raindrops on roses & whiskers on kittens

Tonight was the perfect night to take a walk: after days of temperatures down in the single digits (farenheit) with the wind chill, tonight was 55 degrees. And raining just enough for a mist. I love walking in rain, and below 50 degrees or so, light misty rain is the best. And it looked so film noir outside too. Unfortunately, I couldn't take a walk because I've had a cold that had started to go away before I then went out on Saturday night and it came back with a vengeance. sigh.

But I had a great night nonetheless. I finally figured out a Beethoven peice on the piano that had been being very uncooperative with my hands for months until tonight. I love muscle memory.

And I got some good news after I finally submitted a few poems the other night, after a fairly long dry spell, not of writing, but of sending my work out for publication. I've always had some strange reluctance about submitting, that I think has something to do with that fear, that I've heard some other poets (and writers, artists, etc.) express as well, that every time I write something that I consider of some value, it will be the last half-decent thing I'll ever write. That seems to lead to some strange hoarding behavior that I don't seem to have with anything else. 'As if I won't have anything left to submit, so I better save my better work for some nebulous someday. But a few days ago I finally overcame that bad habit and submitted to elimae, a journal I've respected for quite a while: its content is consistently fresh, innovative, and genuinely eclectic. I've also always liked its clean look that seems to reflect a professionalism that it has maintained for a long time -- at a time when literary magazines come and go so often and so quickly, elimae has been around since the nineties, a long time for an online publication. Only a couple of days after I submitted my work, the editor emailed me back with an acceptance. I'm quite pleased -- so much so that I immediately put together another submission for another magazine. I'm determined to turn this into a good habit of not letting my work sit in my drawer or hard drive and age for years as if its wine, before doing my best to get it out there. The work accepted for elimae, which is quite new actually, will appear in the journal's next issue which is due out in only a week or two. (If you would ever like to nag me with questions of whether I've been keeping up with what Anne Sexton called the business of words, please feel free.)

And of course I still got to open my windows and enjoy some unseasonably warm sweater-weather, and hear the rain.
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