O, the tragedies that doth befall a youthful wordsmith, the terrible calamities that maim her ink-stained heart, wounding her mind which once proudly to herself flaunted her work!  O, the dejection that doth sink upon a mellowing scribe, who humbly traces her fingers over her own toil and becomes cognizant of its weakness, its lack of alluring appeal!
  O, my dear book Destiny!  After trudging thy master through two years and two hundred pages of endless writing, why dost thou now appear as a mere child's play?