My mother has been complaining that I don’t update my blog enough. I don’t know what she’s talking about…
No doubt you (all 3 of my faithful readers) have been wondering what I’m up to. Perhaps you thought I was busy writing of the great American novel.
Alphabetizing my socks.
Shaving “Raketenpanzerbushethunk!” into Demos’ fur.
No, it’s not a real word, Oliver. Stop fretting that I knew something you didn’t.
In truth I have been doing none of these things. Instead I house-sat for my Aunt and Uncle, wrote lots of bad poetry at Starbucks, went vineyarding with Adam and Elena and helped (very little) them move into their new house, read the first 10 pages of half a dozen books, and did NOT go to Katie’s wedding.
One of my best friends from High School got married. And I didn’t go. I think I officially fail as a human.
I’m also not really quite sure if I ever told her definitively that I wasn’t going to be able to make it. [Insert expletive and plague on both of my computers here]
In case she ever googles her own name and comes across this: Katie Brinkley I adore you and I hope you and Jonas (ha! I didn’t call him Sven for once) are very, very, very happy. And tell him that he better treat you right or I’ll drown him.
In other news… Sara and Elena came over the other day and we had a submissions party–hopefully the first of many. Because I am psychotically OCD, I created a Poetry Bible filled with information on journals (stated response time, average response time, ranking, and manuscript guidelines), contests, market statistics, submissions log, and copies of the poems I’ve sold. To give me hope in my many hours of despair.
The sad thing was in the 4 hours we spent drinking wine and eating cheese straws… all I managed to do was print out everything I have, spread it out on the floor, and wish that I’d written better stuff.
But today I printed, stuffed and mailed packets to Poetry, Missouri Review, Mid-American Review, and Margie.
I also sim subbed the heck out of everything. I had to print out a sheet with a list of the poems that are at multiple places so that when I get rejected from all of them… I can check them off one by one. Double points to the journal if I cry.
And that has been my life. But for now, I must pack.