A mobile post about submission and the past

The pesky cats pulled out the power cord from my laptop and now it is drained of juice. 

Do you ever get writing fevers? Today was wrought with a kind of fever. I suspect it's because I was looking up lit mags for submissions, an overwhelming experience that triggers every rejection memory. Holy hell! 

I've been working on my tiny manuscript that I plan to self publish. I finally got through all of Rachael's revisions. My next step is to have some of my non-workshop writing friends critique and hopefully review it. The goal, with this tiny thing, is to finally bury the poems of my past. I want ton give them a proper burial, one that honors the few words that I really love from college, and start a new life. In the process, I feel totally vulnerable, raw, and opened. It's very uncomfortable.

In a couple hours, I'm meeting with an old friend for coffee and a discussion about poetry. I'm stoked. I have missed her immensely- and missed our creative energy.

I feel like I'm careening down a rocky hill on a cart. It's exciting  but I know I'll be lucky to escape with only scraped knees and palms.