It’s been more than a year (possibly longer) since I’ve made a submission to a literary journal. I have fallen out of practice, lost that rhythm of creating, submitting, re-writing, re-submitting. At times I have wondered if I can even write anymore. How disquieting it can be to look at the words you’ve published in the past and wonder who that person was, that writer. And did you ignore those voices long enough to have them bugger off in search of a more hospitable host, leave you indefinitely?
Writing about loss often presents a paradox: is it so easy to write about because it is inherently personal, and yet exquisitely painful to write about because it is inherently personal. And the finished product can walk that taut line between the melodramatic and the matter-of-fact. Both sides equal suicide.
This afternoon I dug up some poems that I wrote very soon after significant losses. These poems were never submitted to publications; they needed distance away from the events. Time to allow for a more critical eye to find that balance, to clear away any drama or indifference.
So I spent some time with four fairly heavy poems and submitted them to Arc. We’ll see how it goes. Right now, it doesn’t matter if they’re rejected. What matters is that I submitted them.