Yes, I know it comes with the territory, but I've had seven so far this week. And it's only Wednesday. And today's mail hasn't even come yet?
Lately, my husband's response to my lamenting is, "Don't send stuff out." But, I think, how will my work have a home? How will I be part of the community, the club? (Whatever that is; it always starts to sound suspiciously like high school, and I should hope I'd gotten over that, but apparently it's my recurring issue.)
But maybe I'm burning up too much energy here, churning up too much anxiety. Finding the right home for a poem is like looking for a needle in a haystack of other needles. Lots of pokes, and it's hard to find the right one.
Yes, I've had a head cold for three days now. Yes, I'm being (self-indulgently) morose. Yes, I do get my work accepted sometimes, too (and I am so grateful for those opportunities). Yes, it's poetry month and I should be celebrating.
So here's my deal (that I just thought of): For the remainder of poetry month, I shall not send out any unsolicited submissions. Sure, if you come knocking at my door, virtual or real, I'll give it my best shot. But otherwise, no envelopes until May. Just reading and writing.