Dear author

Dear author,

Thank you for your submission. The emotional wreckage of your life is vividly articulated on the page, and your many years of dedication to craft and self-flagellation are evident. We share your burden – perhaps not your specific wreckage, but wreckages of our own.

We acknowledge that life and its harsh realities are not conducive to creative efflorescence nor, indeed, general happiness and fulfilment. We see you working your soul-crushing job and the drudgery it entails. We see you juggling with your partner who should pick up the kids, who needs to take the cat to the vet. The perennial questions: What should we have for dinner? Who should make it? Who should clean up after? We see, too, the weekends lost to whatever flotsam life expects you to lug out of the ocean.

In one small, remnant part of your soul you’ve managed to keep a spark alight. You’ve wrung whatever dribble of creativity you can from your tired, middle-aged bones onto the page. For this we commend you.

Unfortunately, this piece was not for us.

The editors.