Shortly after blogging this morning, I get it into my head to submit one more batch o' poems before month's end. The target mag's guidelines in POET'S MARKET suggest sending 4-7 poems. I only have three in mind. So, I get quiet, listen for the first line in my head. Write, revise, prepare envelopes, fuss over folding cover letter and poems, miss mail pickup.
Later in the day, after sealing my submission, by some stroke of luck I see the envelope is misaddressed to Burley, Idaho. The mag has moved from Burley to Boise. So I print a corrected cover letter and envelope, take a final look at my new poem, sharpen some images, rearrange some syntax, and get it ready for tomorrow's mail.
The submission process itself holds manic excitement for me, like charging phaser banks or arming photon torpedoes. It's true a writer's life is solitary. Once upon a time, writing for my eyes only was enough for me. Today, I don't feel writing has achieved its full purpose until it connects with someone else.
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