Resources for poets & such

So, if you're a writer and you've spent any time on the Internet, you know there are an overwhelming number of resources out there. The trick is filtering out all the crap that doesn't meet your needs. For me, that means resources that complement my inherent laziness and the fact that I work a full-time job.

Case in point. My friend Soham put me onto this wonderful listserve that posts calls for submission. It's not just poetry, it's also fiction & creative nonfiction. I dig it. http://groups.yahoo.com/group/crwropps-b/

This concept, in turn, opened my eyes to looking for other really easy ways to submit my poetry. :) In the course of my research, I found this resource page, which seems pretty good although I haven't tested any of the links yet. It lists all the poetry publishers that will accept online submissions: http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~lcrew/pbonline.html

Writer's Digest has some pretty good articles. One that particularly struck my interest was this: http://www.writersdigest.com/article/28-agents-who-want-your-work/

http://www.poetry.org/ is an elegant site whose resource page has many useful links.

This site rocks as well: http://www.pw.org/classifieds

My friend also recommended http://www.newpages.com/. Definitely seems like a good site although just in posting these few links I've managed to overwhelm myself again. I need a nap. Or maybe some chocolate.

(A couple days later) In the meantime, I'm pretty pleased with the progress I've made so far on my NaNo novel.

Chapter Five: What would Studs Terkel say?

Time is funny sometimes. This afternoon feels like one of the longest of my life. Otto is on his third beer, making quiet conversation, and I'm barely talking. I just want to sit here and listen to him, feel the cadence of his voice rolling over me, wrapping me up. I want to believe that what he is saying he would tell only to me, but I know it's not true. Otto can talk to anyone, and does; one of those friends of the world that's nonetheless hard to get under the surface of, until he's ready. Still, like me, he's lived in this town for a long time and has a lot of friends around here. Already one of our other regulars, Theo, has come and gone again after a beer's worth of catching up.

The sunlight from the windows is ebbing, shrinking back towards the windows, and it raises a sudden yearning in me. For just a second, I allow myself to hope for this baby - not that I am pregnant, the other side of my brain chimes in - that I might get to hold it and look into its eyes and hear its voice as it squalls out its protestations at being thrust into the cold, bright world. But the image is replaced by one of my dead baby in my arms, so still and silent and grayish-white. For god's sake, I couldn't stand to go through it again - and if I'm alone this time - I look at Otto and try to tune back into what he's saying, but I can't concentrate. Who is he?

We'd really only just started to get to know each other when we hooked up at that party, even though we'd hung out in the same circles for years. He's an unknown quantity, is what he is, I say to myself, suddenly realizing that I'm a little buzzed from the beer I've been drinking. I stand up and pour myself an ice water, and Otto interrupts himself to ask for one too.

"So anyway, there we are, stuck in the middle of the fucking desert," he continues, telling me an apparently hilarious story from his road trip that I haven't listened to at all. I'd better start paying attention, I think, and try to focus on what he's saying, but all I can think about is whether what he says shows signs of being a good dad or not.

"Hey," Otto cuts into my thoughts, "are you okay? You seem preoccupied with something. You sure you don't want me to find somewhere else to crash?" My hand is resting on the bar, and he covers it with his. I look down at them; his hand is huge, and his fingernails are short and a little ragged. I lace my fingers through his.

"No, I'm good. You're welcome to stay with me." I smile at him and lean across the counter for a kiss. Might as well enjoy it for what it's worth. "I'm going to go have a smoke. Want to join me?"

We go out front so I can keep an eye on any incoming customers. This is one of the depths of the off-season, so it's not likely anyone would stop by on a late Sunday afternoon, but you never know. It's cold outside, crisp, probably about 40 degrees. Otto lights his cigarette and starts pacing up and down on the sidewalk in front of the store, gesturing with the smoke as he talks. I watch the cars going by and a couple walking on the other side of the street, farther down the block.

I feel a twinge in my abdomen and try to ignore it. The other side of my brain is circling thoughts of implantation, of the sac your body builds as a stopgap while it makes the placenta. I take another pull off my cigarette and look at it, listening to Otto talk with half my attention; I have no idea why he's on to state taxes in Nevada now. Apparently it relates to the conditions of the roads there.

Before my first pregnancy ended, it had been years since I'd quit smoking. I started again after Eric left, and had been smoking for the last two years or so. If I'm pregnant, I'll have to quit again, I thought. I look at Otto, trying to imagine him with a two-year-old perched on his shoulders, laughing against the bright winter sky.

Otto has finally finished ranting about road conditions in the Southwest and draws close to me again. "So, listen," he says, putting his arm around me, "can I take my stuff over to your place?"

I raise an eyebrow. "How much stuff do you have?" He laughs. I wasn't joking. I exhale my cigarette smoke through my nose.

"Not much. Couple duffle bags and a couple coolers in the car. The rest of my stuff's in storage, in those rental units up on Higginbotham Flats, but I don't really need it." He starts talking about learning about minimalist living on the road, and I study his face. Strong jaw; long-lashed brown eyes; that perfect, perfect mouth. Just enough stubble to look sexy as hell, and a mole right near the outer corner of his left eye.

Otto smiles, and says, "So do you have a spare key?" I stub out my cigarette and we go back in so I can retrieve my keys from my purse. I tell him where the extra key is, in the kitchen, and he promises to stop back by with my key before I get off work this evening. He pauses in the doorway. "Got any dinner plans?" I shake my head. "You do now," he grins before he walks out, the bell clanging as he pulls the door shut.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll pretend I'm being interviewed by Studs Terkel. "I have no idea what it means," I say aloud to the empty shop. "I'm just trying to get by one day at a time."

Chapter Four: The prodigal friend with benefits

I expected my heart to jump up in my throat when I saw Otto, but I still wasn't prepared for how good he looked. The month on the road treated him well. He has his back to me, chatting with Bob, and I take in his broad shoulders, thin waist, strong arms. He looks tan against his off-white cable sweater. His hair's grown, too; he had it back in a ponytail before, but it was only a couple inches long then. Now it almost reaches his shoulders.

"Hey, stranger," I say, walking up next to him. He turns and grins at me, and I can't help grinning back. Otto has that kind of smile. He opens his arms and hugs me, nestling his chin into the curve of my neck, murmuring, "You smell good," in my ear before releasing me and stepping back. He looks me up and down, and I stand there feeling like a fuckin' teenager and let him. Otto shakes his head.

"Damn, you look great, Ava," he says, sliding the right side of his mouth back into a wry smile as he sits down on one of the barstools. "How ya been?"

"Not bad," I reply, walking around to the side of the bar and ducking underneath. "What'll you have?" I turn my back to pick up a pint glass, relieved to be able to look away. It was hard to meet his eyes and not throw myself at him. I wondered what Bob thought of all this; he's a pretty savvy guy. I pause by the taps and look back at Otto, waiting for his response.

"Hell, I don't know," he says. "What's the Sled Ride like?"

"It's a seasonal from Fountain Creek Brewery. It's not bad. Want to try a taste?" I switch the pint glass for a sampler, and hand it to him, trying not to stare at him while he considered it.

"Yeah, that's pretty good. I'll take one of those. Got any lunch specials today?" he says, looking at me with that merry glint in his eye. My heart picks up speed, and I restrain myself from saying something like "Yeah - me, on the kitchen counter."

I settle for putting my elbows on the bar in front of him and leaning in a bit. "What do you want?" God help me, I could not keep that tone out of my voice to save my life. The look he gives me in response makes me smile and look away. He pauses, thinking about it.

"Well, I guess for lunch, a cottage pie sounds good." He hands the menu back to me. "For dessert, I don't know."

"Well, you've got all day to figure it out," I reply, taking the menu. "Bob, you want another one?"

Bob pushes his stool back and stands up. "Naw," he says. "I gotta go by the store before I go home. 'Sides, I'd better get out of here 'fore it gets too hot and heavy." Otto and I laugh. Bob winks at me, throws a ten on the counter and leaves.

"I'll get the pie started," I tell Otto, and walk into the kitchen. I turn on the oven, open the fridge and retrieve a cottage pie that I made yesterday. I put it on a tray and slid it into the oven, setting the timer for twenty minutes. When I turn around, Otto is standing about four feet away from me, his hands in his pockets, just quietly watching me with that inscrutable look on his face.
I don't know why, I just walked over to him and kissed him. And he kissed me back. And I have no idea how long that timer was going off before we finished screwing, because I only noticed it after. I can barely bring myself to leave him long enough to walk across the kitchen and turn the damn timer off. I open the oven door to let some of the heat out, and return to Otto, who has one of the most beautiful mouths I've ever seen on a man.

"Lunch is ready," I say between kisses. I love this part of a relationship, the we-just-started-having-sex part, when your bodies are still new to each other and you're hungry, eating each other up.

Eventually we get back out into the bar. He tucks into the cottage pie and I put some music on the stereo. I wash up the glasses Bob used and set them in the drying rack. I move my stool from the other end of the bar to down where Otto is sitting, and sit down with my beer.

People walk briskly by the front windows. I can see the wind shaking the bare branches of the trees, making women wrap their coats around themselves tighter, making men hunch their shoulders and pull their hats down over their ears. It's warm inside the Pines, cosy. I'm glad I turned on the gas fireplace when I was getting the shop ready this morning. While Otto ate, I sipped my beer and tried to just let myself believe it could always be this easy. Great sex, peaceful mornings, an effortless, quiet togetherness.

I'm working myself up to start a conversation that was probably a very bad idea - something along the lines of, "So, want to get married?" when Otto finishes his lunch, set his silverware in the bowl and pushes it away from him. He wipes his mouth and throws the napkin on top of the silverware in the bowl.

"So," he says, looking me in the eyes for the first time since we left the kitchen. "Any chance I could crash at your place for a couple nights?" My stomach sinks. I look back out the front windows again. He didn't give a shit about me, not anything permanent or deep anyway. He just needed a free place to sleep, and some bonus sex wasn't a bad thing. What was I thinking? Friends with benefits, that's what we are, that dangerous little phrase that sounds so simple and carries such complexity with it.

But on the other hand, I think, a little bonus sex isn't such a bad thing at all. I wouldn't mind sharing my bed for a couple nights. And maybe I'll take a test and find out I am pregnant and then at least he'll be there, and we could talk about it.

Not likely, the other side of my brain says. I ignore it.

"Yeah, that's fine," I agree.

Chapter Three: Mirror, mirror...

Bob leaned against the counter, his empty glass in front of him. "Wonder where that girl's got to," he said to himself. He raised his voice. "Hey Ava, you back there?" Silence.

A minute later, he heard the back door close. He realized there wasn't any music playing. That was odd - Ava usually had the stereo on. He could tell she was worried by the look on her face before she recognized him, by the absent air she'd had while they chatted. Bob pursed his lips and relaxed them again.

When Ava came back through the open doorway into the bar area, Bob's eyes reminded her of a wizened old turtle peering out from under his shell. "What's goin' on, honey?" he asked. She put a mechanical smile on.

"Oh, I'm just kind of preoccupied right now. Jason left the bar a mess again, and I can't decide what I should do about it." She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. Bob could tell she was lying. But if she didn't want to talk about it, he wasn't going to give her a hard time.

"Welll, I know he's young, but he's a good kid. Seems to bring in a fair amount of business, too," Bob played along.

Ava sighed. "Yeah. I don't think I can fire him. But I'm gonna tell him to get his ass in gear." Bob laughed.

"Good for you, honey. Everything else all right?" There was that suspicious turtle look again. Ava shrugged.

"I guess. 'Bout as good as it's gonna be, huh?" she replied. Bob gave another laugh, not fooled a whit.

"Well, you know you got a friend in me, if you need to talk," he said. Ava nodded.

"Thanks, Bob. You want another beer?"

"Yeah, pour me one more, honey. Why don't you have one yourself, on me." Bob crossed his arms and sat back on his barstool, watching how tense her shoulders seemed as she moved around behind the bar.

When she returned with both beers, she gave him his Guinness with her brilliant smile. "Now that's a real smile," he said. "You looked worried before." Ava shook her head.

"Just a couple things on my mind." She flashed another smile. "It's always something, running this place." They clinked glasses and drank. Ava set her glass on the counter and tilted her head. "I think that's my cell phone. Be right back."

She pulled the phone out of her bag, now hanging from a coathook behind the bar, and walked back into the kitchen. She glanced at the caller ID and froze, mid-stride, then flipped the phone open and said a cautious, "Hello?"

"Hey Ava, it's me, Otto," she heard, and her heart jumped up into her throat. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm at work," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "What are you up to?"

"I just got back into town, was thinking about getting some lunch," Otto replied casually.

"Well, you're welcome to come by the Pines, we've got the best lunch menu in town," Ava said, mentally smacking herself as she heard the words coming out of her mouth.

"Cool. I'll be down in a few," Otto said, and hung up. Ava stood there holding her cell phone for a second, then sprang into movement. She came out of the kitchen, dropping her phone in her bag on her way to the bathrooms.

"Doing okay, Bob?" she called out as she passed by. Bob was reading one of the weekly local papers and gave an absent wave in reply. Ava shut the bathroom door and flicked on the light, approaching herself in the mirror until she was only a few inches away.

She rarely looked at herself in the mirror anymore. Not since the baby died. She did a quick check each morning to make sure her outfit didn't look stupid, and that was it. At first, she just hadn't wanted to see all the weight she'd gained. She was counting on nursing a baby to help lose the weight - everyone said it worked like a dream - but her daughter had died five weeks before her due date, and when all was said and done, all Ava was really left with was an unending, gaping sorrow and about twenty-five extra pounds.

After Eric left her, it got even worse. She sank into a deep, quiet depression, going through the days like a glass-eyed robot, packing her flask and one-hitter along wherever she went. She'd stopped eating, for the most part, forcing some food down about once a day; people congratulated her for getting into shape. She bit her tongue to keep from laughing in their faces and carried a travel-size bottle of mouthwash in her purse so they couldn't smell the alcohol.

Now as she looked at her own face in the mirror, meeting her eyes for the first time in she couldn't remember how long, her tears welled up again. She willed them back down. "Just stop it," Ava whispered fiercely to herself. "Get a fucking grip, girl." Whenever she cried, Ava got what she called 'tomato nose', and she most definitely did not want Otto to see her looking wretched right now.

She heard the bell attached to the front door ring and froze again. The front door slammed shut. "Hey, Bob, what's goin' on, brother?" Otto's voice rang out. That was fast. Ava met her eyes in the mirror again. She splashed some water on her face and dried it, then quickly leaned over so her hair hung down, fluffed it with her hands, and flipped it back as she straightened up. He called her before coming over. He wanted to see her. What am I so worried about? Ava asked herself. She took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

Chapter Two: Numbering the Days

She liked to save opening the windowshades for last, filling the front of the shop with elongating squares of light that make the hardwood floor gleam. Today, Ava was so busy cleaning up that she didn't open the shades until just before she unlocked the door, at eleven o'clock. She tensed a little to see someone standing right by the front door, waiting for the shop to open, but then she realized that it was just Bob and Ava relaxed, opening the door for him with a welcoming smile.

"Come on in, Bob. How's it going?" she greeted him. Bob is one of Ava's favorite regulars. He comes off as a crusty old bastard, but inside he's just a softie. He even volunteers at a local elementary school, helping the kids that have trouble reading, but Ava'd known him for more than two years before he ever told her about it.

"Hey, Ava," Bob drawled. He was originally from Savannah, Georgia, and still had his accent after 20 years in Colorado. "I'll be doin' a hell of a lot better after I get a beer in me, I can tell you that, honey."

Ava gave the obligatory laugh and ducked under the bar, picking up a clean pint glass and filling it with Guinness, his usual. She set the Guinness on the bar to settle for a few minutes before pouring the final inch.

"Trudy's up in Denver all day today, at some damn craft show or somethin'," Bob said. They bullshitted while Ava waited for the Guinness to settle. She topped it off and handed it to him. His face broke into a smile, and he reached for it with both hands and a happy sigh. Ava laughed.

"Guinness is good for you!" Bob protested after his first swallow, smacking his lips and setting the beer on the counter. Ava shook her head.

"I know it is, believe me," she said. "Hey, we got in some new NYT bestsellers yesterday, did you see them?" Bob got up and wandered over to browse the bookshelves, taking his beer with him.

Ava wanted nothing more than to hide out in the kitchen for a while and try to think about what to do next. The nausea had passed, leaving her even more certain in its wake. "Just holler if you need me, Bob," she called over to him, getting an answering wave over the bookshelves.

In the kitchen, Ava leaned against the counter and took a long gulp of her beer. What now? Take a test, right, that was the first step. She looked at the pint glass in her hand, thought about the pot and cigarettes in her purse. She thought about the long, long journey of her first pregnancy and how it had ended. She moved quickly, suddenly, to get her cell phone out of her bag, but stopped herself before she reached it. Instead, Ava turned and crossed to the fridge, pulling out bowls of prepped vegetables and setting them on the counter.

"What good would it do to call Eric?" she argued with herself. "He's gone. He left. We've been through this shit already. It's not even his kid. Not that I'm definitely pregnant." She found herself staring at her hand moving aimlessly back and forth across the counter, as if it belonged to someone else. She could feel the wounds reopen, feel the raw grief welling up inside her again. The memory of laying on that table was so vivid, the ultrasound technician nervous and trying to stay professional, waiting for her daughter's heart to start beating again, not understanding that it never would.

It had been three years and three months. Ava crossed the kitchen again, pulling the calendar off the wall, flipping through it. November 11th. Three years, three months and three days exactly from August 8th. "Eight eight," she said aloud, staring at the calendar without really seeing it. "Eleven eleven." And she could not keep the tears from coming.

Chapter One: And so it begins.

Except I don't really know where to start. There's so much to this story. Every so often, as I look back on my life, I can see the line of my path winding and twisting through the world. It's almost like that Family Circus kid, but on acid. There's the hospital, there's the Pines, there's the shitty old apartment I used to live in, still infested with roaches and flaking lead paint from the walls.

You hear people talking about 'walking the line', but I'm not sure we really have much choice. Seems like I can't get off the line, no matter how hard I've tried. Sometimes the days flow into one another, slipping by like a slow fast-forward, but some days stand alone, proud sentinels of the crises in my life. Those are the days I'd rather forget, but instead, it seems to work the other way ‘round.

Some days, like today, just feel like a complete waste. I found a parking space in the alley behind the Pines and shoehorned my old Accord into it. I should've walked, but it's freezing out, literally; I can see my breath in puffs as I stroll up to the back door. I start bouncing on my toes a little, to stay warm while I search in my cavernous bag for my keys. I can hear my mom's voice, "What I do, sweetie, is I would find the keys before I got out of the car. Especially when it's so cold out." "Bite me, mom," I mutter around the cigarette I just placed between my teeth. Now I'm looking for the keys and the lighter. I find the keys first.

I love the way the Pines smells first thing in the morning. Since the front half's a bookstore, it adds this lovely tinge of dusty books to the air. I drop my purse on the kitchen floor and set my unlit smoke on the counter above it, moving forward through the dark kitchen towards the bar. Jason was supposed to close up last night, but he usually leaves a few things undone, especially if it was slammed.

Sure enough, there's still a half dozen pint glasses in the sink, and the mop looks all lonely setting in the corner just as I'd placed it two days ago. "Fuckin' kid," I say aloud to the empty room. Doesn't look like he even swept up. I make a mental note to read him the riot act when he comes in tomorrow.

I decide to have that cigarette before I start in on cleaning and all the rest of it. I go back through the kitchen to where I left my bag, and start rooting around trying to find the lighter again. If all else fails, I can just light it off the stove. Finally my hand touches the lighter, but just as I'm standing up, a wave of nausea hits me like a fuckin' brick and sends me flying to the sink on the kitchen wall. I just barely make it.

I wipe my mouth and can't help a small chuckle at what the health inspector would say to puking in the sink. But my stomach is churning and it's not just from the nausea. I know what this feels like. I know exactly what this feels like. I couldn't be pregnant again... could I?

I turn on a thin stream of cold water and cup my hand under it, putting the cold water on my face and rinsing my mouth out with it. I replay the last few times I've had sex, trying to remember whether condoms were involved. Two months ago, when I laid Brian again, I know we used condoms because the first one broke and we had to get another one. A couple weeks after that, I'd hooked up with Christian, but we didn't sleep together; he was too drunk to even get it up.

But as I'm staring into the sink, watching the water stream down the drain, I feel a cold chill run down my spine. There was that party a month ago, at Jason's. I'd felt ancient, out of place among all his fresh-from-college hipster friends. I drank too much. Way too much. And then Otto showed up, the only other thirty-something there, and, well, I sort of have a weakness for guys like Otto anyway.

My stomach turns over again. I couldn't remember if we'd used a condom. I could barely even remember the sex. We must’ve both passed out right afterwards, because we woke up still intertwined the next morning. He could’ve taken the condom off the night before, I tell myself, but even I don’t really buy it. I retched into the sink again, watching the water take it down the drain, hiding the evidence of my fucked-up life. Finally I put my mouth to the thin stream of water coming from the faucet and I drink as if my life depended on it. Then I straighten up, reach unsteadily for my cigarette and lighter again, and half-stagger outside. The cold air shocks me, brings me back into the present. I light my smoke and lean my head against the brick wall behind me. My hands are trembling. My brain is racing around at a hundred miles an hour. Maybe it's just from a hangover, I tell myself; I had a lot to drink last night and that's just the leftover beer my body couldn't digest. ...It didn't feel like a hangover, part of my brain responds that I wish would just shut up. I couldn't possibly be pregnant, I tell myself, scoffing at the thought before it's even finished.

I need to remain calm, I tell myself. "Be cool, Av," I say aloud. Panicking isn't going to help either way. I stub out the cigarette at its halfway point and leave it on the little brick ledge that runs shoulder-high around the building. Stepping back in, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, then step over to my purse and feel around til I find my one-hitter. I take a couple hits of pot and exhale into the still, quiet air around me. I sit for a moment, then go back out into the alley to finish my smoke.

When I come back in, I feel a lot calmer. "Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that I am pregnant," I debate with myself. "Otto's not such a bad guy. He'd make a good dad. Not a good husband, but he's cool with kids. And I don't need to get married. What the fuck - we'd probably kill each other." But I am not talking about what is rising in my throat, the hellish feeling of dread threatening to choke me. Because if this ends up anything like the last time, I might as well go to the abortion clinic right now.

I wonder if I should call Eric. What would I say? "Hey, I got knocked up again. Hope this one doesn't die." Fuck's sake. I walk briskly to the bar sink and start running the hot water. I have 45 minutes to get the place clean before we're supposed to open. I decide the pint glasses can wait and hook up the short length of hose we use to fill the mop bucket. While it's filling up, I pour myself a beer. It's 10:15 in the morning.

My hands are still shaking.