He whom the gods destroy they first call promising.
Well, I was considered promising at good old Rye High, as we called Ryerson University in those days, and so were a number of others called "promising." We all seem to have ended up more or less obscure.
I had been rejected once by the Fifth Page, Ryerson's literary magazine and I wondered why.
"Write about sexual difficulties. Write about angst pain, separation, rejection. That's what your English prof, the editor is going through," some wag advised me.
I wrote poems about rejection and pain, wrote a short story about sexual difficulties and voila, instant publishing.
Heaven forbid that you should check out the psychological space of editors before you submit stuff....get to know their hangups, their preferences. Strategy over talent? Works that way sometimes.
But there were other people who submitted really good stuff, especially on Susanne Howden who wrote so well about being alone in the spring. I have to include Susanne's poem as well. Nice poetess.
So, for no other reason than to show we were precocious and we came to a bad end, I'll offer a sampling of wares from way back, almost forty years ago at Ryerson 1967. How relatively easy it had been to get published as a serious short story writer through the Ryerson Publications Committee. How hard it is now.