Look for websites that will like your work,

I tell my writing students. You can be accepted in the


and published the next morning.

That’s happened to me, I tell them.


Isn’t technology wonderful? I hope some day

to make a movie with my car’s back-up camera.

I’ll tell my life’s story backwards, since going forwards

gets into scary unknown territory.


In the old days you sent your typescript off

and waited several months for rejection or acceptance

(“simultaneous submissions” weren’t allowed,

so you were supposed to wait to hear).


If accepted, it took months till whoever they were

found the money to print a few hundred copies

of a journal that no one you knew

ever heard of or saw.


In moments now, a hundred clicks around the world

can happen, sometimes a thousand—if you’re lucky,

a million. You can share the post yourself,

and everyone you know will know it’s there—


what you thought, what you were inspired to say,

what you wrote. Damn, that’s fun. It’s impressive,

I tell myself.


But wait: no one will climb into an attic

and find a dust-covered magazine some day,


wondering why that ancestor—you—bothered to save it,

and carefully turning the crumbling pages will find it—

your poem, story, memoir. Sad to think about.



I’ll get this ready for posting this afternoon.



One comment

  1. Ain’t it the motherfucking truth?

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