As you can see, today's letter is shaping up to be far less cerebral than my last few have been; and I've been trying all morning to use this brisk non-cerebral feeling to convince myself to submit a few poems to a few editors. I have a stack of poems to submit to journals, but I haven't been able to bring myself to send anything out. I wish (as we all wish) that someone would just write to me and say, "Dawn, do you have a stack of poems to send me?" And then I would send that kind person the stack, and he or she would choose some and/or reject some, and that would be that. I am tired of writing hopeful letters to editors I don't know and who don't know me. Nothing against the editors, but I'm just tired of being a cheerful sales clerk.
And if you happen to know of anyone who might like to look at--and not lose--a manuscript about obsessive rereading, let me know.
But don't worry: I'm really not in a despairing mood. I'm just in some kind of submission coma.