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sub·mit  (səb-mĭt′)
v. sub·mit·ted, sub·mit·ting, sub·mits
1. To yield or surrender (oneself) to the will or authority of another.
2. To subject to a condition or process: submit a tissue sample to testing.
3. To present (something) to the consideration or judgment of another: We submitted our ideas to our supervisor. See Synonyms at propose.
4. To offer as a proposition or contention: I submit that the terms are entirely unreasonable.
1. To accept or give in to the authority, power, or will of another. See Synonyms at yield.
2. To allow oneself to be subjected to something: submit to an interview; submit to drug testing.
It's a scary thing to do, to submit. It means allowing yourself to be vulnerable.

Today I've allowed myself to be vulnerable three times. I tried to procrasta-edit, but at some point I new I would have to put my babies out there, submit them to scrutiny and criticism, and quite possibly rejection.

The arbiter of my vulnerability
It is a necessary evil if I want anyone, other than my mum and my beleaguered friends, to read my work. I know there are writers out there who write for themselves, who claim they don't need to be published or have others sanction their work. Bully for them, eh?

Me, I need to know others have read my stories. I write to entertain, and though I receive a lot of feedback (one of the positives of doing a writing degree at any level is that someone is forced to read your work and comment on it, and oh, the pleasure of having people tell you they were moved by what you wrote!), I LOVE feedback.

When submitting to journal and book editors, a writer almost never gets feedback, so submitting offers no reward in that regard, but maybe, just maybe, they will like something I wrote and publish it and let my babies out into the world, and maybe one day, someone will tell me they were moved by my babies.

Also, I am going to tackle poetry again this week. I have a love-hate relationship with poetry. I have had a couple of poems published and I have been told my poetry isn't hideous, but I have yet to write a poem I didn't cringe at. My nemesis is cliche, and cliche and I have danced a long dance, and now my feet are sore and I want to be rid of my tiresome partner in crimes against poetry.


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