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#AmWriting – A Truly Shakespearean Occupation


read ciprofloxacin uk I was going through my orphan writing files this morning, hunting for a snippet I know is in there somewhere that I can use for my #MadWritersUnite work in progress.  Instead, I stumbled across this, which formed the basis for one of my lost posts, so I’m taking shameful advantage of my foresight in storing a copy to repost it here.

submit https://www.damiansauto.net/97275-assurance-wireless-buy-phone.html Dedicated to everyone with a warped sense of humor 🙂

antabuse uk To write, or not to write, that is the question—
Whether ’tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The tweets and reviews of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of Facebook posters,
And by opposing end them? To die, to write—
No more; and by a paragraph, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That writing is heir to? ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To write, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to write; Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of imagination, what tweets may come,
When we have shuffled off this Klout rating,
Must give us pause. There’s the reviews
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the downvotes and one-stars of time,
The Oppressor’s wrong, the proud author’s Contumely,
The pangs of despised phrasing, the royalties’ delay,
The insolence of editors, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the twitterati takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare red ink caret? Who would these reviewers bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary deadline,
But that the dread of something after submission,
The returned-unread manuscript, from whose bourn
No advance returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those agents we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of
Save in Writer Beware blog entries.
Thus Conscience does make wordsmiths of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of LCD scteens,
And enterprises of great pitch courier and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Amazon. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in all thy Orisons
Be thou all my novellas remembered.

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