Word Raccoon says looking for literary journals on Chill Subs to submit to is basically literary speed dating.

We scroll through all the covers, an advantage over, say, trolling for opportunities over on Submittable which does not display all the pretty covers all in a row.

Am I the only one who looks at a journal’s cover first before even checking out their website to get their vibe?

As with speed dating (from what I know of it, which is basically just what I’ve seen on TV although I would be good at it because your gorl loves a cocktail party because what’s more fun than sidling up to a conversation in progress, dropping a gem, and leaving? ), I roll through the covers to see what’s on tap. 

There are abstract journal covers, and we think, oh, deconstructed poems, yes, yes! 

Then some use classic art. All aboard! I will submit to those Every. Time. 

Some are Very Serious and bear little more than their name and we know how to wear a hat in high church, so okay, WR, buttons up to the neck.

Covers wearing photos can be nice, too, though for no good reason those tend to please us least.

We adore a sweet watercolored cover, but then we automatically assume we will never, ever be welcome there because our “sweetness” is limited and fairly covert these days.

We don’t lean towards covers that are TRYING TO SAY something. Or ones that look dark and ominous, because if the entire statement is on the cover, why bother putting anything inside? 

We do like a bold cover, intriguing lines, unexpected (photos are okay here) images. Though we live for nature, we do not need it on a cover because that cheapens nature. A close up, practically unrecognizable feature of, say, a natural wonder? Do it! 

Just don’t give me a postcard cover, loves. 

Lighthearted drawings, comics, even? I’m gonna look closer, just to see if we’re a match. 

BOLD color, you’ve got my attention.

Anything that implies a sense of humor and snark? Here’s my number. 

(God, does this sound like a cover takedown? Unintended! It’s just I’ve threatened for a long time to start a literary journal, so I pay attention to what’s happening in that world.) 

We are not shape shifters, we just have a wide writing register, so the raccoon and I peer closely before we sit down across from a journal, most trying to look emotionally unavailable, and ask:

“What are you into?” 

“How long have you been around?”

“Are you open to something weird but sincere, maybe embarrassingly earnest?”

“What about arguing with or deifying dead literary figures, that ok?” 

“The literary canon isn’t unquestionably sacred to you, is it? Do you have other “do not tread” areas?”

Word Raccoon judges a lit mag’s entire soul based on whether their name sounds like a cocktail or a forgotten indie band. I just want one that doesn’t require me to remove all italics or always punctuate.

Apparently the process is working because Word Raccoon is spinning across the kitchen linoleum like she’s eaten a Roomba because, wait for it, TWO of our wildest poems just got accepted by Infocalypse Press. Two!

The two poems? They’re “a betrayal of the universe” and “Gone Gray.” 

Let’s just say one is a punk ride into aging with a mention of Sid and Nancy and the other says don’t you dare not do it.

More to come on those, likely a link. I think. Not sure if that’s a print journal or not. 

I promised you a recipe to not follow. It’s so bad let’s just go with the ingredients. (Who even needs a recipe for a smoothie, anyway?) 

Into your Nutribullet DO NOT toss:

Frozen strawberries

Fresh mango ( The mango was going to go bad!)

Two handfuls of spring mix greens (See above. And also, WR will not eat her greens unless I make her. And I’m not feeling the “dinosaur feeding time” nonsense from the TikTok so into a smoothie it goes.)

Almond butter 

Unsweetened almond milk

Plant-based protein powder (I will NEVER buy this brand again. THAT is the main reason this is undrinkable. The doctor and I are still tweaking the dairy to see what works and what doesn’t for me.) 

Maybe it was this ingredient that caused the failure: chia seeds.

Loves, you have to know HOW to use chia seeds. It takes care. It takes intention. It takes caring more about health than taste and you know what, I’m not sure today is that day. So I’ve had, what, four sips of it? 

But they’re so good for you. All that fiber, all that fabulous gelatinous texture. 

I don’t even need WR to throw a fit over this. Request to be consumed? Denied. 

Yesterday, after a difficult personal errand, I sat on the porch bundled in a coat, scarf, and fingerless gloves. Gilmore Girls murmuring in the background. Space heater humming like an anxious old friend.

I thought: I can’t write. But maybe I can submit.

Nope.

Word Raccoon kept urging me on (“just send one packet, babe”), flipping through drafts, but I gave up the moment Lorelai’s voice began to grate. 

And then I turned off the show.

I found myself opening a Google doc and the words arrived. Seven poems, one after another. Some only half-dressed. A few too personal. Maybe one or two good enough to send out into the world if my heart will ever let me.

Let me share one title: “Grieving Does Nothing for the Dead.” That one slips sideways like it’s driving in a snowstorm, and that’s the intent, if I can be said to have had intent while cry/writing. 

In the meantime, I have ordered an owl-shaped thermometer for the porch so I can give myself a temperature range where I’ll allow WR to be out there, otherwise I’d never get her indoors, I fear. She’s on constant scan, no matter the weather, no matter what I tell her. Yesterday she spotted a squirrel with its tail covering its head from the cold. 

Which is what all sane animals and birbs do in the winter. Perhaps they should be taught to drive so they can get out of the weather. I would bring them out hot beverages but what would they like? Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Mulled birdseed?

WR says I am getting silly and that I really ought to get on with the day. I agree.

The next few days will bring celebration. A cake. A movie (or two). Dining out. The opening of the gifts. Reflecting on the year, and what a damn year it has been, both good and bad. 

I think this is the day to debut the fuzzy purple coat. No, I think I’ll wait until tomorrow.