"Greetings from H.B." - The self-addressed stamped postcard I made for this submission, using old medical dictionaries and Vogue magazine.
I’ve successfully used an entire cartridge of black ink for submissions. For a bit of back story, following a particularly dark period, I went and bought a brand new ink cartridge last summer. I’d decided enough was enough and couldn’t go around telling certain people to write and “get back to what’s important” (xxoo) when I was sitting on my ass and breaking down. It’s appropriate that last night, as I attempted to print out the first manuscript/submission of this new year, that the ink was dry. There was nothing left.
I’d spent all of last year printing nothing but hand-made chapbooks, manuscripts and submissions. (And maybe a few itineraries for last-minute trips to L.A. and my beloved Chicago.) So a trip to Staples, and $24.72 later, I am once again the proud owner of a shiny, new cartridge. It’s now installed, the manuscript printed and submission is on it’s way to New York.
Once again we begin a new year in this woman’s journey towards a book of her own.
For this round I’ve sent a ten-page manuscript to the “Discovery” / Boston Review contest. The contest, by design, is aimed at attracting a large audience to poets who have not yet published a book. According to the rules and guidelines, upon “winning” 4 poets get a chance to read at the 92nd Street Y and receive $500 apiece. Now, I’ve submitted to, and been rejected by, the Boston Review before. In the grand scheme of things it’s a bit of a daunting undertaking for such a relatively “young” poet, since the Boston Review is far from a fledgling press, but I’ve always been of the mind that even if the goal seems out-of-reach, you’ll never know unless you polish your moxie and go for it. I cleaned up the poems, added a few new ones [plus a couple I've sent to the Colulmbia Poetry Review for consideration] and sent it right back. I feel hopeful.
Click the cut for an excerpt from the manuscript.
Bi-Polar Romance
This pomegranate is rotten.
It sits slumped in mush
on a clean counter top.
Like our love,
almost out of frame
on this still-life.
(Half in.)
(No, half out.)
I watch you waltz
among seasonal fruit:
cherries intact and waiting
on efflorescent trees,
tame in comparison
to the stout aroma
of the orb you carry
in a tired basket.
(You say, acidic.)
(I am alkaline.)
You misalign yourself
over and over,
in accordance with bipolar law:
In. Out.
Hello. Goodbye.
(I do.)
(Well I don’t, anymore.)
…
Stay tuned and, as always, thank you. Part 2 of [x] in my adolescent Billy Corgan saga has yet to be posted, but what do I spy open and begging for editing in another window…?
Your writing is so beautiful Julie.
Your poetry is so beautiful. You inspire me to submit some of my work someday, as well. I wish you luck in getting your poetry out in the world, as the world needs more of it.