M. Lori Motley

I’m surprisingly cool today, even though I’m submitting three stories to various online markets: one anthology, one e-mag and one to the Accentuate short story contest’s “Endless Love” theme. I’ve already subbed one story to the contest, but have another that will fit the theme.

It will be the first time I ever have more than 2 submissions out at the same time. I’m proud of me for tromping on the procrastination and fear – at least for a little while – and submitting. There is one immutable truth to the writiing game: if you don’t submit, you’ll never get published.

My organizational methods include innumerable index cards in boxes with big labels on them. My daily to-do list is a kid’s shoe box with 20 tabbed cards and about 30 index cards between each. Each index card is one thing I have to do.

I have something very similar for fiction submissions. In a grubby old index card box with “Fiction” on graph paper taped to the front, I have tabs for each month. Then, I write the submissions I want to make on cards and stick them in their appropriate month, based on due date. The ones for the current month get taken out of the box and taped to the back of my desk hutch where I can see them all the time.

Right now, there are two cards there with stories due April 15th. Rather bold of me to try to get two more stories done by tax day, but I’ll see what I can do.

Two years ago at the Muse Online Conference, one of the presentors talked about her “Rule of Thirteen.” She said she always had 13 stories or articles out at one time. I don’t think I have 13 stories that are ready for submission right now, but I can see how the guideline works. The moment you get a rejection back, submit the story somewhere else (perhaps after another quick edit). My goal over the next few months is to build up to at least a Rule of Seven. Seven’s luckier than thirteen anyway.

Ponderous – From Weekend Wordsmith

I sat at my desk, hot to the bone, sweating in the city’s summer heat, and thought about the weight of the world laying across my shoulders. It was ponderous… and it whined.

People on TV with $200 hair-cuts and $600 shoes talked about how to reduce stress. Old men living on pristine mountain tops talked about ‘getting zen,’ finding inner peace. No one from Jersey City told you how to shift that weight aside… not even for a day… an hour.

So I sit, sweating, at my attic-room desk and wait for this ponderous weight to crush my bones into dust. The only way to deal with stress is to die from it as slowly as possible.