Getting Published
How making several submissions bears fruit eventually
Not an expert
I thought I had better start with that disclaimer before I go on, as I really am pretty new to the creative writing arena. However, this week I have fully subscribed to the idea of actually calling myself a writer — visualising and all that.
The main reason for this, is that someone actually addressed me as a ‘writer’ in an email this and I was ridiculously excited about it! The message was to confirm that a poem I wrote is to be included in an anthology entitled My Happy Place and although this is quite a small achievement in the vast world of writing, it feels hugely significant to me.
Tentative steps
I have been a member of the Nottingham Writer’s Studio for just short of two years now. I joined initially to motivate myself to carve out some designated writing time in my week, but it took several months before that actually happened. The monthly invoice receipt email repeatedly flagged up my failure, but didn’t dampen my determination. Eventually I convinced myself that the odd ‘discounted for members’ workshop I attended justified the fee. Then one late September afternoon I made it!
So as not to place unrealistic expectations on myself, I decided that if I made the journey to the studio at least twice a month that would make it worth the membership cost and establish some sort of routine. I added a repeat event to my Google calendar, giving myself permission to be flexible about the timings and missing a week if I didn’t feel I could commit.
Bigger strides
My strategy worked. I found that I started to build in other stuff I needed to travel to the city for, which in turn supported my writing schedule. I also started to ‘think’ like a writer. Forming stories in my head on the tram into the city, and jotting down memories that re-surfaced in the notebook I had begun to carry around with me.
It was the start of this year that felt brave enough to make a note of open submission calls and offer some of my writing for consideration. I didn’t let the rejections put me off, I had anticipated them and accepted them graciously as part of the process.
Persisting with poetry
Although not my usual writing genre, I had been reading a fair bit of poetry at the end of last year and I found that some of my journal entries were leaning this way. I had also attended a few poetry workshops, where I had been really pleased with what I had managed to produce in the sessions. I begun the new year with a renewed sense of hope, a sense of things beginning to change and a deep connection with the cosmos.
I spent New Year’s Eve under a clear star sparkling sky, in my campervan parked up on the edge of a dense pine forest. There was something deeply special about that trip. It wasn’t just that I was with my partner and soul mate, in one of our favourite environments. There felt to be a huge shift in our collective consciouness, that opened a gateway to new possibilities for us both, even though we may not have realised it at the time.
It was the same sensation as I experienced when I wrote down these words, which seemed to appear on the page responsively. With little editing needed, I felt confident that it was worthy of submission. And on this ocassion I was right.
You can read my poem below; the title is a nod to my Welsh roots.
Dod yn ôl at fy nghoed
The new year tastes of vanilla spiced rum,
new beginnings, past misgivings are forgotten.
No resolutions just solutions carried over
hanging from invisible thread, that trails on the coat tails of another December.
Concealed in a space we created,
our vision, joint decisions, a carpenter’s precision.
The gateway to radiant dawns, the ending embers of each dusk
squeezing every last drop of each divine day.
Voluptuous vales spread out under skies wide open,
a child of the universe, hazily lazy under too many blankets,
satisfaction of a day well spent.
Parallels of sunrise and sunset punctuate the seamless hours,
photos already scenes from the past.
Sleep where you park, wake where you sleep.
The only evergreens in the forest,
the sixty foot pines,
were here long before I roamed the earth and will remain long after.
Lofty limbed with bottle brush branches, cleaning the air.
The silvery green needles drop, with each year’s passage
losing colour and sharpness to soften our tread.
Quietude.
Only the soft rush of wind song, through the mist
from the first swell of the bird calls, to twilight’s cool embrace.
There are flames in the forest;
the night, the dark, the embers, the spark…
pure magic.
I wait, to watch stars like pins poke through the midnight velvet,
dizzy with desire, heartbeat a fire,
living lava in my veins.
The wide-eyed wanderer,
returning to my trees.
Translation of title from Welsh ‘return to my trees’.
A huge ‘thank you’ to those who have connected with me and my writing so far on this enriching platform. I’m still very much navigating my way so any tips and advice are welcome.
DU
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