A highlight of the three-day weekend was a Monday walk with my daughter out to Foster Island. One heron flying, and a long spell of time to sit on the rocks, watch the water and the boats and the small boys ripping up the ferns and throwing pebbles, and talk. It was blissful.
Now I’ve been wading into the work week–and ever closer to June. That means two more days to submit poems to The Smoking Poet. Submissions for the next issue are accepted through May 31, EDT. Six poems maximum in the body of the email message, no attachments. For all the details, see the guidelines. (Insert the brief rant here about submissions that don’t follow the guidelines. You can imagine it, right?)
I spent some time this weekend wading into more book promotion (does that sound better than “marketing”?). On a small scale. I finally made a Facebook page for Into the Rumored Spring. Then I felt reluctant to invite people to it, because I didn’t want to bother them–and I wanted to be sure I didn’t accidentally invite anyone twice. Some days, I don’t trust the user interface. If I missed you and you’re interested, let me know and I’ll gladly add you. If nothing else, it can be a fun experiment in “I don’t really know what I’m doing.” And now that I have this page, I need to line up some Into the Rumored Spring readings to post on it. Hmm…
In the meantime, the roses are busting out all over and the calendar’s blooming—Fault Lines readings in June and July, and a class at Hugo House. Plus book launch parties to attend and art shows and…I need to get my summer game on. I need to wade into these next long days (and splash around a little). And write.