It is with a deep sense of personal failure that I write to you today to report that we are taking a break from the Literary Magazine. Rather, our attempt at a magazine as we didn't produce a single issue. Well, that's not entirely true. There were a handful of draft copies made from office supplies and your work. But those won't see the light of day. Regardless, apologies.
Why? It's hard to say, really. It's not my style to make excuses so I won't make it rain the million tiny cuts that led to this. We fell flat on our faces with this one. That's it. Fail. Ure.
And I'm sorry. Me. Nick. Sorry.
I would like to thank every motherfucker out there that trusted us with your work. You gave your art to three guys (and one special lady poetry editor) with the known reputation for shredding the written word, and that level of trust and courage is, frankly, unreal. I couldn't appreciate it more. We laughed together, you and I. Cried. I pissed some of you off. Others, we embraced. You gave me something to believe in: That we, all of us, will keep attempting Art. That failure is the product of nearly all of our endeavors. But we will continue to kick that fucking door until it caves in. Or we break our leg. But then we could use a battering ram. Or our other leg. Or, like, a steel pipe from the alley and try to pry the door open. A rudimentary lathe? I digress.
Gist: I'm not giving up on you. Don't give up on us. Or yourself.
Thank you once again for submitting. For existing.
Until next time,