'I just keep making things' – Melanie Faith @writer_faith on patience, fulfilment and the long game in art
‘I just keep making things’ – Melanie Faith @writer_faith on patience, fulfilment and the long game in art
How do you make a professional creative life? Melanie Faith is the person to ask. She’s adept in many written forms – poetry, flash fiction and longform. She’s also an expert on the teaching side with her work as a writing professor, editor and tutor. And her creative proficiency extends into the visual world – her photographs have been included in exhibitions and used on book covers. Now, over…
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Submission Spotlight: Gulf Coast
You’ve got until September, so dust off that piece that’s seen too many rejections and get to work. In three months, give it another go and consider Gulf Coast. Founded in 1986, this is the literary journal of the University of Houston’s creative writing program. Phillip Lopate and Donald Barthelme founded the journal, which has expanded to two print issues as well as its online publications. The…
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I was at a cute little poetry circle recently, and I read a poem of mine inspired by my favorite poem. "Batter My Heart, Transgender’d God" by Meg Day (I'll put that poem under the cut). Someone then turned to me and asked if my "Batter My Heart" was the inspiration for it. Apparently they're the one who introduced the poem to the person who introduced me to it
Batter My Heart, Transgender’d God by Meg Day:
Batter my heart, transgender’d god, for yours
is the only ear that hears: place fear in my heart
where faith has grown my senses dull & reassures
my blood that it will never spill. Show every part
to every stranger’s anger, surprise them with my drawers
full up of maps that lead to vacancies & chart
the distance from my pride, my core. Terror, do not depart
but nest in the hollows of my loins & keep me on all fours.
My knees, bring me to them; force my head to bow again.
Replay the murders of my kin until my mind’s made new;
let Adam’s bite obstruct my breath ’til I respire men
& press his rib against my throat until my lips turn blue.
You, O duo, O twin, whose likeness is kind: unwind my confidence
& noose it round your fist so I might know you in vivid impermanence.
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giving my stories little kisses on the forehead and nice, tight hugs before tossing them into the ravenous pack of wolves that is the publishing world
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100subtexts magazine - submissions open.
Submissions are open for issue 21 of the monthly literary magazine - open for fiction, non-fiction, poetry and more.
No theme - no word count - no fee - no hate.
Send submissions to:
[email protected]
100subtexts magazine: different voices - one space.
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it is slightly heartbreaking to shatter the young creative writer's dreams when I tell them that the creative writing professor at our school is currently married (and just had a baby with) a woman who used to be his student. however. it is necessary.
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Hey, lovelies. This is the first issue, so I wanted to get the word out as much as I could. Anyone can submit! Make sure to read through the guidelines before submitting. I hope you are taking care of yourself. You are loved and valid.
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Announcing our November/December issue! Inside you’ll find a Q&A with Ross Gay by Aimee Nezhukumatathil; a special section on literary magazines, including articles on slow response times and how to navigate the editing process; our annual #5Over50 roundup; and more. http://at.pw.org/NovDec2022
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Every night he sits and he prays, not to God, but to the one that listens—the one that has always listened. And every night he ends the prayer just the same: “I’m sorry, I love you too.”
He’s sorry because in that moment—the last moment—he couldn’t say it back. He’d been so stuck on the “Goodbye” that he’d barely registered the confession. But he understands now. And he loves him too. And he hopes that somewhere his soul is smiling softly and drinking in the reciprocation of love that had never followed in life.
But his soul cannot hear. He no longer listens. The sway of endless sleep took that from him long ago.
His lover will never hear his words returned, and the man ensnared in the living world knows this. But he still prays every night. To the one that listens—listened.
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I kinda wanna talk about my poetry, so here's a simple ask game:
I have a Google Drive folder titled "The Very Best" and it had 16 poems in it. Ask about a number and I'll explain some stuff about the poem
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scary people read the poems you submit.
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