New website up at www.lorarivera.com!

After squirreling away the domain for the past 6 years, I've finally had some downtime and built a website! See you over at www.lorarivera.com.

Also, on Kauai, I managed to read a few books (The Monstrumologist (okay), A Gathering of Shadows (couldn't put it down), The Story Grid (holy smokes!)).

This voracious reading experience was made possible by two 6+ hour Hawaiin Airlines flights, where they actually serve you complimentary food and (even adult) beverages!

It was also made possible by my new Kindle Oasis. Which is amazeballs. I vacillated between an iPad and a Kindle for several months (read 6). I finally settled on the latter. I hate reading on my iPhone (paper-girl all the way) and thought I might not like the device. I was wrong. It is amazeballs. Did I say that? I can't stop raving. The only trouble is the cover; one should not have to buy leather if one doesn't prefer it. Really, Amazon.

I found a few hours to write on the layover in Honolulu. Got in the flow and almost missed my flight to Phoenix. Best feeling ever.

L.

Kauai overlooking the Kalalau trail along the Na Pali Coast

The Block (On Writing)

The way forward's been dark for some time.

Many years ago, back when I had faith in things unseen, I had a dream in three parts. (I thought then it was a dream about wandering in the desert, judged aberrant, unworthy, and that God would find me after years of thirst to take me to the promised land.)

First, a dream-baby. I ran with her through a desert gouged by deep holes. I kept dropping her, over and over, as I ran from something unseen.



Then, a kite festival. We flew wind-borne men, not paper and string, in joyful colors -- sinew and skin stretched over a latticework of bone.



Finally, I stood surrounded by darkness. A wind picked up that tore away everything I held dear. My family, friends, pets, job, money, home, jewelry, clothes. It ripped away my driver's license and social security card, my birth certificate, my wedding ring, my name. I lay naked and curled at the bottom of the dark for a long time.

Meanwhile, the world went on.

Still, something called to me, winging silent through the dark. I followed, lonely and faithless.

This lasted almost two years.

What I didn't know was that by listening and moving, just one foot in front of the other, laboriously, I was walking the faithway into myself.

And one day I sat in front of a blank page, cursor blinking, and I wrote:

[allow it to suck. Here, words. Now, words. Go ahead and suck....]

And the next day I sat in front of a blank page, cursor blinking, and I wrote:

[What is the point? Magic. Lightness of being. The sound of dancing, spinning, singing at the sky. Flow. That's the point. Is this hard? So breathe. What is the point? Enjoying the movement and flow. The sound of the keys going, the music of them. The feel of the story scrolling out under your fingertips, like a dance. So what is success here? It's the feel of the dance, and you've already entered it. You've already succeeded, you're breathing and feeling the sound of the breath in your nostrils and the words in your head. So try hard. Dance hard. That is success. And if you fall? IF YOU FALL you fall. And you've tried hard and you've felt the dance in your fingertips. Kiss them. They get you fucking far, lover-creator-mine. You are amazing.]

And the day after that?

I looked back and saw the Block, how big it was, and how far it was behind me.

Yours (still walking away),
xo
Lora

--------

Gracie, kitten and old lady cat, photo taken 6 days before her death

Gracie died today of complete and acute kidney failure. Eric went with me to euthanize her. I cherish that kindness. She drank pond water, the last thing she wanted, she craved it, stumbled for it around midnight in a blind rush, head first, on wobbly, failing legs. The only thing she'd drink. She loved flopping on the concrete walkway. She loved sunlight and tall grass and chasing treats when she was not generally being a sofa lump, as cats tend to do. She loved best in all the world just being held. She was always greedy and overweight. She charmed even dog folk. She was a zealous purrer. She purred hard for 15.5 years. She moved homes 10 times. She bullied dogs and loathed cats. She loved me, or whatever cats do. I loved her very much. My heart is strong enough to hurt. Death came fast for her, and she didn't suffer long. This morning I sat and held her and told her how beautiful she was, how perfect she was, how I was so glad to know her. What a good and perfect, holy friend.

Eric R and Eric S walked with me to bury her under the oak tree on the hill, which turned out to be a rosewood.

On Sabbatical

You also deserve to say "Enough."

~Lora

Photo credit: Eric Ruljancich

A Walk at Night, In the Galiuros

Fewer words now. Fewer dreams, too. The fears encroach as shadows and questions, unknowns to
blunder into like chasms that open between cliff faces, difficult to see -- and difficult to fall into unless one is going blindly down canyon. Or into the night.

At night there is clarity of mind. I begin to breathe and feel the long day. Many long days exhale, exhume themselves and take shape as I hike up the road. They are crisp and sad-looking, like old garments hung on clothes hangers. They do not fit anymore. Not here, in the crisp cool evening by the mustard tufts and lavender, by the volcanic tuff and scraggly, wind-thrashed juniper. Old days gone by. They can be learned from, can't they? And mended and tailored to fit this night.

Nothing dramatic here. Just a friend in pace with me. A trust that is born of familiarity, broken trust, and redemption. Perhaps that is the truth in the long-ago love of mine that was named God. That we are all of us looking for redemption. Not because we have all sinned, no. But because we have all lost ourselves and, on going finding, have hurt each other. That is the longing. Forgive me. Accept me whole. Love me whole.

I walk up into these hills to a quiet saddle. The wind has gone to rest. Stars are out. A first quarter moon spreads its sallow lonely stain over the surrounding constellations. I do not know them. But I can love strangers, too.

Moon, forever chasing the path of the sun, never to catch her.

"I trust you," I tell my friend, who may be asleep for all the sleeping bag stirs. How did it happen, this intimacy?

Sometimes, a meteor falls through the sky and I am full of breath at the wonder. I squint and follow a satellite's turning -- brightening, fading journey -- ever, always. And I close my eyes, remembering the way the upper canyon, west of us, looked after the rain event came and shredded the path, boulders pulverized to chalky dust. Wasteland. And pockets of new growth, as slender and secret as shut eyelids, returning -- ever, always. I let go and my spirit goes to rest with the wind, to seek after what cannot be found.

Fewer undertakings. Fewer words. But there is quiet trust and love here. And redemption.

Feet and Legs or... How One Anti-Social Bastard Found Real Life

As I'm sitting here trying to sort a spiritual experience into shelved little paragraphs for consumption, all I can think about are my feet and legs. My thighs wail when I bend down. I can feel the blisters on my feet compress and spread as I take a step. The patchwork of scrapes on my knees. Minus the seeping burn on my thumb, the torso fared much better, but I can still feel a dull soreness when I rotate my shoulders. This pain will take time to heal.

I truly love that it will. I wryly smile when weary muscles stretch and scream, when sharp pain shoots from my feet, rushing through the nerves and straight to the brain. I beam with pride as I drag my beaten body down sidewalks and streets. All of my pain plucks me from the city and drops me back into the weekend, back to the swirling wind atop Spud Rock.
To running my hands through the tall grass of Mica Meadow. To lying aimlessly on monolithic stone and feeling life all around me, encompass me, permeate my flesh and bone and synthesize me into itself.

It almost seems cheap to just talk about it. The wilderness, Real Life, must be experienced to fully appreciate. But we'll try it anyway.

Last weekend I went on a backpacking trip into the Eastern region of Saguaro National Park. The wilderness there has had a tight grip on my heart since last summer when I went on my very first backpacking trip. Six months prior to my introduction to the woods I had left my first serious, and by any measure godawful, relationship. I had spent my time rediscovering myself and licking my wounds when a coworker suggested that I get out for a long weekend. She recommended Saguaro because it's close to town, perfect for the transportationally–challenged, like myself.

I owe her more than she'll ever know. That trip was transformative. It kickstarted my passion for hiking and a deep love for the wild. I found the last piece of myself in those woods, a piece I had been trying to fashion and shoehorn into the rest of the puzzle. Practically it should have been a disaster. I went during monsoon season with no proper water treatment, a leaky tent, and a 40+ pound pack. But the woods (and the generous Forest Rangers) were kind to me. I had always intended to go back, and after plans for a trip through the Blue Range Primitive Area fell through, an opportunity presented itself.

I had learned much in a year, having gone on a handful of other backpacking trips. I bought a fancy new tent. I had found a cheap and effective means of treating backcountry water. I cut my pack weight to about 30 pounds. But oddly enough the most important piece of gear I packed was probably the most impractical.

For entertainment I brought a biography on Eustace Conway, one of the last American frontiersmen in the country. Eustace lives entirely off his land. He can create a roaring fire from two sticks. He hunts and forages for his food. He sleeps in a small teepee. He travels around the country espousing the benefits of living harmoniously with nature, how through our pursuit of convenience we've created an artificial existence in hollowed brick-and-mortar boxes that rest on the battered corpse of what was once a thriving natural landscape.

It's an inspiring biography but I suppose that I'm biased. You would be, too. City life had been crushing me before I ran away to live in the woods. My work had become unfulfilling and frustrating. A good friendship had been waning. I had been rejected by a rare soul I had felt strongly connected to. Truthfully I rarely feel fully comfortable in most social settings. I tend to shy away from big events and outings that most would consider engaging. So maybe I'm just an antisocial bastard and Eustace is telling me what I want to hear: People suck, civilization sucks, sell all your shit and go live out in the woods forever.

But I doubt it. I lived his words. I would lie in my tent at night, absorbing his knowledge, and experience his reality the following morning. How all of nature melds into a beautiful cycle of life and death, drought and deluge, searing flame and soothing wind. Spud Rock gives the best views of the Rincons and from there I could see the simple truth of Eustace's words. Swaths of new pine growing next to blackened, charred stump. A lone sapling rooted right into a massive boulder. Deep pools of water in streams that would be bone dry in a matter of weeks.

I was alive. I wasn't making a living, I was just living. As I hiked further into the forest I could feel life surrounding me and engulfing me into its cycle. I felt accepted and loved and connected to everything. This was Real Life that you could feel in the wind, hear when the birds took flight, smell in the dense pines, taste in the flowing water. Eustace says that humans live in boxes, that our geometry runs opposite to the natural lifecycle. We work in boxes, we sleep in boxes, we're entertained by the television box, we work on computer boxes, we eat food in boxes. All lifeless, manufactured boxes that do not foster nor encourage Real Life. The Beats tried to find meaning and a sense of self through manual labor. They left academia and the lofty institutions inherited from their families to work on oil rigs and railroads. I had already found myself last summer. I labored over 12 miles and 6,000 feet in elevation to complete myself. This time I was looking for a life to live, and I found it. I found my home.

What can fill you with more confidence than finding where you belong? How can any problems from the boxes seem significant when you've lived a Real Life, even for just a few days? Work will always be frustrating. Friends will always disappoint you. Women will always come and go. None of it matters when you're in nature. Every task is manual labor. Hike to this point. Make camp. Find water. Eat food. Sleep. Hike some more. Work is everywhere and there is a sense of accomplishment in everything. You're a small piece of something magnificent. You’re living with your environment rather than simply in it.

The wilderness is my home. It's everyone's home. We're all from there. Nature still welcomes us with open arms, melding us into the cycle like we never left it at all. Don't just go outside. Go out into the wild. Carry 30 pounds on your back and run up a mountain. Scrape your knees on bedrock when you're dragging water from the river. Get blisters on your feet from hiking too much. Burn your thumbs on a campfire. Make your muscles sore. Climb to the highest point on the mountain and see how small and inconsequential your city is. Go outside, go home, live a Real Life, then go back to your housebox and relish in your pain. Just fucking live.

-- Patrick Ryan

Looking for Shelter - Backstory by Lisa Levine

He entered my life Godlike on another summer night in Tucson. His smile lit me up like an electric eel. An electric eel God. Unloosed, rootless, he worked as a strip-club cook. I admired his freedom from the fishbowl windows of the resort where I served spinet tomatoes and poured nineteen-dollar water. I wanted to start over, working myself lead tired, sober in an intoxicated world.

He wanted, I think, to win money—lottery money, casino money, quick, magical money—but most of the time he ended up with a string of arrests in towns he would try to never visit again. We met in the neighborhood, where His mother lived a few blocks away from me passed out on a dirty mattress the one time I saw her. He said she was drunk. He didn’t say anything about the four hardback library books stacked on her redolent kitchen counter, but he did act as if she had raised him to be a good man, somehow between the shelter and the street. I knew he was a good man because he looked me in the eyes the first time he made love to me. Tom Waits sang in the back of my mind. Women falling out of windows in expensive clothes.

I yearned to become pregnant, wanting to bind him to my body, electrocute myself alive. Instead and soon he left for Montana or San Francisco or Eugene or one of the million and ten cool-sounding places wanderers go after they win your heart, the one they never wanted to win.

I ran away. I found Him. We made love in rented rooms, hourly rooms, my fingernails skidding along the windowsills of sobriety. I had a job, briefly, in a wine shop. I never slept outside. I parsed out $20 for hostel rooms. I slept on a couch or two. How long would I have had to stay in that place to claim homelessness as my story? Homeless. Grimly bohemian. I was both. I was neither, but there were nights that drew lines.

Memory-transcript of a phone call to an old friend:

I’m sitting down on the street.
Where are you?
Below Market somewhere.
Is there somewhere you can go? Just get the room. Spend the money.

Thanks to her voice I never found out whether, on my own, I would have stood up.

I left town, left town, left town.

I got over him. Ugly over. By sleeping with too many men, men from whom I wanted nothing. I pretended to want their love but I sought solace instead in money, stability, working my way up front-line management jobs no one else wanted. I leased apartments to the downtrodden, and when I had to, I evicted strangers like Him to retain my position, saving every paycheck until one day the shadows of that story, the one I could never claim as mine, receded. I was no longer one of them anymore.

Still and for years I met him in hotel rooms once every few months—until an unforgivable rumor rear-hooked me with primitive teeth and I deleted the real Him from my life. At the same time he was becoming a story. I gave it a title, “The Narrow Bed,” and in my mind our love looked like Van Gough’s bed, dizzy and skinny and faded and beautiful. It looked like the hostel where he lived when he didn’t live on the street, a dreary cinderblock Paradise.

*

Years later, Bird’s Thumb published “Shelter,” the final version of the story that would become my grip on paradise, the story of a life I adopted for a while and then handed back to people like Him. The story was never mine to begin with. The story is mine. Lumping the word story with the word mine is useless. It is life. Life is a story and stories are Gods. They light up, electric, blazing trails in the distant dark before crashing to a fallen place the eye that spied them will never, ever find again.

Don’t go looking for stories, He would say. Look for Gods.

---

Lisa Levine likes to read topographic maps. She writes landscape adventure stories and teaches full-time at Pima Community College. Editors Sahar Mustafah and Anita Dellaria nominated her fiction for a 2015 Pushcart Prize, and Bird's Thumb, Cutbank, Kore Press, Edible Baja Arizona, Sonora Review, Zocalo, The Sierra Vista Herald, France Today and The Not For Tourists Guides have published her prose.

The Only Way Out Is Deeper In

"The only way out," he said grandly, "when you've outed yourself that badly, is deeper in."

We were at the table by this time, soaking up the booze with Sonoran poutine: Tater Tots smothered in cheddar cheese, gooped with tomatoes, bell pepper, onion, salsa and Cholula hot sauce.

I was ready for the food, for I'd arrived ravenous. Doff the coat, eyeball the munchies, restrain yourself only long enough to put the gløgg on to warm.

I popped an olive in my mouth, moaned, closed my eyes and crunched.

"Stuffed, mmmm, I love olives." I swallowed and reached for another. "Blanched almonds?"

"That would be whole cloves," said the "ex-pat" writer from Iceland. We were all writers here. "Garlic cloves."

Larissa's a complete gem, the kind of woman I'm glad to know if only annually. I want her to like me. I want to be like her. Her wit and wowzer power. (Is that a thing?) A Fulbright scholar who, when her career in coupons dried up, took to teaching English to toddlers. She mangles their words and they mangle hers. They laugh. She laughs. Perhaps laughter is the language we all understand.

"Don't worry," said her partner, filling up the dish with more little garlic bombs, "we've all had lots!"

Thus started a night that grew deeply and inappropriately more wonderful, as we killed the Scandinavian mulled wine and started in on the frozen margaritas rimmed with Icelandic sea salt, and washed it all down with beer.

We locked ourselves out of the oven ("That'd be the cleaning cycle"), and ogled the latest Tucson firefighter calendar, well oiled men thrusting their hips and wielding their hoses.

We discussed the big faux pas of life -- like when you meet a casual friend at a pub in England during your romantic vacation layover and you one-up the conversation with "I gave my fiancée chlamydia!"

"He needed to go deeper," said Mark. He'd be orating next on the intersection of film and literature. The kind of listener-dependent talk that elicits eye-rolls or drool.

"It's the rule of three: I gave my girlfriend chlamydia! And I gave my cat herpes, poor fellow, but I saved the clap for dear old grandma!"

We were all pretty stoked. It was funny.

"The only way out is deeper in," I texted myself so I'd remember.

And then, thinking about it later, about how we deal with embarrassments, with discomfort, with current challenges and past traumas, with discouragements and setbacks and train-wreck failures . . . Do you hear the whispertruth inside the laughter? . . . Go deeper in. Lean in. Feel it, don't run from it. Let it wax terrible. Let it wax absurd. See it from all its sides. From inside. Take a mouthful of it, sharp and bitter. Swallow.

Then you'll know. You are strong. It can't crush you. The way out it is in and through.

~Lora

On the House - Backstory by Leigh Madrid

I look out windows. If I stare or am still too long, nostalgia gnaws at my wrists, at my collarbone. I wish for snow, pray to forget.

I said to you once, Dormancy is the slumber nearest death. It was winter. We were young then, high, in love of a sort. I said, I wonder, in the spring, do trees recall the cold?

Dormant slumber. I’ve known it twice.

The first time from the sickness that came for me not long after my daughter’s birth. I felt off, but that was to be expected. Called a miracle, childbirth diminishes the body. I didn’t go to the doctor. Wasn’t it all in my head?

I was infected. Then hospitalized, emergency surgery. Mom, Dad—take the baby. You… you were too busy. You apologized via text.

Before, I never cried.

Later, daughter’s first word. Mama. That same day you wrapped your hands around my neck to squeeze and squeeze.

Hovering above, I felt serene. Only after would I be troubled by the vision of bulging eyes, slackening arms, baby slipping, slipping to the floor.

World a blur, I ran with baby pressed tight between breasts. She laughed as I pulled the closet door shut behind us.

Mama. Mama. Mama.

You are gone now.

After much restructuring, my life is stable. Calm and quiet, twin balms of healing.

Late at night, old wounds tend to ache, and new scars to itch.

The steadfast routine that keeps a toddler pleasant leaves me yearning. For what? For who I was before you? For something forgotten, or that never was?

Am I sleeping still? Life is too quiet.

I look out windows.

I see dive bars. Bad lighting. Vodka tonics—extra lime. Stranger’s winks. Tequila shots. I can taste the acrid throatburn of cigarettes as I drag past the filter. Overflowing ashtrays and knotted cherry stems.

These days I drink at the kitchen table. A glass of wine. Light beer. Coffee with just a splash of something. I haven’t smoked in a decade. I miss having something to do with my hands.

I look out windows. The forever sunshine doesn’t suit me.

It never snows here. Every few years something resembling snow will drift down. Lasting only long enough to snap a shot of saguaros dusted white. It isn’t the kind that sticks, lending whimsy to winter before turning to slush. It doesn't melt. It evaporates. Not real snow at all.

I tell myself stories about different kinds of deserts, of people carrying a bit of hope tucked inside otherwise empty pockets. I write.

---

Leigh Madrid lives North of Tucson. She shares a home with her toddler, an antisocial cat, and the occasional scorpion. Inspiration from snowy daydreams and a fondness for dive bars fuel much of her writing.

From the author: I pitched “On the House” to my writing group as “an Irish bar story set in South Dakota.” Later an editor with an Irish surname asked to publish it. I don’t believe in signs…or maybe I do. Either way, I’m very excited for my story to appear in Literary Orphans.

Re: How to Submit to Literary Journals: Withdrawing Your Piece

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"Not withdrawing your piece is unprofessional, rude, and amateurish behavior unbecoming of a writer."

---

I received a question about this strong statement from last week's post.

A reader asked:

"Any idea why [not withdrawing is unprofessional, etc.]? ...Sounds like writers lose a ton of negotiating power for no reason but that tradition has set social niceties in stone. Like... When you're interviewing for a job, [you ask] for a couple weeks to decide. Because if they call you and accept the day before your next interview instead of the day after, that shouldn't have such a disproportionate effect on your future.... Is there a similar waiting period for journal submissions?"

The short answer is YES. Writers do have negotiating power.

If you get an offer, you're not required to answer immediately. This is true for querying agents, submitting directly to publishers or for subbing to literary journals.

What's the proper waiting period? A week is appropriate in all these cases. (There are a few exceptions, like weekly e-zines, where the turnover is too fast for a week's waiting period.)

Asking for one week gives you time to decide whether you will be satisfied having your work handled by the publishing professional in question.

In the meantime, it is appropriate and encouraged to send out "heads-up" emails -- not to every agent or editor you queried. Only send to those whom you might prefer.

The heads-up email:

• Explains you received an offer of publication/representation (no need to mention from whom)
• Invites a response to your submission by [deadline], after which time you will make a decision

Withdrawing your piece

Don't withdraw

• If you have sent a heads-up email, don't formally withdraw your piece. The ball is in their court. If they decline to respond, that's their business and they know the consequences of not doing so.

Do withdraw

• If you decide immediately to accept an offer, send a formal withdrawal note.
• If you did not send out a heads-up email, send a formal withdrawal note.

How to withdraw? A simple email will suffice. If using an online submission manager, add a quick note, like this one:

"Dear [editor/agent], Please withdraw [title] from your submission queue, as I have placed it elsewhere for [publication/representation]. Thank you."

---

In summary, when your work is on submission...

If you accept publication/representation and fail to loop in the other contenders, you are wasting their time. Reading through subs is a lot of work. If they read and accept yours, only to find it's been placed elsewhere, it's unlikely they'll want to reach out to you again.

Leaving an editor or agent out of the loop reflects poorly on you as a publishing team player.

This is the way the industry works. Yes, it may place the burden of effort disproportionately on writers. But until a new industry rises, er, out of the ashes, this is the game we've agreed to play.

***

What experiences have you had communicating your waiting periods and withdrawals to editors/agents? What kind of responses have you received from heads-up emails?

In your opinion, what might be a better way this system could work?

~ Lora

How to Submit to Literary Journals

Yesterday, three people from vastly different playgrounds of my life asked me how to submit to literary journals.

Googling will turn up tons of info. But if you're new to the game, this is a good starting place.

---

The Quick-and-Dirty Basics

Contents
step 1. write something you're proud of.
step 2. find some journals.
step 3. track it.
step 4. proof and format.
step 5. cover letter and bio.
step 6. read the journal submission specs.
step 7. what to track.
rejections.
acceptance letters.
edits. you will make them.
mistakes. they happen.
Questions?

---

step 1. write something you're proud of.

You really can't get around this one. If you aren't embarrassingly proud of your work, it's unlikely anyone else will give two flips about it. Read it aloud (for proofreading purposes, of course). Are you blushing? It's good, isn't it? Hell yeah, it is. That's what I mean by proud.

step 2. find some journals.

Check out literary mag hubs. These are places that have exhaustive(ish) lists of journals, both large and small, that feature blurbs about journals' character and interests, along with ways to get in touch.

• NewPages.com is my favorite.
• You can also tool around on their Call for Submissions (CFS) page. Here you'll see new journals expanding their writer pool, or established journals with a CFS to specific or themed issues. If your piece happens to match a CFS theme, you can bump your chances at pubbing.
• Other great resources: Poets & Writers, Duotrope, Submittable on Facebook

step 3. track it.

Make a spreadsheet of journals you want to submit to.

step 4. proof and format.

After you send your piece to a writing friend for line edits, format for submission.

For fiction and creative nonfiction, unless otherwise specified:

• 12 pt font
• Double space between lines
• Do not add space between paragraphs
• 1/2 inch indent first line of each graph
• Your contact info in upper left-hand corner of first page, single spaced
• Title (in title case) centered, halfway down first page
• Byline (your name or pen name) directly below title
• Header: Select "Different first page"
• Header (first page): Word count (rounded to nearest 10) in top right-hand corner (e.g., "about 1,230 words")
• Header (all other pages): [Last name] / [shortened title] / [page number] in top right-hand corner (e.g. "Rivera / How to Sub / 5")
• Footer: Email address centered

step 5. cover letter and bio.

If you're used to querying agents, this will make you melt with relief. Unless otherwise specified, you don't need to pitch your story. Introduce your work. Break paragraphs for a bio. And close.

Here's an example:

step 6. read the journal submission specs.

Don't skip this step. As with agents, journal eds are particular because they have to be. If you want to know more about this step, go here or here.

step 7. what to track.

• the date of submission
• journal
• title of your piece
• word count of your piece
• the date of response
• type of response (rejection, acceptance, withdrawal)

BONUS. rejections. you will get them.

Do you ever respond to a rejection letter? No. Well, yes. But mostly no. Why? It wastes your time and the editor's time. It reflects badly on your maturity as a writer.

When do you respond to a rejection letter? Respond with a one- or two-liner note of thanks only if the editor has supplied more than cursory feedback on your piece. "I enjoyed your work but it's not for us" is cursory. Do not respond (DNR). "We really liked your work and hope you'll submit in the future" is flattering but not real feedback. DNR. Two paragraphs about your main character or plot? Send over a short note of thanks.

BONUS. acceptance letters. you will get them.

If you keep trying, you will get published.

If you receive an acceptance letter, thank the editor in a timely manner.

Next, withdraw your submission from every other journal you submitted to. A short, polite, reply-to email is perfect for this. If using a submission manager, follow the guidelines on the site. Not withdrawing your piece is unprofessional, rude, and amateurish  behavior unbecoming of a writer.

BONUS. edits. you will make them.

Especially with larger journals, an editor will want to do a few rounds with you. Decide ahead of time what your intent is with your piece. Do you just want to get published? Make the requested edits. Don't push back too much. If you decide to push back, choose one or two points to contest. Give clear, convincing, polite arguments for not making the requested edit. Try an alternate route. Figure out how much you're willing to give. Then give a little more. This doesn't always feel good, but it's a critical role of the writer to be able to receive and respond to criticism.

BONUS. mistakes. they happen.

You will make a mistake. It is always okay to own your mistake and send a short "Oops, and thanks for your patience" email. It's not about saving face or being perfect. Writing is about being human and making connections. Check out this piece by Eva Langston on common mistakes to avoid.

Questions?

If you'd like to know more about the process, I'd love to hear from you! Leave a comment, tweet at me, or email me.

7 Ways to Move On From a Relationship

Here I am.

Divorced for over a year. Two years' moved out. Two years' moved on. Yet still so blue some nights.

-- You're getting married.
-- Yes, next October.
-- Good . . . Good for you.

I still care, I still want him to be happy. But the truth is, I haven't even bought a mop yet.

What does a mop have to do with moving on? Let me explain.

7 Ways to Move On (After 7 Years):

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You're not in love anymore. You may or may not still care. But your life is a little deflated and you don't know why. There's an emptiness you're not sure how to fill. (Hint: Sexy, delicious boyfriends are not the answer.) This is not about obliterating the past. Rather, these steps help you look the past in the face and say, "Yes. And."

Step 1.
Get a hobby - Close your eyes. As a child, when were you happiest? Was it helping in the kitchen? Coloring? Basketball in the driveway? Running barefoot on the beach? Climbing trees or playing in mud? Reading? Building blocks? Chances are, there are grown-up equivalents in the same ballpark. I was that girl climbing trees all day long, scrambling up on the roof and sleeping under the stars. Little wonder I've taken climbing in the adult world complete with safety gear and belay-buddies. What turns your inner child on? Go after it.

Step 2.
Clean out the cruft - Prepare for new adventures by opening physical space for them. Clean out the TV stand full of old DVDs you watched together. Donate books and old clothes. Buy new dishes, towels, and linens. Get a new bed. Take your computer to a professional and have it wiped. Or better, buy a new one. Last night, I tried once again to get my ex-husband's name off my desktop's locked user folder. I gave up and started crying because this stuff is hard.

Step 3.
Find new friends - If they're human, your old friends will have picked sides. If you're lucky, you'll have one or a handful still hanging around. These people know the you you used to be. There's a comfort in that. But the fact is, you're not that you anymore. You're becoming a different you and it's time to find new friends who can say, "Maybe you were like that, but that's not the person I know."

Seeing your reflection in the faces of new friends you love, and who love you back, will show you how far you've come. Besides, new friends bring new perspectives, lessons, joys, and challenges. And isn't life what happens when people come together? -- Somewhere in the middle, life happens.

Step 4.
Be selfish - If you're like me, your life's frayed twine gets all frizzed out and tangled up in others. Start being selfish. Let the detangling begin! Start saying No to requests for your resources -- time, money, love -- when you get even a little twinge of discomfort. Spend those resources on you.

Lavish love on yourself for a change, and bask in it. Is it a little overkill to make a fancy dinner, take a shower and primp up, uncork a nice wine, light candles, break out the linen napkins, set the table for yourself and then eat the meal you lovingly prepared? Is it overkill to thank yourself for taking care of YOU? Nope. It's the language of healing. Be lavishly selfish. Remember that there's no shortage of love in this world.

Step 5.
Log your luck - Notice things. All the things! That flower is pretty! That street light is green! Your hair looks awesome today. The sky is stunning. That bartender is a generous pourer. Your body is strong! You have a good job. You have great friends. You can still get off. You can turn heads.

Like keeping a gratitude journal, keeping a mental luck log will help you realize how lucky you are. All things have a flip side. Flick the coin, make it twirl and watch life start to shine when you start recognizing all the ways you are getting lucky ;)

Step 6.
Reach out - You've started staying No. Now start asking for what you want. You'll be surprised how many people want to give you what makes you happy. People like the way life bubbles up in the space between closeness. They'll get closer if you ask. Start small, and be prepared to fill yourself up with lavish love if they say No.

Step 7.
Say Yes - Learn the difference between when you don't want something (Say No) and when you're afraid of something. When opportunities arise, check whether your main inhibitor is fear. If so, start defaulting to Yes. You won't succeed at or like everything you try. But these new experiences start filling in the gaps where old experiences used to keep you safe and warm.

This is reprogramming. Soon, every time you say Yes and survive the experience -- whether you succeed or fail, love it or hate it -- you're teaching yourself that you are capable and strong and worth it.

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So where's the mop factor in? Step 2 and 4. I've cleaned out the cruft to some extent, but it's time I start the love lavish in practical ways. I've been "making do" because of the great effort and cost of getting a new computer, buying a mop (when wet-towel-dancing is just fine!), acquiring a router and getting internet -- it all seems overwhelming.

It's time to break it down into small, manageable chunks, be gentle with myself and begin the last stage of moving on.

Love,
Lora

The Writing Process Blog Tour

Preamble:

A week ago, I finished the second overhaul of my novel. Tweeting my excitement, I heard an echoing WOOT! from the Twittersphere. Particularly, from a writer friend I met online -- Ghost Girl (or Mary Ann), living in Leesburg, GA.

It went something like this:

M. A. Scott: Wanna join me in this AWESOME blog tour?
Me: Sure! Lay it on me!
M. A. Scott: GJ with that book, btw!
Me: [IHeartTwitter]

Go tweet with her. She writes historical YA thrillers. Often with ghosties.

Tour Questions:

What are you currently working on?

The art of falling.

Because only when you're willing to go for it -- to take the fall -- will you have a chance at succeeding.

But you mean writing, don't you? ;)

My current project is a YA science fiction adventure.

Shadow Status

In the future, a teenage boy with a genetic disease must cement an alliance with a virtual girl -- and together save their colliding worlds from an energy war that neither species can survive alone.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Shadow Status is tech-y, for sure, but not gadget-y -- maybe one of its biggest standout features. Plot-wise, it's many-layered, and it snuggles nicely alongside other genres. Computer science-driven passages render it a touch hard sci-fi. An aftermath setting strikes a post-apocalyptic note. And, while half the novel takes place inside a virtual world during a race to prevent speciocide, readers comment that it "feels very fantastical."

Why do I write what I write?
First, because the world of the story and/or premise fascinates me. Then because the characters do. Then because the Big Question begs an answer.

And always, ultimately, because I want to connect with readers, to give them goosebumps and remind them of something special, something good -- about themselves, about the people they love, about the world they live in. About how our species has the potential for greatness and great kindness.

How does my Writing Process work?
Stories come to me through a key visual. Something bright and shiny gets downloaded into my brain from Some Place Else. With Shadow Status, I was sitting in church. Really. "You Again" -- I was jogging along an underpass...

• Plotting: Then come the questions and brainstorming. The plot is like one of those plastic disc toys with those little silver balls that you have to tilt into all the holes.
• Writing: A lot of people write everyday, or try to, and good for them! I don't force it, but on the best days, I do "go for it" -- even if I fall.
• Critique: At weekly writing group I submit pages, receive feedback, revise. I also consider Alpha, Beta, and Gamma feedback.
• Rest: ...After which point I put the whole damn thing away for a while.
• Repeat. Submit. Hope.

Friend tag time!

K. A. Doore is a writer of fantasy -- high, dark, contemporary, you name it. I met her more than three years ago in Tucson. Our shared love of good food, good words, wild things, crazy cats, desert runs, and Irish accents has concretized our friendship and mutual respect as writing colleagues. She's a skilled wordsmith, baker, and photographer.

Follow her blog. Or tweet with her!

~Lora

You Again - Backstory

"There are memories around which your soul circles, a vulture in a vortex..." — You Again, The Milo Review — Summer 2014

First, an image:

From "Bike Ride Along the Rillito River"
Photo credit: Tory (Pax Plena.com)

A muggy, late-summer day, sun striking sand crystals in the dry Arizona wash, giving off memories of white Florida beaches. Sun sparkling on discarded aluminum cans, glass bottles, wisps of candy wrappers. Familiar smells - Banana Boat chemical sweetness and sticky, dehydrated mouth. An underpass in shadow. A cushion, an empty black bean can, lingering whiff of cigarettes.

Backstory:

I'd just picked up a pair of whiskey glasses—a rather special set of 10th anniversaries once proliferated by a dive bar on 4th. The bar itself is special, an actual dive bar, a friend told me, not a fake one. Where the best scotch is under ten bucks a shot, and they pour you three fingers because it's been pre-cut with water. Leather bar stools worn and knicked by idle, anxious, wanting hands, by pocket knives and ragged chain wallets, by the zipper pockets of skintight jeans worn by women in platforms and bling who've forgotten to close the door on the fashion of yore.

Where the men all smoke and leer and don't take "no" for an answer.

But that's not so strange.

I was heading to a man's house just then, who wouldn't hear my "no." Maybe I'd said it too quietly. Maybe I hadn't meant it. Maybe, I'd really meant "yes." After all, I was en route with the tumblers, along with a bottle of good scotch. Cost me two weeks' worth of groceries, more than the occasional eighth.

I'd met him a year earlier, climbing. I actually have a picture on my phone of him with my -ex, the three of us roped and harnessed and helmeted. I'd thought him sexy, with his tall solidness and easy laugh and wild, curly hair.

He climbed with grace. It made me wonder what he was like in bed.

A year later, the -ex a memory, I asked him over. We spent the day in shadow, curtains drawn, in the company of high-end whiskey and clean sheets and under them, playing, sharing stories, sharing ourselves.

It's easy to share with someone you've predetermined only to fuck, to care for, but nothing else.

I fell into the familiar romance of it. We met parents, watched re-runs, did laundry together, cooked, smoked, climbed, played in the park, adopted a dog—all at breakneck speed. Both of us, I think, seeing the other only with one eye.

The other eye stared into the distance, out into the bleak past, thinking of what had been.

He'd told me how when he broke up with her, he'd been up on the mountain. How in the pre-dawn, sleepless dark, stars as witness, he free-solo'ed his project route—no rope, no harness, no helmet. Courting Death. Good morning. You aren't such a stranger, after all. Death, whose great gift is relief from the stuff of living.

My heart hurt, hearing him tell how he'd crawled out from the tent and zombied to the rock and begun to ascend with such clarity of purpose.

It hurt because I'd felt it, too—and in bed, in the moments after the storm of passion, and before sleeping, I felt it again.

That night, we drank together from those special glasses, an homage to the simpler things.

And the next day, I ran past my familiar haunt and paused in the shade cast by the underpass, emotional boundaries cellophane-thin. I felt like I could feel everything, like I could empathize with anyone—I knew pain, didn't I? Didn't I know yours, then? You, whose name I do not know? You, by whose threadbare cushion I thought to leave money or food . . . or a red rose?

So the story came unraveling on the keyboard, and I realized how little I truly knew—you, perhaps, least of all.

~Lora

Pantano Wash near 22nd St.
(c) 2010 by Karen Funk Blocher. Used with permission.

Reentry Meditation - Backstory

What the Editor-in-Chief of Black Heart Magazine didn't know when she decided to publish "Reentry Meditation" this April, was the identity of the woman in the last line.

For months, I'd been dropping canyons with two friends who, including myself, made up a love triangle after the fashion of bad formula romance—achingly, heart-breakingly bad.

A recap:

Girl A likes Guy B, but Guy B likes Girl C, who's friends with Girl A and uninterested in Guy B, because she's really in love with Guy D!

I'm Girl A, by the way.

Now let's plop these characters into the most beautiful, dangerous, intimate of adventures together for days at a time. We go deep into the wild places—the hidden growing sanctuaries where only beasts and gods live.

We share food, water, shelter. Blood mingles, sweat pours and dampens shirts and chonies, bras come off, freeing bodies that work and play and laugh and smell together. These are the beautiful, sharp-edged moments. I listen to their voices dance—for I can't see them ahead of me around the bend in the river. The sun beats down. The creek is a glass snake, mottled with the deep green of the bank and the clear water sky. There is a rock in my shoe.

I come to these places with them because this is my home, and they are my companions. We work well together. He knows best the harsh embrace of this land. We've cultivated our own respect for it. She is brave, handsome, tall, and strong, with a smile like a moon crescent, white-radiant. No wonder he loves her.

When we cross the river and start the trail back, mosquito-stung and drowsy, I know I will not return to the Gila Wilderness with these two. I can't look at him without the pain of knowing.

I want to despise her. She doesn't love him, either.

I turn and take in the towers of crumbling cliffs through which we've traveled, the tangle of green summer growth. I see her hop the last of the river stones. The ash from last night's fire like a tattoo on the backs of her legs. She is a dark angel.

Grim, we face the city, and brace ourselves for reentry.



--Lora

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Click here to read "Reentry Meditation" in Black Heart Magazine.

dreamings ~ in medias res ~ in miniature

Read the full story on Hi

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DM me if you're as excited about Hi as I am!

She reads around the world | Get a global perspective

Take a look at your bookshelf. Are most of the titles written by US or UK authors?

Mine are.

Ann Morgan is a reader much like you and me -- a writer and editor with a college degree under her belt, a healthy amount of curiosity, a love of the written word, and the self-awareness to know that globalizing her perspective would take a certain degree of radical commitment.

In this case, a 365 day challenge to read 196 books from around the world.

Her personal  challenge:

In 2012, the world came to London for the Olympics and I went out to meet it. I read my way around all the globe’s 196 independent countries – plus one extra territory chosen by blog visitors – sampling one book from every nation.

Morgan started with a quest to solidify The List. No easy feat, this. How to go about finding legit books, quality books, from sometimes obscure publishers with hard-to-discover titles by lesser-known authors?

She took the quest to the net:

...I asked for your help. I invited you to tell me what’s hot in Russia, what’s cool in Malawi, and what’s downright smoking in Iceland. The books could be classics or current favourites. They could be obscure folk tales or commercial triumphs. They could be novels, short stories, memoirs, biographies, narrative poems or a mixture of all these things. All I asked was that they had some claim to be considered part of the literature of a country somewhere in the world — oh, and that they were good.

"Good," of course, is subjective. But that wasn't the point.

Picture by Diane Cordell

The point was to look out from the eye-holes of people whose worlds look entirely different from ours --
from hers.

And isn't that why writing (and reading) is so important? Literature tracks the human experience. Books magic us into the existence of those who are not like us. The Other, the academics call these people for whom many of us lack empathy -- whom we might even fear -- until we strive to toward understanding, compelled by their stories.

I grew up in white bread Daytona Beach, Florida. After finishing undergrad in Central Texas, I hiked over to Tucson for an MFA and a tech job. No world traveler, that's for sure. I'd never consider myself cosmopolitan. And I don't have the money or time to go abroad and globeallivant in any deliberate way.

This challenge may be just the thing for these state-side-bound toes.

For 2014, I think I might take a crack at it.

What are your thoughts about this challenge? About the power of writing? How have you attempted to globalize your perspective?


Learn more about Ann Morgan:
Publishing Perspectives
Vimeo
BBC Culture

Join the I Write Video (Repost)

A year ago, YA science fiction writer Imran Siddiq took submissions for the empowering and evocative "I am a Writer" video. Its launch connected writers across the globe.

Now, it's your chance to join the "I Write" video.

If you're not a writer, you can still be take part. Submissions are open to editors, cover designers, formatters, and proofreaders.

As Imran says...

WE ALL PLAY A PART IN CREATING STORIES.

Read the guidelines.

Submit by August 31, 2013.

Email the video to flickimp@gmail.com. 

Join the "I Write" video!

Imran on Twitter

The wilderness has a way of dealing with your ego...

This past Saturday, a night hike by myself. Started at 10 PM, back down at dawn.

Glow worm!

There were 6 miles of trail and 2 of bushwhack and 3,200 ft of elevation gain. A coral snake I didn't quite step on. Javelina and deer and tarantulas and red-spotted tree frogs and something with great big shiny-reflective yellow eyes at the top of the peak from which I was able to send a text to my check-in: In a bit of a pickle, er, won't you please call 911 when you wake and haven't heard from me. Hoping I'll be okay.

Also, a cloud that decided to descend on the peak just as I was deciding to try to scramble back down from where I'd climbed up. Three points of contact. It was that steep. Shitty footing. Couldn't see more than 2 yards ahead with the spot light on once the cloud settled in. And all because I was too stubborn (and stupid) to turn around at the End of Trail sign. Too wanting to get lost, maybe. Too longing to be consumed.

I learned some things about myself. So that's good. And it was beautiful. The lower part of that canyon is something made of magic, for sure. The upper part, too, is crisscrossed by game trails, mice, rabbits, garter snakes, shin dagger, grasses, ocotillo, oh! and then there was a lone alligator jumper -- the world all so scrubby and wonderful.

It's just wise not to be too stubborn out there. The wilderness has a way of dealing with your ego.

Like the climbers' saying, Gravity has a way of dealing with those who repeatedly defy it.

In the moonlight, washed milky by humid, dense clouds, I lost the sound of the city for the calls of the poorwills and other nightjars and crickets and owls. And sometimes, for timeless moments, I lost my own sounds and my own human thoughts.

Good. Good to be lost that way.

But better not to do it for reasons that tempt the desert. Never tempt the desert. It will readily remind you who's bigger, who's been here much, much longer, and who will be here still when no one remembers you or your species, when even those scars your species left behind are too old for naming.

you are right where you need to be...

Gaan Canyon, first waterfall 

you learn a certain thing about a certain person. you realize anew that you are someone to be proud of, that you have come a long way, and that you will go far in the years to come. that in this moment you are someone special. that you are right where you need to be. right now.