Another Area Where I'm Taking Control

So, five days now and no critiques on my haiku. I did receive one comment, basically asking about one or two of the haiku maybe needing a "cutting" word and saying the cricket haiku was the least favorite of the six. I sent the person a thank-you note.

Then, I opened my email to find yet another rejection. This one from a literary magazine I sent some poems to back in early November.

Now, I'm sitting here wondering why I feel the need to be published. The literary magazines don't pay. Most have a small readership. Yet I keep sending my work in hopes one of them will eventually say yes.

Prestige is definitely part of the equation. Being able to put on my vita that I've had work published by recognized literary magazines adds a degree of expertise. In the event I decide to seek employment at another institution, the publishing credits will help me stand out over applicants who don't have publishing credits.

And I have entertained the idea of seeking employment elsewhere. For a moment here and there. But I know I most likely won't. I have a really good thing where I am; I would be a fool to let it go.

The other part of the need-to-be-published equation? Honestly, I'm not sure.

Which got me thinking about self-publishing. I tried this a couple years ago by creating my own website, but I didn't put the time into it the way I needed to. I'm thinking about trying the self-publishing again, just not by trying to do it through a website I create. Right now I'm in the researching and comparing options mode, with the intention to have a plan in place in the next couple of weeks.

Like another area of my life, I finally feel like I'm the one in control. Instead of allowing myself to be at the mercy of someone else or others, I am calling the shots with how my writing reaches an audience.

To celebrate my decision to be in full control of my creative life, here is one of the poems I wrote during sabbatical. I've not shared any of my poetry here because of the rules literary magazines impose on writers. Anything shared here is considered published work and will not be accepted for consideration by many literary magazines. I am so done with that kind of publishing stranglehold.

***



The Note I Wish I'd Given My Mom

I bought a small rosemary plant
to add to the clay pot
you gifted me
the day my faith went missing,

the one with oregano tendrils spilling
over the chipped rim, down the sides
to shield shallow cracks
when November cold rushes in

I leave it on the splintered deck rail
where it basked in sun warmth
all summer and fall,
even after first frost

leaves stay deep green,
tiny purple flowers surprise
as if sea dew sprinkled a holy blessing
promising continued life.

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