“I’ve chosen to pick up favorite pens again instead,”  she wrote me.  “It’s the visciousness and cruelty of our current human condition. My choice now is to remove myself from these insipid, whining children of the night.  I experimented for a year, using my nephew’s face and a pseudonym as a twenty-something poet instead of using my published real name on this cyber-horrific plane.  This experiment brought me exactly what I suspected: the pretentiousness of the mediocre child critics, who’s altars to old writers they’ve never met or lived around are splintered with the weight of old bones .  I have lived to 72 years, have spent my life desiring the approval of the poetry men of my generation, and have learned many things–the most important thing to remember is to not read the reviews of the nasty and insipid—ever.  It will never assist in the progression of your writings, or help your words roll off…