I just deleted over 80 emails from Yahoo, knowing that if I put Allison's pendulous list on web only I will cut down a great deal of being overwhelmed by deadlines; my disillusionment is so pervasive, however, that literary journals are making me nauseous, regardless of quality, and playing catch up with poetry and at least one non-fiction collection little alleviates my dun colored views. I'm sick of it. Don't even bother to tell editors I am so striated by economics that supporting them is a struggle. I no longer have time to read them all. I still respect The Atlantic, if not David Frum. What he triggers I am not certain of, but was more sympathetic to Bennet's down to earth sensibility. I still respect American Scholar, and just remembered I've conveniently forgotten my assignment, which, if the powers that be leave me in peace, I can refocus this weekend. (And KDP awaits)
About a year ago, I suppose Welcome Table Press was soliciting me. Did they interpret my voice as a variation on EB White? Do I genuinely generate that much content about writing? I forgot about my assignment because I have to psyche myself up to lie my way into getting a lawyer to sue Trudy Richardson's ass back to Raleigh. I know exactly what Sexton's victim was suffering when Sexton denigrated her dignity, killing her for an ATM card. I am never going to be able to re-generate enough income to keep myself safe from a fourth, fifth, minority attack. I know I'm going to get hurt again. They smell it on you.
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