must remember what it's like on my end...

So, the blog's been updated a bit. I started it when I was just starting my job and trying to start grad school. Since I'm pretty secure at work now and no longer in grad school, the quips about navigating adulthood and the copious literary allusions (including the title) seem out of place. "Clever with words" how my 9th grade English teacher described me to my 9th grade journalism teacher. It became a kind of joke between me and Rens (the journalism teacher) that stuck with me through high school. I'm hoping the epithet still fits...or if not, I can figure out how to squeeze back into it before too long.

Tonight, I sent out three poems to a magazine that specializes in pieces under 20 lines. I fully expect that they will all be rejected but this is part of it, that whole writing thing, and I have to get rejected to get better to eventually get published...or something like that.

The site (that shall remain nameless) promises to read and respond to my pieces within two weeks. I don't expect that to happen either. Ideally, articles under consideration where I work should be out of the system (after full peer-review) within 45 days. I currently have nine papers beyond that cutoff. Two papers are 80+ days old. One of those papers does not have reviewers. That's not ideal.

Needless to say, when I haven't heard back from the editor in two weeks, I won't be making a phone call or sending an email. The site says to ask for an update four weeks after submission. I'm giving this dude five. I had more than one author call me today irate that I had not made a decision on their very important and potentially groundbreaking work. Because I make those decisions. Because they want me to make those decisions. If it were up to me we'd publish articles on linguistics (because I can understand those), robots (because why not), and how Mike and Ikes are secret superfoods (because they taste like awesome) and how coffee makes you pretty (because I wish it did.) Screw evolution and swine flu, I want a reason to eat Mike and Ikes.

Pictures

There are no pictures of me and him
smiling and laughing at parties.
We go and come home again after,
undocumented. If someone were to
ask where we went or what happened
we could say nothing at all and keep
the secret to ourselves.

I’ve found so many pictures
of you and me: me with my tongue
stuck out, you mid-chuckle. Both holding
brightly colored drinks and gazing at the other.
Maybe it was the pictures that did us in.
Observation forced order into chaos
because you can’t live up to the face you’re
making.

What could you have said to prompt my tongue?
What could have possibly been that funny?


© meredith c. jones

This is how I know I'd make a malevolent diety...

It was over the night
you fell asleep on my couch
with your shoes still on
and I didn’t think to take
them off and set them
by the door for you
or bring in a blanket
from the other room, turn
off the TV and leave you
alone to sleep.
All I could think was what
might happen when you
woke up to find that I’d
tied your shoe laces together
and gone out to get coffee
and another magazine.

that message on my phone saturday morning was all I needed to finish this, thanks.

I don't usually post drafts this drafty. Literally, this is the first draft of this, written in the span of a Metro ride and culled from my moleskine. It's taken me a year (give or take a couple weeks) to get anything down on paper about all of this. Every time I would write about him it seemed too emotional still. This might still be that but it's down on paper and since I need to get more things down on paper, I will take it for the time being. I played with my form somewhat and it doesn't quite translate here. All of the lines preceded by an em dash should be indented. Please pretend that the are because I suck at coding . It also doesn't have a title yet. I've been toying with this title: Everything I Meant to Tell You Earlier, in a Series of Poorly Formed Haiku but I don't think it works here. I'll come up with something when I revise this. Let me know what you think of this:



The spaghetti’s still in the sink.
The noodles don’t give way
anymore to water or sauce—
but break when forked
from the collinder into the trash.

—not so much of a change from the night before.

“It’s undercooked,” you said not at me
but at the strands, spooled
uncomfortably around tines,
setting down the fork and carrying
everything back to the kitchen.

This is the call and response part of you and me.

—everything dries out eventually.
—it was dry all along.

Were I to write this scene—
you and me and the pasta,
half in the trash, half in the sink—
the clean lines of the room and us
would give way
to the palsied scrawl
of leaving well enough alone
and the argument we never had
because we never have.

—have we?

Were I to write you
it would be all dead letters and brown
paper-wrapped pornography.
The address isn’t right, the postman
can’t make it out and it sits in a room
with the others. Sits waiting for someone
to make out your concussive Rs and Ks—
to deliver you.

—for thine is the something and the something (I forgot the words to this part. forgive me.)

The Teutonic was always lost on you.
Too hard-edged for your hands
or the hair at the nape of your neck
that curled in on itself when you needed a haircut.
Then again, you never could get your legs that high.

—you make a terrible German. I guess it’s good I never wanted to call you Daddy.

Were I to write you it would be just this—
your back to me, scraping pasta into an empty
trash can and turning
to set the dish, unwashed, in the sink.

—leave the rest to me.


10/18/2009. meredith jones ©

I didn't have the heart to be gay. I'll disappoint my parents by writing.

The story I've been working on for a few weeks now (longer really but this is active work) is, save a few misplaced commas, done. This means that I'll have to send my ever-so-slightly retarded baby out into the world soon. I've done this before and don't expect the results to be any different. I sent this one out (to Glimmer Train of all places in a moment of undergraduate well-I'm better-than-the-dipshits-in-my-intro-fiction-writing-class-I-must-be-publishable! grandiosity) and it was promptly (a relative term) rejected...albeit politely. I've since sent a few poems back and have heard nothing. I think I sent them out around the middle of May. I can't image that the poety editors at Magazine-that-shall-remain-nameless have been sitting on these poems beucase they cannot yet form the words required to admire and appreciate my genius. They have probably just forgotten that I exist.

Oh well. This is the life of an unprofessional writer, right? It takes years to get published, if that little. I suppose I will have to finally shell out the cash for a copy of the Writer's Market and stop pretending to do thing and actually, you know, do it.

More on this later. Especially after the second rejection comes it. That should be a good read.