Zygote in my Coffee has published a poem of mine in their March issue. The poem had already been published elsewhere at the time of they accepted it a few months ago. I informed them of this, gave them some substitutes, and never heard back from them. I guess they decided to publish it anyway. Odd, but cool.

Simultaneous submissions have been giving me some troubles lately. I don't blanket the internet with my work, but I do send out to a few journals I think it'd be appropriate for. Literary journals, even electronic ones, still take an incredibly long time to respond. (I just got a nice rejection letter from a place I submitted to over a year ago last week!) It seems to be the only part of the artistic world that has not moved forward with technology. This may seem unfair considering the heavy loads editors have to sift through to get to something decent, and all, usually, out of the goodness of their own hearts. Still, 3-6 months for a response seems like a long time to me. How long does it take to decide something is for you or not.
My impatience is one of the reasons I like dealing with E-journals so much more (not to mention they more often than not have the most inventive work). I've had some good luck recently with acceptances. And each time I get one I try to send out a notification to each place I have submitted. But the longer a person must wait for any sort of notification, the more you want to send more submissions out. There are a lot of publications out there. Does this mean I am being selfish and taking an individual journal for granted? I don't think so.
What it means is that being a writer is lonely. It means that waiting is like staring off into an abysmal ocean for a fortune cookie in a Coke bottle to reach your shores while you're stuck for life on your own personal island. Like Tom Hanks in that movie. At least he had the volleyball with a face painted in blood. But I dont have that. I just have a lot of journals I deeply respect that I would like to be a part of.

Here is something I'm working on. It's not finished.

The Sight

The phone caught him in its rings. He conceded, congratulated the voice on the other end for catching him and hung up. He went outside. They were having a party on their neighbors’ front lawn. As he approached to rejoin the party he noticed a change in mood, a stillness. He got closer everything erupted into applause. He bowed, then realized the applause was not for him. Did you see that? said his wife, her arms shaking. He told her he had no idea what she was talking about. It was the most magnificent, most beautiful.... She was at a loss. Over her shoulder he could see his brother was crying into his wife's sweater, who was also crying but laughing at the same time. He demanded to know what happened. His neighbor said, it just appeared. It was like a big ladle of cream light.... but he had to stop to catch his breath. By now his wife was drooling into her wine glass, overcome. She was far away, in some other place, possibly Florida. He had never seen such a look of pleasure on her face and her euphoria frightened him. He could hear the phone ringing again. He knew he would never make it in time. It was yet another thing he would have to miss.