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.

A rose by any other name

I'm not sure about the name Anna. It's been bugging the hell out of me, to be honest with you. I want her name to be palindromic, but Anna feels too close to my name, and while this character and I share a very intense and personal experience, she's not me.

So this is why I love the Internet: I googled 'palindromic names' and within about 2 seconds was reading a list of all the palindromic names out there. Ava? Emme's a pretty name, but I don't really want to ride on the coattails of Jennifer Lopez.

Ava might be good, though. Hmmm.

I've always taken exception to Shakespeare's assertion that a name doesn't mean anything. I don't disagree with the Bard on much, but the whole 'rose by any other name' thing is a crock of shit, in my opinion. I doubt that he really believed it himself; I think it was just a rhetorical device.

In other news, I've been getting my writing playlist set up - had to load up both discs of Telltale Signs on my laptop. I might put some selections from Golden Vanity on there too.

NaNoWriMo ponderings

Well, I've officially signed up for the mass lunacy that is NaNoWriMo, along with my friend Kirsten. Should be fun! I've been thinking a lot about what my subject should be, and I think I've come up with a workable idea...

My main character will be Anna, a 33-year-old woman who several years ago went through most of a pregnancy, but ended up having a stillborn. During the pregnancy, she'd worked really hard to do everything right, but the baby died. Now she's single and pregnant again, but basically acting like kind of a fuckup. She's a cook/bartender at a local pub and bookstore in a small, artsy/touristy town. She's lived there for years and has a big group of friends in the community, but she doesn't want to tell anyone she's pregnant for as long as possible. The story will basically focus on her emotional & mental journey through the pregnancy.

The other thing worth noting is that I think the theme song running through my mind while I write is going to be this beautiful version of the Bob Dylan song "Mississippi". We recently got a CD where he performs a really quiet, sweet, husky acoustic version of it that has been haunting me.

These are the song lyrics:

Mississippi

Every step of the way we walk the line
Your days are numbered, so are mine
Time is pilin' up, we struggle and we scrape
We're all boxed in, nowhere to escape

City's just a jungle, more games to play
Trapped in the heart of it, trying to get away
I was raised in the country, I been workin' in the town
I been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down

Got nothing for you, I had nothing before
Don't even have anything for myself anymore
Sky full of fire, pain pourin' down
Nothing you can sell me, I'll see you around

All my powers of expression and thoughts so sublime
Could never do you justice in reason or rhyme
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

Well, the devil's in the alley, mule's in the stall
Say anything you wanna, I have heard it all
I was thinkin' about the things that Rosie said
I was dreaming I was sleeping in Rosie's bed

Walking through the leaves, falling from the trees
Feeling like a stranger nobody sees
So many things that we never will undo
I know you're sorry, I'm sorry too

Some people will offer you their hand and some won't
Last night I knew you, tonight I don't
I need somethin' strong to distract my mind
I'm gonna look at you 'til my eyes go blind

Well I got here following the southern star
I crossed that river just to be where you are
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

Well my ship's been split to splinters and it's sinking fast
I'm drownin' in the poison, got no future, got no past
But my heart is not weary, it's light and it's free
I've got nothin' but affection for all those who've sailed with me

Everybody movin' if they ain't already there
Everybody got to move somewhere
Stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow
Things should start to get interesting right about now

My clothes are wet, tight on my skin
Not as tight as the corner that I painted myself in
I know that fortune is waitin' to be kind
So give me your hand and say you'll be mine

Well, the emptiness is endless, cold as the clay
You can always come back, but you can't come back all the way
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

(Copyright ©1997 Special Rider Music)

I've decided to just write the story on this blog, so that I can access it from anywhere and I don't have to cart my laptop around all month. I keep having these little vignettes appear in my head, and I'm dying to write them down, but that would feel like cheating.

Reemergence...

So, you might wonder why the 10 and a half month hiatus on this blog... well, here's the deal.

The day after my last post here, I found out I was pregnant. Talk about kicking off the new year with a bang. Suddenly all of my energy was pouring into research about having a healthy pregnancy. In the meantime, all my creative energy disappeared - I think it was all going into building our daughter Abigail.

But then Abigail died, about five weeks before she was due. Suddenly all of my energy was pouring into grieving, and grieving hard. But as usual, when the chips were down, my creative energy came flowing back and I wrote a ton of poetry, which helped me heal.

It's been a couple months now, and I've mostly passed through the fog of grief and am returning to normal, or my new normal, I suppose. Close enough to normal that I am actually considering the insane task of participating in NaNoWriMo with a friend of mine. If you're not familiar with NaNoWriMo (I wasn't, until my friend mentioned it), it's basically this mass insanity where people try and write a 50,000-word novel during the month of November. For all you non-math-people out there, that would be nearly 1700 words a DAY. (Why they couldn't do this on a month with 31 days, I have no idea. I guess I should be grateful that they didn't chose February.)

It's kind of a cool concept, though. It pretty much leaves no room for second-guessing oneself or procrastinating on writing by eternally re-editing what you've already written. Now if I can just settle on a story idea, I'll be set...

I do have several half-ideas floating around in the transom of my brain, but none of them have really spoken to me. Don't think I want to restart my GAN, necessarily... Guess I still have a couple weeks to figure it out...

The New Year

I always make a lot of virtuous resolutions at New Year's. I don't know why I bother, except that I feel like if I don't, I'm just stagnating. I think an important part of life is always seeking to improve somehow. Hence all the idealistic New Year's resolutions.

Still, I keep the goals flexible, so I don't have to feel like a total failure for not meeting them. They're sort of always under revision, really. That's life.

Most of my New Year's resolutions focus on publishing, and most of them tank after a few months. But we'll see. I've still got that great spreadsheet off of which I can work all year, if I can make the time. That's my main New Year's resolution: I will make the time.

Cheers.

Inspiration

I had a fantastic Thanksgiving, road-tripping with my hubby to see my dad & stepmom. They recently moved to Arizona, and my dad was telling me about a fat little lizard he'd seen hiding in the garage. He thought it would make a great kids' story. I agreed. On the drive back home, waking early in our historic hotel in Durango, I wrote part of the first chapter. I finished the chapter the next day and emailed it over to him. It's a fun story to write. Yay, Dad! It's always nice when one's parents foster creativity. :)

The photo's from a hike we took while visiting my family.

Progress

I suddenly realized, in the middle of pacing all aggravated around my house, that I haven't blogged in forever. That must be what's wrong.

Ironically, I've been doing a fair amount of work on writing & publishing. I haven't felt all that creative lately, though for a while there I was writing every day; lately my focus is on getting things together to start sending my poetry out for publication.

It's not easy. Good lord, it is anything but easy. It's funny how much of a practical, business aspect there is to the publishing process. Must be why so many of us writers go unpublished in the larger market - and why blogging's so popular. (Sure works for me.)

So I created a spreadsheet practically the size of Pikes Peak of places I can send my work, what the specifications are for each place and so forth. Well, I'm in the process of creating it. The first runthrough, I identified 52 places to send my work, with the goal to mail to one each week in 2008. (My mom calls this sort of approach "eating the elephant one bite at a time.") But when I looked more at the spreadsheet and the publishing process, I found I needed to reorganize and expand the spreadsheet (I mean seriously, I thought the spreadsheets I made for our wedding were complex, but this is ridiculous) and now it holds lots more data, which I get to go back and fill in for all 52 places.

To be honest, it's sort of a nice task. I don't have to be creative, I can just do a few at a time and still feel good about contributing towards my writing career.

The next task is to review the focus of each magazine, start getting samples, making inquiries, etc., and look at what poetry fits each magazine. I also need to figure out the whole simultaneous submission thing, and prioritize certain poems for certain mags. So, not all the work of an instant, especially since I can hardly look at a poem without revising it, if only to remove an unnecessary 'the'... which is fine, since the writing can always be made better, but takes more time. (This is why I started the project two and a half months out.) I also want to develop a couple of different cover letters and my bio.

Anyway, we're on the road to progress, and glad of it. I think the spreadsheet is key. My past attempts at taking an organized approach to getting published consisted of color-coded, labeled page-tabs and far too many dogears. So any time I would want to send something out, I'd need to look it up again, mentally process the information, look for poetry that would fit that place's needs... just not really time-efficient or very appealing. (For one thing, the book is a pain in the ass to try and keep open to the right spot while you look for something on your computer. Let's talk spiral bindings, guys.) Anyway, now I have all the info in the same spot and it's easy to understand and use. Sweeeet. And if I end up not having time to work on it, the info's still usable later and easy to update, as opposed to all those forlorn tabs in an outdated reference book.

The other challenging aspect: the budget. It can only help to get samples from each place; plus, how else will I know if my work's right for that publisher? But they all cost, and they all need postage there and back, and then there's mailing the submission and the SASE. I don't know about other poets, but I work for a non-profit, and I don't have a ton of spare cash. It's worth it to budget some, though, and that's another reason for my approach of wanting to spread it out throughout the year. I figure I can start now with the samples and stay a month or two ahead with those, to facilitate my weekly goal.

Seems like a decent plan, if I can keep making the time to do it. I think it's going to work. We'll see, anyway. But you know, it's times like this when my favorite Yoda quote comes to me:

"Do, or do not. There is no try."