Were there seasons to publishing I’d be accelerating toward the steady zenith stretch of submitting. Last week I sent “Diacetylmorphoses” to The Crab Orchard Review. Today, though doing so nearly killed me (I had papers, intros, and outlines to finish first), I readied and sent “Morphine for Heroine“ (deliberate spelling, coincidental opioid title) to WITF’s annual writing contest (not much hope for that, they’ve bad taste; if last year’s winner had been any more heavy handed she wouldn’t have been able to lift her fingers to type out the dreck). In two weeks there’s a contest for the New York Times, after that one for the Ninth Letter. There are others between and after, but those I’ve mentioned act as way-stones, points I’ll use to direct my attempt at a writing career. If I can manage to submit something every few weeks I can keep myself active, keep myself productive.
I spoke to the invaluable humanities department secretary, Ms. L., today regarding the awards. I’ve submitted for the creative, analytical, and electronic categories (my electronic submission being this site. Do you feel the vertigo of being mired in meta-textual awareness). Ms. L. assures me that since she has to send out acceptance forms on monday she’ll be haranguing the profs about giving her their votes this very day. So I’ve that possible disappointment to which to look forward.
This weekend I’ve got two short papers to finish. I’m sure I’ll write for myself, but I do finally have an opportunity to sleep. There’s no kung fu, no knife fighting class, no yoga, no competitions, jobs, or over-strenuous scholastic demands. I’m sure this opportunity for peace will end up boring me, and rather than relax I’ll lift weights or punch cars or something, but at least rest’s on offer.
Frequently a proffered gift is just as good, better than, its acceptance anyway.