Or, more precisely, everything Matthew and I touch, we destroy (although I did notice Betsey Johnson went under pretty quickly after I got really into her accessories). Our story "Convention if Exphrasis," which was written about the 2009 AWP Convention in Chicago, was picked up by an anthology, which folded weeks before it's release date. "Convention" was ours again, and we pitched it to another magazine, which accepted it.
And folded six months later.
This morning, I woke up late and to an email announcing that The Writer, which published our essay "The 12 Conference Commandments" in the July 2012 issue, will be on hiatus after October until another publisher is found. All submissions before March 1, including our follow-up about Low-Residency programs, were to be considered rejected.
So, yes, fellow writers, blame us. Our curse destroyed The Writer magazine, the single best trade publication (suck it, Ponces & Weenies!) in the writing life. We accept our responsibility, and apologize for the inconvenience.
Now if only McSweeney's would take something of ours . . .