It’s no wonder that so many of the world’s great writers were alcoholics or junkies. Many lived a life of suffering. Hemingway even went so far as to end his own life. I envy him his peace. He no longer suffers as I, now, suffer. They have taken something I longed for, and they have run it straight into the ground. They have defiled the one thing in life that I love. Writing. I honestly do not know what to start with. Something that should have at least an inkling of formality has been turned into a powwow. Greetings and salutations have been demoted to high-fives and fist bumps. The so-called circle has become more like a noose, slowly killing off talent. I see new faces, every time I go. The lucky ones got away. They gathered their manuscripts and fled. But, few were caught on their heels. Accomplishment has become the new measure of authority, not talent. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to suburbia.