Seattle 111, or Dive into the Skunk Pile

As I was leaving physical therapy on Friday morning, I checked my phone messages. I had one text from Lindsay, one of my strongest poet buddies. She and I have shared many a room at Big Slams over the last couple of years. I trust her work, I trust her heart, and she's never let me down. She's someone I look forward to growing with. Her text read:

"Congrats on the write bloody nod, querida! Now knock 'em dead for rea. I'm proud as hell of you."

Write Bloody is a publishing company founded by a slam poet. They've published many of my friends and mentors, including Sierra DeMulder, Mike Mcgee, Jeanann Verlee, Andrea Gibson and Karen Finneyfrock .

Write Bloody calls for submissions once a year, in a two week period at the end of March. From all the submissions, 24 make the final cut, and are invited to send full 40-poem manuscripts to the editorial board. 8 winners get their book published.

I submitted to Write Bloody under the hope that I'd get a really nice rejection letter. Lindsay's text was my first clue that I'd made the top 24. I called her, just to check.

"You made it, babe" she said. "They announced a sneak preview of the last round of finalists on their radio show, and the official word will be up on Monday."

I shrieked. Twice. Loudly enough to attract the attention of people in cars.

And then it hit me: I have exactly eleven days to craft an entire BOOK of poems.

"It's no problem, lady," said Lindsay. "I'll be one of your readers; you know I've got your back the whole way. It's about time you got some recognition for the work you do."

I spent the rest of the day trying to cull every single poem that could possibly go in this thing and get it all in one document. At the moment, I've got 60+ pieces in there, so maybe it's time to start whittling and shaping.

I'm going underground for the next while. See you all when it's over!