Fay L. Loomis
I keep my butt glued to the chair ‘til I am folded like cardboard, study back issues, submission guidelines, editors’ enticing notes. I force myself to read “doesn’t fit,” “can’t use,” “submit again,” pump myself up: words of rejection are better than no words. I ask how many times Gone with the Wind was rejected, remind myself that “some like it hot and some like it cold. . . .” I read 90 top secrets of bestselling authors—every single one; query myself: “Am I good enough?” I reach for more glue.
Fay L. Loomis was a nemophilist (haunter of the woods) until her hikes in upstate New York were abruptly ended by a stroke three years ago. With an additional nudge from the pandemic, she now lives a particularly quiet life. A member of the Stone Ridge Library Writers, her poems and prose recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Closed Eye Open, Love Me, Love My Belly, Rat’s Ass Review, Ruminate Magazine, HerStry, and Sanctuary Magazine.