Though I’m not sure Bill, Jeremy and I have come close to mastering it yet, Inch is now using an electronic submissions manager. This should make it much easier for cheapskate poets to send us high-quality work.

This may sound like I’m being snarky, but I’m serious when I say I know a couple of terrific poets who are complete and utter cheapskates. But I’d go to great lengths to get some of their work in our little magazine.

I don’t know why the majority of today seemed rotten. I think it started early, when I checked my morning e-mail and found some very unwelcome news; I just felt like I’d committed a serious social faux pas even though the missteps were unintentional, probably harmless, and hopefully easily forgivable. Couldn’t shake that feeling after I got to work, where I stared at my to-do lists and felt a little helpless; I would have been happier today chasing the instant gratification of answering every e-mail as it came in, but not many e-mails came in. I spent some time tinkering with non-work stuff, figuring that if I could get any mojo at all, I’d just make up the time tomorrow when I take a writing day. No dice.

I think I started the paragraph above intending to come to some moral or cathartic thought, but now I can’t remember what it is. Rats.

Oh, yeah, here’s what it was: throughout the day, the only thing that made me feel like a normal human being was reading a manuscript by this guy. It’s freaking terrific. I can hear his teacher’s voice behind a few of the poems, nudging them into where they want to go. There’s an unexpected authority in some. It’s heartening.

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