My odd writing life and finding my way--

I'm having a strange but pretty gratifying week, when it comes to writing. A review of a poetry collection I wrote was posted without any editorial changes required or recommended on Monday, and this was followed up by a shared note from the poet herself--she liked what I wrote. A poem I had published by another journal was then picked up by a person curating a themed anthology about difficult borders. And I got another email from the person who posted that review, saying that the publisher at a much-respected press has requested that I write another review for their journal, all because my last two (of three, mind you) reviews caught his interest. 

Me? 

Here we go again, with the imposter syndrome. I've been writing both poetry and analytical prose for a long time, but it always surprises me when anyone thinks my stuff is good. I get a sense of "aw shucks" every single time. Who am I, to play with the big kids? 

I have writerly goals, to be sure, but the New England Puritan side of me is always saying, yeah, right. I've got a chapbook I've been sending out to various contests and so on, and this week I also put together a whole new micro-chapbook (ten poems, no more, no less) to send to another contest. I'd love to be at least long-listed; wouldn't it be a blast if I was chosen for one of these? I mean, the stipend would be nice, but they are not princely sums. And a few glossy-covered copies of a little book with my name on it would be downright heaven. But unlikely, given the sheer numbers of people who send their work in, just as hopeful as I am. 

I'm pretty much shooting in the dark most of the time when it comes to submitting work of any sort. I've made some missteps, sent work to journals that were either too new or not discriminating enough, I've had polite tangles with a couple of editors--one was a Christian journal, and they really didn't get what a sonnet was supposed to do-- I won my points, but still, it was odd. More recently, there was an editor who was adamant that my preferred spelling of grey was not appropriate. Derp. So sorry. I let him win that one. I've learned over the last several years to really dig into what the journals look like, who is involved, and how many years/issues they've put out. When someone I know and respect has published work in a journal, I look at the publication and see if I stand a chance of getting work accepted. Mostly, it's hit or miss. Again, bajillions of poets, both fledgling and established, are hopeful of getting work into print (digital or physical), and it's pretty much a subjective decision on the part of the poetry editors at any given journal. And I appreciate that. Can you imagine having to wade through the sheer stack of submissions? It makes my job of reading student essays look pretty tame.

Still, my approach is sort of like throwing spaghetti at the wall. If you take care, and cook it as you should, then something might stick. 

No, I don't actually throw pasta at the wall. Who wants to clean that up? 

I guess, though, everyone has their own process. I'm still wandering around the digital landscape, looking for a home for my work. Not quite Moses, not Lewis and Clark, but more like one time I used Mapquest for directions. Hint: Mapquest was entirely wrong, and I spent an extra three hours wandering around the Lakes Region of New Hampshire, navigating my way by asking directions at Irving/ Blue Canoe convenience stores. I got home, but it was a long day. The first thing I did was sit down and order a GPS. The trip also involved "fragrant" tow-truck drivers who didn't know their own town, bad Maine signage, and construction. What a day.

There's a metaphor in that story, somewhere. 

Have a great day,

C