It's hard not to feel dejected when receiving one rejection letter after another, even if editors write lovely notes that say things like, "I'm smitten with this one poem." One poem out of 70ish pages isn't looking so good for me.
I told R the other day that my poetry just isn't hip. It'll be fashionable one day when I'm dead, and maybe my grandchildren or their grandchildren will dig it out of an attic, convert it to the contemporary format, and get it out there. Or maybe not. Either way, I doubt I'll be so concerned about it.
Then I remembered that a long time ago in a land far, far, away (California) I had an idea for a poetry project involving historical women-- I won't tell you all of the details because that would ruin the surprise. I was so pleased with the idea, and then I got preggers and fell asleep for a couple of years.
Now I'm waking up, and I'm researching Boadicea (pronounced Bo-a-di-sea-ah or Bo-die-kah, depending on whom you ask).
I think she looks something like Kate Winslet here, don't you?
In any case, she kicked some Roman tushie back in her day, so I'm going to let her lead me back into the battlefield of the written word. I hope it ends better for me than it did for her-- although, they do call her land England now, and not Rome, so her self-sacrifice must have done some good in the end. I'll let you know what I find out.
Come on, Bo. Let's get started.
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