submission, if the work had been done on them. I am certain my own pieces I have seen rejected over the years could be written about in this same way by an editor of another publication. I am certain that the pieces I have had published could be written about in this manner as well. I go back to the fall of 1997 and the feel of that pamphlet, the poor man’s literary magazine, in my hands. I think of Max Schott and the books he’s published, now out of print but able to be found in a library or on someone’s shelf, somewhere, picked up, passed around, nonetheless. I think of the e-book self-publication rage to which I briefly fell victim, the madness it caused in my marriage and in my mind for over a year before I finally gave up and admitted to myself that I should have waited, I should have waited, I always should have just waited and done the work. I will wait. I will do the work now. It’s time to open up a dialogue, an exchange of ideas with people who know what they’re doing and who know who a writer’s readers are and could be, instead of rushing to send words out into the ether. No more rush. No more impatience. No more feelings of inadequacy brought about by age or envy. Just: no more. I know my place now.
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