My writers are a slovenly sniveling bunch who keep trying to fob off the same old re-refried beans. My dear, if only there were an island I could go to for refuge, I'd go in a heartbeat. And I would give anything to read something about grommets that arouses even mild interest and amusement. But yes, barring the arrival of a brilliant newcomer, I prefer to work with the mediocrities I know than work with new mediocrities. It's fine that your old professors think your stuff is wonderful, but they're not the ones whose neck is on the block.
Editors are a dime a dozen.
There are thousands of editors who once wielded power in corner offices who now toil as telemarketers in tiny cubicles. But somewhere in the process, my intention is miscommunicated or something does not go right, and I become just her friend. It is a permanent exile. I have all these woman friends and no lover. I am surrounded by water and not a drop to drink.