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I still remember the frustration. Actually, it’s not a memory, I’m still frustrated by how thrilled the group was with that short story. I was enrolled in a Creative Writing class as an undergraduate. This was at least eight years ago now. I remember almost nothing about the class. The one thing I remember well is my peer review group’s response to one of the stories another student wrote. I wasn’t impressed. The story was of a boy on a porch, smoking weed, waiting for either his father or his drug dealer to…