TMR Editors’ Prize
- Twenty-five Years Ago…
- What’s Up with YA: Card Those Grownups!
- We’re Still Here: A TMR Staff Photo ca. 1993
- Everything Old is New Again: What the Publishing World Can Learn from the Rediscovered Love of Vinyl
- Stephan and the Rejection Giant: Plotting Grand Literary Successes in the Midst of Numerically Disastrous Odds
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Current Issue: Summer 2015
Current issue: Summer 2015
In announcing The Missouri Review’s 25th Annual Jeffrey E. Smith Editors’ Prize in Fiction, Essay, and Poetry—where each genre winner earns a feature in our Spring 2016 issue, a fancy reading in Columbia, and a cool five grand—I thought I would bring us back to 1990, the year that the Editors’ Prize began. Here are 25 things that went down 25 years ago:
- The most complete skeleton of a T-Rex was found in South Dakota.
- The Simpsons aired on Fox for the first time.
- Nelson Mandella was released from prison in South Africa after 28 years.
- The destruction of the Berlin Wall began in June.
- Entertainment Weekly hit newsstands.
- Seinfeld premiered on NBC.
- West Germany won the World Cup.
- Industrialized countries agreed to stop dumping garbage into the oceans.
- Margaret Thatcher announced her resignation.
- The first web page was written.
- The Space Shuttle Discovery places the Hubble Space Telescope in orbit.
- Microsoft released Windows 3.0.
- Wilson Phillips’ song “Hold On” debuted on the radio.
- The Cincinnati Reds won the World Series (as a Reds fan, I have no memory of this, which makes me sad).
- Twin Peaks premiered on ABC.
- George H.W. Bush was named Time Magazine’s Man of the Year.
- Milli Vanilli’s producer revealed they were lip-synching on their Grammy award-winning album.
- The first Home Alone film came out in theaters.
- The poll tax took effect in the UK.
- The cost of a Super Bowl ad was $700,000.
- Parachute pants were all the rage, as shown in MC Hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This.”
- Dances with Wolves won the Oscar.
- Sinead O’Connor topped the charts with “Nothing Compares 2 U.”
- The Leaning Tower of Pisa closed due to safety.
- The Cold War came to an end.
We’ve certainly come a long way since 1990, and here at TMR, we’ve come a long way, too. Submit to our Editors’ Prize before October 1st, 2015 for your chance to be a part of history—and, you know, to win $5,000.
We can’t wait to read your submissions!
Editors’ Prize Guidelines
25th Annual Jeffrey E. Smith Editors’ Prize in Fiction, Essay, and Poetry
Not Just Any Contest!
Select winning entries in the past have been reprinted in the Best American series.
$5,000 Fiction | $5,000 Poetry | $5,000 Essay
DEADLINE: October 1, 2015
Submit online now or download the entry form (PDF) for print submissions.
Interested in reading a past Jeffrey E. Smith Editor’s Prize winner? Check out the essays “Big Jim,” “Letters to David,” and “My Thai Girlfriends” on textBOX, The Missouri Review‘s free online anthology: www.missourireview.com/anthology
- Page restrictions: Please include no more than 25 typed, double-spaced pages for fiction and nonfiction. Poetry entries can include any number of poems up to 10 pages in total. Each story, essay, or group of poems constitutes one entry.
- Entry fee: $20 for each entry (make checks payable to The Missouri Review). Each fee entitles the entrant to a one-year subscription to TMR in print or digital format (for a free sample of a digital issue, go here!), an extension of a current subscription, or a gift subscription. Please enclose a complete address for subscriptions.
- Entry instructions (for mailed entries): Include the printable contest entry form. On the first page of each submission, include author’s name, address, e-mail and telephone number. Entries must be previously unpublished and will not be returned. We accept simultaneous submissions but ask for immediate notification if the piece is accepted for publication elsewhere. Mark the outside of the envelope “Fiction,” “Essay,” or “Poetry.” Each entry in a separate category must be mailed in a separate envelope. Enclose a #10 SASE or e-mail address for an announcement of winners. Entries will not be returned.
- Eligibility: Previous winners of the Editors’ Prize and previous employees of TMR are ineligible. Previous finalists, however, may enter again.
- Mailing address: Missouri Review Editors’ Prize 357 McReynolds Hall University of Missouri Columbia, MO 65211
- What Are You Waiting For? Enter Online Now!
Download the entry form for print submissions.
The winners will be announced in January 2016.
If you have any questions regarding the Editors’ Prize Contest, please feel free to e-mail us at: firstname.lastname@example.org.
I noticed about five years ago that among college-age students there’s a great divide between reading for pleasure and reading for class. Today when I walk into a creative writing workshop, students are sitting around the conference table with their noses stuck in books I’ve never heard of. They whisper about these works among themselves. To me they are speaking in code, kind of like fans of Games of Thrones. I just don’t get it, and I suspect they prefer it that way.
Current English majors are die-hard young adult fans, and they are not getting over it any time soon. They are seldom interested in required reading lists of canonical authors or the differences between literary and genre fiction.
In 2012 a research firm found that 55% of YA readers are actually adults. Twenty-eight percent of those buyers are between the ages of 30 and 44. It’s a phenomenon that’s difficult for both publishers and critics to explain. Some point to YA’s escapist appeal. Perhaps adult life has become so mundane that one wants to hang out on the page with vampires, witches and zombies. Others think it’s a form of nostalgia, a longing for their vanished youth. The most critical see it as indicative of a decline in literacy. Or perhaps parents just want to know what their kids are reading and then get hooked; after all, some of these novels are supposed to be pretty good.
Last year I asked my fiction writing class about the trend. Their response was largely one of disdain. In essence they felt their parents should “get a life.” Twilight, The Hunger Games, The Fault in Our Stars, Divergent, and Mortal Instruments belonged to them, though they thought it was okay if their parents saw the film adaptations (many of these books seem to be written with future movie franchises in mind).
My reading habits were different as a 12- to 17-year old, the age group for which these books are generally written. Rather than selecting from the teen-oriented books that took off in the 1960s and 1970s—novels by Judy Blume, Robert Cormier, S.E. Hinton, and Paul Zindel—I was reading the trashy bestsellers of the era, fat pulpy paperbacks full of the titillation of real sex rather than the virginal vampire kind.
Harold Robbins’ The Carpetbaggers was my favorite, a novel thought to be a thinly disguised portrayal of Howard Hughes though Robbins always denied it. No one thought it strange that I trucked around with a book by Robbins until I took The Lonely Lady to a slumber party and read out loud randy passages. My mother got a disapproving phone call the next day.
My steady reading diet also included Jacqueline Suzann’s Valley of the Dolls, Papillon, a memoir by convicted felon and fugitive Henri Charriére, unauthorized Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe biographies, and Kenneth Anger’s Hollywood Babylon, a book that offered up Hollywood’s best kept and darkest secrets. I think I was the only kid in junior high who knew the story of Fatty Arbuckle’s demise or how Jane Mansfield met her end. The junk I was reading certainly prepared me for the future of reality TV since I was already fascinated by the tangled world of grown-ups in flashy places. The evolution of young reader of pure swill to English professor is hard to explain.
So my writing program has been bandying about the idea of teaching a YA workshop. I certainly won’t be the instructor. I completely lack the expertise or interest. But if they came up with a course on 1970s schlock such as Jaws, Carrie, Alive, and The Godfather –yes all movies—count me in.
What do you think? Is it okay that so many adults read YA? Or should the bookstores card them or at least require signed consent from their children?
Three of the people pictured in this group photo have worked together for more than twenty years—that’s over a thousand weeks, five thousand days, 45,000 hours, three presidents, eight Bond movies, nine versions of Windows, countless bad haircuts and fashion trends, and 80 issues of TMR.
Off hand, I have no idea how many manuscripts I’ve read, reviews and blogs I’ve written, events I’ve planned, AWPs I attended, archives I’ve visited, “found text” and visual art features I’ve written, cover artists I’ve found, and junk mail pieces I’ve sent. It has been one long seamless buzz of activity.
Like many careers in the arts, when you are away from the office, you are never really away from the office. You are always thinking about and looking for possible content. Art galleries and museums offer endless possibilities for visual features. I found Dadaist Hannah Hoch and Pop Art bad boy Martin Kippenberger in Berlin, artwork for our covers by Alex Colville, Jana Sterbak and Anthony Tremmaglia in Canada, and letters by Jelly Roll Morton, rare turn of the century Mardi Gras costume designs, and surrealist photographs by Clarence John Laughlin in New Orleans. And so on. When I travel, I dig, snoop, poke around, and consequently I find literary and artistic goodies.
So what can I say about twenty years in the business? I’ve gained a lot of practical experience. For one thing, I know how to deal with private collectors, curators, gallerists, and archivists. I am no longer too shy to call up and negotiate the cost of publishing a famous artist or writer. Students laugh when I say this, but dead artists are impossible. They are the hardest to work with unless they’ve been gone more than seventy years, which then makes them way easier than the living.
But like any profession in the arts there is no mastery. As a writer I am besieged with the usual questions and moments of self-doubt: Have I really been doing this for twenty years? Shouldn’t it be easier? Why isn’t the prose better? Inversely as a reader I am often struck with a sense of wonder. How did they do that? Where did that extraordinary idea come from? Wow, what a voice.
I never dread coming to work. Every day is different. Fiction, poetry, and nonfiction submissions roll in on-line and a smattering come through the mail. So there’s an ever replenishing source of new material to read. Each semester we have a group of interns, some new and some returning, to assist us with our various projects and offer up their youthful perspectives. The rhythm around the office is typically quite mornings and bustling afternoons.
These days the group photos are put up on-line rather than reproduced as an eight-by-ten glossy. The one posted here is a rare memento that proves we were once young. It also reveals that I have a terrible memory. Out of the other eleven people in the picture, I can only recall the names of three while our assistant managing editor Dedra Earl can identify all but two.
Hey, so if you are in this picture, email us. We’d love to know where you are and what you’re doing.
Everything Old is New Again: What the Publishing World Can Learn from the Rediscovered Love of Vinyl
“Don’t throw the past away
You might need it some rainy day
Dreams can come true again
When everything old is new again”
I recalled the lyrics of Peter Allen’s song the other day when I was in Vinyl Renaissance looking for a few LPs for our up-coming summer launch party at the Vault, a downtown bar. In celebration of the issue’s theme, “Defy,” I decided to go with a rock ‘n’ roll theme and bought one of those all-in-one record players, inviting everyone to bring their favorite albums. At our editorial meeting I told our interns to bring a few LPS, too.
“You know what those are, don’t you?” I cracked.
The students looked at me crossly. Evidently many of them have extensive record collections. I was not aware of the extent of the renaissance in vinyl. The numbers are astounding. According to a recent Wall Street Journal Article, “The Biggest Comeback of 2014: Vinyl Records,” over 8 million vinyl records were sold in 2014. Fifteen factories in the country that still press records are struggling to keep up with the demand that promises to surge by 49% in 2015.
I chatted with the record store owner. “You really have your finger on the pulse,” I said, meaning it. I never would have guessed that young people would fall in love with the feel of placing the needle in the groove of a record and even notice the superior sound quality it delivers.
He told me how his wife had at first thought he was crazy. Now she recognizes his genius. The store is doing great. The real challenge is finding enough inventory.
While flipping through the bins of records I once owned and discarded, I pondered then and later over dinner with my husband whether the publishing industry could learn a thing or two from the resurgence of vinyl. We wondered whether some literary magazines were too quick to do away with the print version and become exclusively on-line. Have there been too many fierce and ferocious fights over the e-books rights? Have people packed up and dispensed with their books in favor of scrolling through the electronic pages on Kindle? It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to predict that eBooks will never make print books obsolete. According to Claire Fallon’s piece in the Huffington Post, print books outsold eBooks in the first half of 2014, with hardcovers and paperbacks making up 67% of book sales. So perhaps the tide is already turning. Like vinyl, hardbacks are making a comeback.
So I guess I would say, think before you toss. I left Vinyl Renaissance having spent $25 on records I used to own, though I felt rather hip walking down the street with the albums tucked in the crook of my arm.
Stephan and the Rejection Giant: Plotting Grand Literary Successes in the Midst of Numerically Disastrous Odds
Dear Distinguished Publisher,
I, Stephan Elcalabaza, perhaps need no introduction, but for formality’s sake I will concede. When I was born the doctor took two looks at me (one simply wasn’t enough) and immediately retired. What more, after all, could he hope to accomplish beyond this (in your presence I would say this while gently patting my chest, so you know by “this” I mean me).
I am Whitman in a tutu shooting iambs at the moon, yet you dare to wonder where my poems are housed! My publications are breath and bone and blood and warm air rising celestial and free. My publications are brethren to wood and rock, sistren to the sky and sea, descended of the stars, and godlike iridescent.
With that said the poems herein are culled from my latest collection Disagreeable Verse, which is likely (if they have any sense) to be published by Gris Lobo press later this year (probably by November, my birthday month, again if they have any sense). My previous collections Roses in the Plummer’s Crack, Jackson Goes a-Hollering, Reach Right Over and Squeeze, Balls Balanced on a Feline’s Wicked Whiskers, Rickshaw Wonderland, Over the Moon, and Biscuits for Jennifer have won (or should have won) numerous awards (including but not limited to the Jeffrey Murphey Brown Award for Curmudgeonly Sonnets and the Willis O’Neil Award for Poetic Excellence Under Extreme Duress).
Three years from now I win the Pulitzer. Three years and a day from now I will be eating spaghetti with butter and melted cheddar cheese out of my Pulitzer. Impossible you say? Already my microwave is purring! Already the butter is melting! Already my noodle-maker is requisitioning flour! What more is there? Only the Pulitzer. Three years.
Enjoy and may the Baza be ever in your favor.
Obviously there are some potential editorial and logical pitfalls in this copy of my friend Stephan Elcalabaza’s cover letter for a recent round of submissions. But leaving those aside, I sometimes wish my own attitude toward submitting were half as assured as Stephan’s. Stephan laughs in the face of rejection. Or anything short of grandiose success, for that matter. I take a slightly different approach.
My bio is pretty standard: written in the third person, it includes where I live, what I do, my relevant educational credentials, past publications and little more.
As for expectations, unlike Stephan, I have grown to expect rejection.
In the last year, I have submitted a total of 84 different poems in 117 individual submissions.
So far this year, I have been rejected for publication 78 times.
The 84 different poems I have submitted have on average been rejected at least four times each, with a couple being rejected as many as ten times.
Between early December 2014 and March 17, 2015, I received 28 consecutive rejections from literary journals and publishers. One weekend in March, I was rejected five separate times in a thirty-hour period.
In the first two days after I started writing this blog, I was rejected by three literary journals and one anthology.
I carry on. Currently I have 56 poems actively submitted to 35 journals and publishers, and have a list of over 100 publishers to potentially submit to in the future.
I keep accounts of all this data and more in two electronic documents stored on my computer. The first of these is a simple Word document with running lists of which poems I have submitted and where I have sent them. The list is broken into three major categories: active submissions (in black), rejections (in red), and accepted work (accepted poems in blue and bolded). This document also includes the list of places I plan to submit work in the future, including dates submissions are accepted, how many poems are allowable per submission, whether a submission fee is required, and any specific requirements or aesthetic proclivities unique to each particular publication.
The second document is an Excel spreadsheet broken into two parts: 1) a list of all the poems I’ve ever submitted and, in the corresponding rows, a list of every place these poems are currently submitted; 2) a Rejection Chart! that lists every poem I’ve ever had rejected and who has rejected them (a grand total of 341 individual poem rejections according to the running tally located in cell 1B).
Yes, this is all a bit insane.
I wasn’t always like this.
When I started trying to publish last May, I spent a good amount of time selecting the most appropriate contests and journals (as you are supposed to) and painstakingly attempting to match my work to fit each venue (again, as you are supposed to). I was blissfully hopeful. Eagerly awaiting inevitable acceptance, I feared only that all the poems I had simultaneously submitted would end up being accepted by multiple parties (an irrational fear some publishers’ submission guidelines seem eager to encourage in you as a submitter). By the end of the summer, I had sent work to a whopping seven publications!
Then the rejections started. Though it took over six months, I was finally rejected by all seven of the venues I’d sent to over the summer. Gradually my game plan changed. I found myself repeatedly scanning the AWP calendar of submission deadlines and applied to handfuls and eventually full dozens of publications.
On the flip side, reading for the Missouri Review has allowed me to see manuscript rejections from a different perspective. I’ve had the opportunity to read other writers’ work and done my fair share of rejecting a manuscript myself (a couple hundred submissions by my count) or suggesting that one of my colleagues reject a submission. Naturally, as a reader, I know that rejecting manuscripts is unavoidable, as we have to eventually winnow the vast quantity of submissions we receive down to a select handful for publication. TMR, for example, publishes less than one half of one percent (.5%, or 1/200) of its submitters, and rejections I have received from other journals lead me to believe this number is not uniquely low.
To put that number in perspective, imagine you’re back in elementary school again and it happens to be the day everyone gets to guess how many jelly beans are in Principle Story’s gallon-sized glass jar. The rules are simple: whoever ends up guessing closest to the actual number of jelly beans in the jar wins the jar and all its contents. Let’s say there are roughly 200 kids, kindergarten through fifth grade, in your school and each student in the school hazards a guess. You also—after meticulous calculation and thoughtful consideration—hazard a guess: 9,642. It’s 9,642. Now, having guessed, your chance of actually winning the much-coveted jelly bean jar roughly corresponds to the statistical chance of someone being featured in The Missouri Review upon submission. Of course, there are those like Timothy Blithers and Suzy O’Simmons who guess 17 and 1,000,045 respectively. But for the most part, the guesses fall more or less within the range of plausibility. And, still, only one of the 200 plus students in your school will end up winning all the 4,318.5 jelly beans in the jar (alas, your guess of 9,642 is off by over 5,000 beans; it’s unfortunately not you, sorry).
Jelly beans or no, however you look at it, rejection is part, and a rather large part, of the nature of publishing. Yet, despite the bleakness of the numbers game, and my self-perceived submission mania, I continue to submit, not just because I want to be published, but also because I believe the process is worthwhile.
Beyond the simple, inescapable dynamics of publishing—acceptance or, much more likely, rejection—submitting encourages something of a conversation. For a writer, submitting work guarantees that your work is read by somebody, encourages you to write with a real, live, human reader in mind, and provides you an audience —however detached and critical. And for the reader working through the slush pile, reading manuscripts allows you to peek at a cross-section of the writers publishing (or attempting to publish) right now, to glimpse unique, never-before-seen details of our present literary landscape, and then to respond.
Apart from the simple binary of acceptance/rejection, the submission process is comprised of a multitude of writer-to-reader exchanges. And no matter how frustrated a particular writer’s ambitions or how jaded a particular reader may be, these exchanges are meaningful. They are the very building blocks of successful literary publishing and the essence of shared literary experiences.
Simply put, to submit is to offer your work to another: yes in judgment, but also for the simple bliss and terror of sharing, and to read a submission from a fellow writer is to accept this offering. And this simple exchange—writer to reader, writer to reader, writer to reader, again and again—persists whether your work is published or never gets beyond the first read.
In the end, rejection or no, I like to imagine that the process of submitting work is one way to bridge the loneliness of what it can mean to be a writer. At least, it offers me the hope that such loneliness might be bridged—that my work can someday be appreciated and relished for all its worth and, with some good luck, even more.
As for Stephan, when I tell him, in my humble editorial opinion, he should probably tone down his bio a bit and embrace the certain uncertainty of the publication gambit more fully, he sets fire to a manuscript of my most recent poems. “It’s all about the passion,” he informs me as he tosses the burning manuscript in my direction. “If it ain’t too hot to hold, broseph, why pass it on?”
Back in 2003, I moved from Boston to St. Louis to start graduate school. If there is a clear moment in my life that I can point to and say “this changed everything” (and I’m not sure that I can), then that would be the moment. When I left Ohio State in 2000, freshly armed with my BA in Literature, I wanted to be a writer. And even though taking time off from school was sorta the plan, it was really after I spent three years working in the private sector, and I came to Missouri for graduate school, that things changed in permanent way. MFA program, River Styx, Missouri Review. Twelve years have passed since I drove around a bend and saw the St. Louis Arch, crossed the Mississippi, and my so called writing life blossomed.
By now, of course, you have very likely heard that I have resigned as managing editor, and that today is my last day with the Missouri Review. This weekend, I’ll head home to Ohio to visit family for a few weeks, then up to Yellow Springs to teach in the Antioch Writers’ Workshop, then, finally, I head to D.C.
Why the move? Here’s why:
Yup. I gotta go see about a girl.
The last few weeks have been pretty hectic, and I’ve had very little time—none, in fact—to reflect on my time in Missouri. I am staring at an eight hour car ride to Cincinnati on Saturday, so perhaps then, when I’m coming up on Effingham, Illinois, I’ll have more coherent ideas about the meaning of these last twelve years.
“I don’t know what I think until I write it down” has been attributed to Joan Didion, though a variation on the same idea can also be attributed to Flannery O’Connor (“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”) and both are saying essentially the same thing.
Over the years, I’ve read other people’s posts about leaving an organization, and often, it’s a list of accomplishments and a bunch of thank yous. Which is fine. A lot has happened since I came here. We had an old website that looked like this. Our submission system was an Outlook mailbox. We’ve published roughly two hundred authors in our pages since 2010. We rebooted, and in many ways began, our social media presence, including this blog, which has been an outlet for our thoughts on what’s happening in publishing without being reactionary or dull. My blog posts have, I hope, shed light on the literary magazine world and the process that our editorial staff goes through because transparency and misunderstanding continues to make the writer/editor/reader relationship sometimes becomes combative when a simple explanation is all that is needed.
And, of course, I am grateful to Speer Morgan for hiring me and being a mentor and friend. This staff—Evelyn Somers, Dedra Earl, and Kris Somerville—is wonderful, and I’m proud to have been their colleague. Two dozen graduate editors have worked here, and their contribution has been invaluable, with ideas like Literature on Lockdown and Working Writers Series (Alison Balaskovits), building our Twitter and Facebook voice (Rob Foreman), shaping our poetry in print and online (Marc McKee, Katy Didden, Austin Segrest, Chun Ye). There are undergraduate interns and office assistants that had been here for more than just two semesters, and seeing Sara Strong and Maura Lammers and Kyle Burton and Brad Babendir over the course of their college career has been amazing.
Once I start listing names, I feel I need to include everyone, and that would turn this into a blog post that is solely a list of hundreds of names. And I’ve only mentioned the staff so far: I haven’t even gotten to the writers, who make this magazine exist by sending us their work, or the editors and writers I’ve met from the litmag world who make this work so gratifying. It was at AWP Denver, when I was brand new, that I marched up to Andrea Drygas (Ploughshares), Cara Adams (Southern Review), and Tyler Meier (Kenyon Review), to name just three editors, and asked them for all the advice and guidance they could give me about how to run a magazine.
Those three, by the way, all have left their respective magazines. Managing editors don’t stay long!
How can I encapsulate these six years? How can I tell you about having drinks with Phong Nguyen and Daniel Stolar and Amina Gautier at a rooftop bar in Chicago? Or about Matt Sailor inviting me down to Atlanta to meet Georgia State students? Or when my book was accepted for publication? Or when my students get accepted to MFA programs? Or when Ashley Ford bearhugged me? Or playing basketball at AWP? Or having no one show up to my first reading my hometown (true story)? Or meeting people for the first time after talking to them on Twitter for months? Or going to San Francisco and Seattle and Minneapolis for the first time in my life? Or all the hundreds of other moments, too great to list here, too private, too personal, too numerous?
I just don’t know. But it’s all because of this writing life.
I’m afraid of losing you. I’m afraid that when I drive away from this job and this city on Saturday, that a part of the writing community that has meant so much to me for the last twelve years is going to forget me. That my contribution has stopped, that my work is over, especially since I don’t know if my next step is going to be direct involvement in the writing world in any sort of public way.
But, in person, talking to my friends this week, I feel buoyant. I’ve moved around before, and the relationships that matter always thrive, no matter the distance. It was true when I left Ohio, when I left Boston, when I left St. Louis, and it will be true again when I leave Missouri. My relationships are important to me, and while there is so much I want to say, I think this piece that summarizes an essay by Andrew Sullivan says everything better than I could. If you know me, really know me, then you know how meaningful my friendships are, and how important you’ve been, and continue to be, in my life.
I’m thrilled to be heading to D.C. Moving has been a drain on my time, and once I’m settled, I can get back to my novel (revision #843!) and new stories, and reading books again. Being in a city is going to be invigorating, and Politics & Prose is a short walk from my new place, and I will be living again in a city with NBA basketball (okay, look: that’s exciting to me, all right?). I won’t be hard to find.
This is where I say something smart or witty or deep or insightful or something as a way to close out this final blog post. As TMR’s managing editor, I’ve written 207 posts, some lengthy and some short, and right now, I’m at a loss as to how end this. Because it doesn’t really feel like the end, and it doesn’t really feel like the beginning, and I refuse to say something corny about journeys and all that. I will miss this place and this magazine and this role. But I’m ready to go. And I know I’ll see you again soon.
Follow Michael on Twitter: @mpnye