I have an unbelievable story to tell you. One day, an editor found me on Facebook then published one of my essays in her literary magazine, Unshod Quills. This story lacks verisimilitude, and yet it’s truly true. Dena Rash Guzman and Laurel Hermanson, delicious writer-friends I’ve never met, made it so.
My god, click through and see this voluptuous magazine! I’m biting my lips and squirming in my seat. I feel like hot jell-o on springs.
“How do you read poetry? Do you read like a child at the breast? Nurture and nature and mama’s eyes? In big, life-sustaining gulps like a too tired woman thirsty only for water? In demure sips that leave your lips burning like too much salt? Or furtively, sneaking a poem in like a long draught from a bottle in a brown paper bag? Do you look up from the screen, the book, or the magazine–the poem standing in your mind–with an envious heart, or one of wonder? Are you reading poetry at all? Or writing it? If not, why not? What the hell are you doing?”
—Wendy G. Ellis
What the hell are you doing? Tell me something unbelievable.