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Another Tortured Soul“Dear Mr. Shaw: Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, we believe it does not fit the message of our publication. Enclosed is your manuscript, yadda yadda yadda..."Greg crumpled the rejection letter and tossed it in the recycling bin, which was brimming with similar pieces of paper.And that's my books are, thought Greg darkly, pieces of paper covered in idiotic scribbles.After contemplating this for a few seconds, Greg realized that his back hurt. Badly. He stretched, got up, and quickly glanced around his cramped San Francisco apartment, his bloodshot eyes taking in the beat-up desk, dining table, kitchen counters covered in coffee stains, and, of course, the books.Greg's apartment was covered, filled with books. London, Kafka, Kerouac, Hemingway - it was all there. Greg's apartment was a living study in literary realism.Because of these books, whenever he entered his apartment, Greg was reminded of what a good writer was, and more importantly, was NOT.A