If my blog were a physical thing, it would be buried beneath stacks of dusty books, junk mail, cups of spare change, dirty coffee cups, tissues and various odds and ends. It’s naturally been a crazy couple of months, so something had to give. I was concentrating on other kinds of writing, and every creative impulse was directed elsewhere. I apologize for my slacker ways. Summer began at the end of June after the protracted school year due to the extraordinary blizzard cancellations last winter, and with it came a house full of bronchitis that lasted for over two weeks. Our home transformed into a sanitarium, our own Magic Mountain, except no magic or mountain, just misery.
Before the plague brought me to a place where I asked my physician if a medically induced coma were possible, I had decided I was ready. I had revised, revised, and revised to the point where my OCD was in danger of stripping everything of merit away and I was going to submit for publication. On June 17.
Note the date. Because I didn’t.
Liberated from the hard deadlines of grant management, I’ve been writing without paying attention to the professional aspect of publication, which is vastly different from academic journals. It turns out except for a few online publications, I managed to blow every deadline in North America and as far I could discern, in the world for which my 4,000-word story was appropriate—by mere days. Generous outliers accepted submissions until June 15.
The grant writer in me laughed and mocked: amateur.
I did catch a break, though, but don’t expect it to pan out. A journal that features work far beyond by skill invited me to submit a story. Luckily, the editors don’t mind simultaneous submissions, which won’t happen until the fall, when I can send out several other stories as well.
For your summer reading pleasure, I urge everyone buy a copy of Rebecca Lee’s Bobcat. Her collection of short stories is bliss.