I'm sure somewhere that's on the top ten list of things not to say to your blogging readership, but, meh, honesty is what it is and writing never is what it could be when you deliberately avoid saying the thing you want to say.
So here's how things are from where I sit: I'm eating strawberries and almonds from a teal Earthenware bowl, I'm drinking the last of the morning's coffee from a cup with the handle formed from an arched horse, Woody Herman's old big band orchestra is faintly playing on my computer, and I'm sitting under a large shade tree pretending not to hear the trash truck making its rounds in the neighborhood. This is summer, my friends. This is the time of the year when I can reside barefoot in gym shorts and a long-sleeved Jane Eyre t-shirt, planning what my summer is going to look like, while knowing it's not as infinitely long as it seems right now.
My pledge to myself this summer is to write. More. Really. I've just spent the last ten months frantically squeezing editing into every spare moment, and while there's something distinctly teacher-ish about it (something that I secretly love), I haven't yet negotiated that balance in scheduling that allows me to do that, plus reading, plus writing. If you've been reading my blog for any length of time you know this: I need to stop buying books faster than I read them (hah) and this summer involves more dedicated reading.
But additionally, I'll be working with more short stories (probably Steampunk stories), I'll probably play with some creative nonfiction (essay or novel, who knows), and I'll set to reworking the novel-ish idea that I had last touched in November. Yeah, I told you it's been a while.
To be fair to my craft, I haven't been completely non-productive; I've polished and submitted to quite a few contests. I know contests are a gamble and that sometimes they feel like throwing away money, but even then I like the idea that these contests go to literary publications. Even if I don't win (which would be nice), my money is going to a starving writer like myself who could use the cash, and the rest of the money is going to the overhead costs of supporting accessible literature for the masses. I can live with that. Here is where I've submitted said work:
Conium Review: sent April 1st, heard May 1st: Rejection (Boo)
Mixer Magazine: sent April 14th, should hear by June 26th
Bristol Short Story Prize: sent April 10th, should hear mid-July
Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition: sent April 10th, should hear end of July
Spoon River Poetry Review: sent April 14th, should hear in August
River Styx Poetry Magazine: sent April 10th, should hear in October
I suppose that's another rule I've just broken: thou shalt not ever reveal where thou've sent work on the chance that thou shalt be rejected by all of them and thus appear inferior. To this again I say, meh. I am who I am. If rejection means I need to write more and improve more, then I'm game. I'm game anyway, so I'll ride the tides of chance.
Hemingway said he would strive to write one true thing a day and here's my truth for today: my current plans for summer seem eternal because they're my plans for life. Uninhibited by scheduling, I aspire to soar above my circumstances, to write and read and enjoy, to dream that my writing right now could be accepted by every publication, that there is nothing stopping me. Maybe that's a little bit of Gatsby and contemporary relevance getting to me, but I don't care. Maybe success has eluded me so far, but that's no matter, because today I'm going to run faster, stretch my arms out farther, and then one fine morning-- (Thanks, F. Scott.)
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