“I write one page of masterpiece to ninety one pages of shit,” Hemingway confided to F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1934. “I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.”
‘Be vicious, don’t get sentimental about your writing, cut out the crap’ I mutter to myself furiously as the words drop off the page and into cyber nowhereland.
Bye bye lovlies, I tried but in the end I found you substandard. Another time and place, in another form, you could have been mine. We could have had something. But you just couldn’t (or wouldn’t) change for me, so you get the chop.