I have redone the "Women to Watch" page. I'm looking forward to interviewing all these writers I admire. I'm new to interviewing and I am already enjoying it. I am such a self-involved person and spend so much time on my own work, that I want to give something back.
I have also worked on my "Writing Services" page. I've set what I feel are reasonable fees and I am going to advertise. Tomorrow I will be looking for the best places/way to advertise. If you have any ideas, let me know. I need to make some money, and publishing in journals is certainly not a way to do it.
I have begun reading the manuscript of a Facebook friend; I went to Vermont College with her. She and I have exchanged books, both collections of essays. Tomorrow I will spend a lot of time reading, if my eyes will cooperate. The only thing hard about the process is to remember that I am not a teacher in this capacity. I am a reader/fellow traveler/colleague. Not an instructor. And this is what I was coming up against when I decided to stop teaching. It's not the reason I stopped, but I had realized that I was to the point that I was steering students too much toward my style of writing. My fiction teacher in college, Ken Smith, told us on the first day of class--any teacher you have wants you to write like him. This is very, very true. Every student needs to know it, and ever teacher needs to fight like hell against doing it.
Drunken Boat is taking my short story, "You, Dress Me Up." I got a rejection today from r.kv.r.y today for an essay. I need to work on submissions tomorrow, too.
Here's a poem from I Will Not Give Over--
Can’t find the Prince Albert,
the rolling papers, and what little’s left of the Jim Beam
is sloshing down the front of his jeans.
But it’s okay because there’s McDonald’s coke and
a bucket of rum and we’re off and running,
riding in the back of the car with all those unsavory boys.
We pick the cutest one and let him kiss our mouth. We let him
put his hands on us, first the shoulders, then the breasts
and nice girls like us just look the other way, just
mumble okay when he unzips our hot pants, candy red, red hot.
We will never love you. We will never speak to you
when we’re through. All night long we say it, our mantra,
because girls like us go to church the next day, our fingers trembling
above the piano keys, our hair carefully curled to hide the hickey
he left on our neck, on all our necks, all the girls frisking
in homeroom, all the girls in love with basketball players and
Doyle Clark, Wesley Belvins. We pass him by on Monday,
maybe a little flushed, maybe a little squeeze of a squeeze of sorry,
but girls like us never look twice, never reach underneath the chest
and loosen the threads there because what pulses may break us.