Last night I stayed up way too late submitting poetry. I needed to do something I didn’t have to focus too hard on, and it felt a little like normal life.

Something exciting happened on the writing front over the past few days, but obviously it’s been hard to let it register. Five of my most wild, wooly poems have been accepted by Enola’s Magazine! They’re coming out in November, and I am so pleased.

These poems are absolutely the result of fever dreams, and their titles will probably explain them ahead of time: 

An Accidental Wedding Song for Misfits

A Love Song Screamed into a Tornado

Ms. Havisham’s Aria

Boomerang

Lose the Tie

I’m so, so happy that they have found the perfect home: it’s a dark academia journal, so…am I right? Don’t those poems just scream that? Thank you, Enola’s Magazine! 

On another publishing note, my poem “Casting Spells on Scarecrows,” is out now. I should be receiving my copy of the anthology in the mail tomorrow, so I’ll share a photo of it then and more info. This is kind of me making a note to myself over here. More then.

While I was sending out poetry last night, I submitted to some places that just seemed perfect for a couple of what I would call my favorite “strays.” I mean, there’s one poem I adore, the one I was struck with, but I have only sent it out maybe twice. It’s not an easy fit. But I still can’t read it without shaking.

Also, while I was going back through my poems, I realized I sent some out a few months ago that I need to go back and withdraw because those poems have now found a home. My “ready to submit” folder is getting thinner. My “published’ folder is getting fuller. I have TONS of poems in my “in progress,” but I need to take the time to really polish some of them. 

I’m not writing again yet, not more than a few lines, some ideas. Even in grief, I have a fear of being treacly. She deserves better than that. 

Today, the family will gather for a low-effort meal, just to be together. I said if I get ambitious, I might make a salad. It doesn’t sound difficult, and yet it might be too much. Early grief hits you in unexpected ways. I know this dance now. 

It’s rainy, so rainy. I wanted to sit on the porch yesterday evening but when I asked Stanley if it was safe during the thunderstorm, of course he told me absolutely not, so I sulkily sat at the dining room table. But I’m back outside today. 

Stupid Stanley.

I’m answering condolence messages ten, fifteen at a time and feeling terribly guilty that it’s taking me so long. But after a few, I can’t take it anymore. I’ll get to it. (And I truly do appreciate the sympathy.)

TBH, I don’t want to do anything right now. I’m sitting here, listening to the gutters drip. My buddy the black squirrel just came by to complain about the wet leaves, a free range cat is sniffing a plant outdoors, and my neighbor just made one of his dozen daily trips to his shop. 

Last night, just as the storms were whipping up, I noticed a neighbor’s son on his scooter going back and forth, back and forth in the street. I was overly concerned, more so than usual because life seems so fragile right now.

“If I see lightning, I’m going to message his mother,” I threatened. I kept going to the window to see if he’d gone in yet. Just before it started storming in earnest, I discovered he’d apparently sought shelter. (Now that I think about it, I don’t know if the lightning ever came or not; I became engrossed in my work indoors.)  

Circle the wagons, y’all. Circle the wagons.