its overblown description and end-rhyme, also seems to come from another time. Which it does, so fair enough. There is also the issue of redundancy in the first and third lines (not to mention the title!). So I think this one is fairly dismissed as possessing unconvincing haikuness.

The third seems to be closing in on what we consider to be mete work today. It is stripped of excess, easy to imagine, and its resolution seems to flow naturally from its elements. It does possess the peculiarity of its coinages, however, in an attempt, presumably, to create a sense of instantaneity. It also has a bit of a taste of Tarzan English. So, better but not entirely satisfactory.

With the fourth selection we are approaching and at the same time distancing ourselves from the goal. The images are clear, and are left to speak for themselves. There are no issues of rhyme, diction, titles--and yet, there is something strident about it which commands our attention. It is the punctuation, and especially those exclamation marks. The hortatory "yes" at the end of the first line might be explained away as enthusiasm, but certainly the exclamation mark is redundant. And to repeat it at the end of the poem seems to be commanding the reader to recognize the genius of the poet, not only in his rendering, but in his very noticing. Haiku generally suggest rather than dictate, but there is some very powerful urging going on here which we are inclined to do without.

The final sample is quite similar to the previous poem but without its stridency. It is not without its problems, and in the same realm of punctuation. It is not strident here, but rather fussy: exactly how long a pause does a comma followed by an em-dash last? The result of that final period, too, is to make us consider the whole a sentence, of which it is a very curious example. So while this has much to recommend it, it still falls short.

If we are free to accept or reject these, we would do so on the basis of our needs and our mission. But what if you, as editor, were compelled to take at least one of the above poems? Which would you have selected?

If I had to take one of them, I would be inclined to take Henderson's version. None of them embodies the perfection of form I would prefer, but to me this version comes closest to realizing its moment most accurately, accessibly and touchingly. Nevertheless, the haikuness of this poem awaits its avatar.

This sort of choice confronts an editor far more often than you might expect. It is commonplace to find several poems on the same topic in each selection cycle, or in a contest (especially a themed contest), and a selection amongst them often involves just this sort of discrimination. There are certain topics--shadows, mirrors, cherry blossoms, and many others--which appear every day or two. Part of the editor's task is to make these sometimes fine distinctions. It also serves the editor well to know what has been done in the form and on the theme before, and judge with an eye not only to what the genre can support, but what it has supported in the past.

Another basis for evaluating poems is style of presentation. Every poem will have its own sense of this, and those we've already considered could be reconsidered in this light, but let's look at a new batch from the same source.

 

1. A lonely pond in age-old stillness sleeps . . . 
Apart, unstirred by sound or motion . . . 
till ddenly into it a lithe frog leaps. 
Curtis Hidden Page 
2. There is the old pond! 
Lo, into it jumps a frog: 
hark, water's music. 
John Thomas Bryan 
3. The old pond! 
A frog plunged— 
The sound of the water! 
Asataro Miyamori 
      
4. AN OLD SILENT POND. . . 
INTO THE POND A FROG JUMPS, SPLASH! 
SILENCE AGAIN. 
Peter Beilenson & Harry Behn 


Again, content is largely the same, but treatment is widely varied. Some of the difference lies in the range of ethos in which the poems were created, but our concern is once again which poem, if any, we as editors would include in our next issue of Haiku Beyond Belief.

The first of these almost certainly won't do: it is steeped in excessive verbiage, overwriting and cliché ("age-old stillness"? "unstirred by sound or motion"?), personification ("the pond is lonely"? "the pond sleeps"?), and redundancy (stillness, sleeps, unstirred by sound or motion--that's a very busy amount of stillness for three lines). Also, its sense of building and releasing drama is quite ham-handed: it could have come from Hollywood. Stylistically this suggests not only another age, but the most banal practices of that age.

The next at least has indulged itself less. But this is not to recommend it. The opening line is altogether too hortatory: I doubt the sighting of such a nameless pond would occasion expectation and exclamation--in fact, the pond seems to be known primarily for its opposite characteristics. It is only after the fact that we know this is a special pond. The poet tries to tell us this before the fact, and nothing good comes of it. The antediluvian "Lo", and again, "hark", are also tell-tale marks of an outdated sensibility at work. Finally there is the metaphor of music, surely an interpretation standing as suggestion. Really, nothing much here works.

The third offers a two-line version, but this is merely a surface variant, since the images and action are offered in the same order and to the same completeness. This poem also seeks to proclaim the pond as notable from the outset, though not to the degree of the previous poem.

This frog is also more vigorous--plunged, it did--and so the attention and emphasis might accumulate more to the frog than the sound of the water, and this sound might seem more the result of cause and effect than is usual in most readings of the poem. But at least there is relatively little steering of the reader, compared to the other versions so far considered.

The final version fairly shouts at the reader with its all-capitals treatment, something most of us have become sensitized to through our dealings on the internet. There is certainly omething very un-haiku-like about such a treatment. The pond is not stressed in this version so much as in the others, though we are invited to linger at its appearance, via the ellipsis terminating the first line. Notable is the use of onomatopeia, the repetition of silent and silence, and the use of seventeen syllables (which certainly occasioned the repetition of words). Not a bad attempt for its time, but not without its flaws.

Once again you are compelled to select one of these. Which would you take?

If I had to take one of these, I believe I would go with the third. It's the cleanest of them, and while a bit pointed and strident, not the worst of these by any amount. It also permits the reader the most access and the least steering, and preserves the emphasis on the final image better than the others without interpreting it. So, that's how I'd vote.

You can see that a great deal of consideration goes into the evaluation of each poem submitted. Not every poem, of course, is so difficult to parse: many poems are obviously unpublishable from first glance, and many good poems reveal themselves in the first reading. But quite often many poems must be subjected to this sort of scrutiny and comparison to discern their relative merits. It's often a very good practice to read a batch of poems, and then to lay the poems aside to reconsider them at a later time. The poems thus have the opportunity to work in the editor's subconscious, and to recommend themselves in this way.

One more batch: this time, let's have a little fun by guessing which contemporary journal would most likely to choose each of these poems. This is pure speculation, of course, and could never be proven, but it might make us aware of our ways of evaluating the various journals in terms of what we might call their "house syles".

Here are the poems. Again, read them as English poems, not as  translations.

1. Into an old pond
A frog took a sudden plunge,
Then is heard a splash.
Inazo Nitobe

2. The quiet pond
A frog leaps in
The sound of the water.
Edward G. Seidensticker


3. Silent old pool
Frog jumps
Kdang!
Edward Bond


4. The old pond is still
a frog leaps right into it
splashing the water
Earl Miner & Hiroko Odagiri

5. The old pond
A frog jumped in,
Kerplunk!
Allen Ginsberg

Where do you think these might be published if they were offered as a new poem today?
My own opinion, and again, this is merely surmise and offered for fun, is that it is a likely offering from Haiku Headlines. It is written in strict 5-7-5 form and seems more intent upon this strictness than upon other elements. Obviously I take this to be somewhat characteristic of the editorial taste at Haiku Headlines. Conversations with the editor of this journal have confirmed my opinion.

The second poem could appear in any number of places, including Frogpond. For fun I have placed it with The Heron's Nest, since it is rather classically a nature poem, sparely written, and probably best represents the mainstream tradition of haiku as we have inherited it. I might equally well have placed it with Acorn, which has a similar orientation.

The third one has a distinct zen orientation, and so the journal that would pick this one up would have to have one as well. For this reason I've thought bottle rockets the likeliest.

The fourth too evidences a 5-7-5 orientation, and so might be Haiku Headlines material, but the feel and sensibility of it are somewhat different: there's an artless quality to it, and something I'd have a great deal of difficulty defending if I was to say it felt a bit more Japanese, both of which suggest Geppo.

And the last? To me the most important determining factor in this instance is the fourth line: the name. Modern Haiku has shown a decided interest in the past few issues in gathering the haiku efforts of mainstream poets and publishing the results. I think this is a very interesting exercise, possibly informative in both directions, and I cannot imagine the editor of Modern Haiku passing up the opportunity to publish any of Ginsberg's haiku, given the chance. Any more than I would . . .
What we might gather from these exercises is that not only are we editors of our own work and in our own rights, but we are capable of discerning the editorial tendencies in others. We use this information when submitting material, and also in weighing the responses we receive from editors. We do the same thing when we hold back certain poems for use in contests. And, if we were privy to such information, we would probably also choose certain poems and not choose others if we knew who the judges of these contests were, all based upon our editorial skills. It's not writing, certainly, but it is a valuable adjunct skill which helps determines where we are to be seen in the haiku world. Okay, then, on to that question which presumably interests you in this topic if you have any interest at all: : how exactly do I get published in Frogpond?

As you know, it's not all that easy. Frogpond receives over 22000 submissions per year, and we publish somewhere between 500 and 600 poems., that is, fewer than 3 poems out of every hundred we receive. That's a very low hit rate, and it can feel discouraging to receive rejections for what we often feel are our best poems. What I'd like to do is to speak directly to how you can improve your chances to be published in Frogpond. The subtitle of this talk might be "An Editor's Guide to Getting Down to Haiku in an Age without Definition". Curiously, it is not the lack of definitions which marks this age, but rather the plethora of definitions which makes any single definition nearly impossible. These definitions are not idle, either, but based on practical models which anyone might encounter in reading the journals. So I remind you of our third premise from the beginning of this piece: editors and writers want the same thing: they both want to publish and be published in the best vehicle they both can manage. And they must work together: a journal can be no better than the material submitted to it, and the prestige of appearing in such a journal determines in some measure to which journals one might submit.

So, I'd like you to play the editor here for a moment. Here are 5 actual submission to Frogpond received in one week in 2002. I would like you to consider which, if any, of these poems you would accept for publication, which you would offer suggestions for correction with possible publication to follow, and which you would reject, and what you might say in your rejection letter. Here are the samples:

1. In the attic mouse trap with skeleton mouse fur Jon Cone

2. puddle on a stone
a blue dragonfly drinks
night-cooled water
Emily Romano

3. Spreading sheer branches
to touch its icy brethren
crytallizing each
Susan Hinkle

4. she leans
a little closer
ladybug on my palm
Yu Chang

5. midnight
the black cat
is lost
Carolyne Rohrig

Would you include any of these poems in your issue of Frogpond? Would you accept any with revision? What would your suggested revisions be? Which would you reject outright? What would you say to the poets whose work has been rejected? The most obvious rejection, to my mind, is the third poem. It has "beginner" written all over it. It has some overt manifestations of haikuness: it follows the traditional syllable count format in three lines; it reaches for haiku content with its ice crystals, its gauzy effects, its sensibility. But it is also clearly just an example of rportage: a nice enough image, but not opening, to this reader at east, to anything resembling resonance. It also depends upon figurative and poetic language, and a seeming act of magic, for its effect. And the striving for a correct syllable count has led to an odd syntax: what is it that is spreading these sheer branches? Or are the branches spreading? We might ask this because the infinitive "to touch" has been employed without a subject, and so the poem leaves us in midair, wondering what it is we should be imagining. My Associate Editor (at the time this piece was written), John Stevenson, and I have a general sort of reply to this kind of submitter. We try to recognize that the poet has relied as best he or she could upon information available in the public domain, and to applaud their impulse and achievement when that's possible. We also try to steer them gently into the realm of a more profound consideration of what the genre is attempting to do, quite beyond syllables and crystallizing branches. We recommend further reading, greater attention to the word choices actually made, and an invitation to try again. We rarely, in these instances, actually try to revise such poems, because these poems are of a completely different sort of conception that those that we are generally looking for. That sort of poem has at its core an instant of recognition, around which the poem is built; that is, they are conceived from the inside out. The majority of poems we see from formalist beginners are conceived from the form in. It is best, in my opinion, for poets to wrestle with what it is they are trying to accomplish on the resonance level before attempting revision of any of the external elements which comprise the actual poems. Once we know what we're aiming for, and why, it's a great deal easier to make useful choices about the techniques we employ to achieve them.

The next most obvious rejection to this reader is the first poem, "In the attic". The one-line format might mislead the reader into thinking this is a practiced hand who is making a modernist statement about haiku format: in reality, the poet is quite new to the genre and has been influenced primarily by his experience in mainstream poetry, along with his recent reading of Hiro Sato's Grass and Tree Cairn, haiku of Santoka.

The first cluster of words sets the context well, and the second cluster presents the primary image clearly. We can expect the third cluster to close the deal, to present the contrasting image and release the resonance. But instead what we get is not a contrast, but more of the same. The result may be slightly ironic, but it is not expanding, and simply allows us to remain in the first state in which we encountered the poem. The poem is closely observed, but not deeply observed. It reminds me of Marlene Mountain's excellent and useful phrase that many, perhaps the majority of, haiku are "dull moments keenly observed". This is not to demean the efforts of the poet: there may well be a moment worth recording and sharing here, but in this reader's opinion, the poet has failed in this instance to realize it.

In the fifth poem we are beginning to approach what we're looking for. The first line clearly sets the context. The second line limns the primary image clearly and unambiguously. The third line closes the poem, and permits the whole of the poem to expand beyond its elements. Why, then, did I reject it?

Primarily because of what the poem is outside the haiku context: an oft-used joke, a counterpart to the polar bear in a snowstorm. This is an occasion where sensibility matters more than skill in construction, and the poet doesn't distance the poem quite enough from the one-liner to avoid the obvious comparisons. Another consideration is that the poem is quite similar to another published recently, and this one doesn't provide sufficient improvement or difference to merit its further propagation.

The second poem shows great potential which it does not realize, in my opinion. The first line, puddle on a stone, certainly places us well, but the mention of water in the third line makes one or the other of these references redundant. Since the best phrasing of the poem is"night-cooled water", it seems obvious that the first line is best changed if the poem is to realize its full weight. Also, the image of the second line strikes me as an interpretation rather than a direct apprehension. When we see a dragonfly encountering water, how do we know what it is doing? Have we looked that closely? Do we have special knowledge? Or do we surmise it? What the direct apprehension is, I believe, is that we see the dragonfly rising and dipping. Perhaps this is drinking, perhaps it is not. In any case, it is the reality of the moment, and it is enough in itself. So this poem was returned to the poet with comments such as these, and a suggested revision, as follows:

solstice dawn--
a dragonfly dips into
night-cool water

Of course the poet is free to discount any such suggestions. But such suggestions are never idle, but rather the result of much consideration. The final poem, she leans, was accepted immediately and enthusiastically. I find this to be a particularly well-wrought poem. It has several elements which recommend it, which I'd like to share with you. To begin, the opening line sets the context well, but not so finally that we can be entirely certain of what is happening. She leans could conjure any number of things: into a forehand, against a wall, over the railing. The second line narrows the focus a bit: a little closer--presumably, to the poet, but we're still not absolutely certain.There is a mystery arising with the poem, and we are drawn into it. The third line both explains the mystery and opens it. A ladybug is being held by the poet, and the effect of it is to draw the woman in. But is she drawn in closer to the insect, or is she drawn in closer to the poet? Or both? And how can we ever separate them from each other, or from this moment? A beautiful moment skillfully drawn. So there we have it: a first-hand look at how poems are evaluated by the editor of at least one of the journals you submit to. Do other editors do different things? Undoubtedly. Do they also do similar things? Undoubtedly. And since we're all different, it will be in the details that those differences are made manifest.

Good luck with your future writing--and editing!


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