Today I might learn how to use a chainsaw; I might not. I don't really want to learn, mostly because I hate chores that involve loud motors: i.e., vacuuming, lawn mowing, power wood splitting. I would much rather split wood by hand and sweep with a broom, not so much for reasons of reactionary purity but because I hate noise. That said, I find the smell of bar-and-chain oil on a man who's been cutting trees all afternoon exceedingly attractive. (I also like the smell of a man who's been working with cows all day. But Axe and Old Spice? Ick.)

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.

Sigh.

But don't worry: I'm really not in a despairing mood. I'm just in some kind of submission coma.