Skip to main content

What we're looking for

The online writing community is a wonderful space for creativity, questions and general support. So it comes as no surprise that this section of our website was prompted largely by a simple tweet from a user asking:

'Dear Reader, what kind of poems are you looking for?'

The answer to this question could get a little too long-winded, so in the interest of keeping things short and sweet: I (Charley) am looking for something that makes me feel. It might seem like an abstract answer, but anything that looks at something in close detail, or looks at something anew, anything that gives away a little piece of the author and leaves me with a, 'Hm', feeling, is exactly what I'd like for Dear Reader.

To give something a little more concrete, here are some please do's for submitting:

  • Make sure that your work is edited and proofed, because it breaks my heart to turn down a poem just because it hasn't been cooked for long enough
  • Have a look at what has been published so far; it's very early days for the site so I'm publishing things that really stand out and pull me in, so previous publications is a great way to start
  • Try to be respectful to others, because while I want Dear Reader to be a place of free expression, I also want it to be a gentle place for readers as well
  • Pick work that you're comfortable sharing, and that you're proud of; ultimately, what you submit is your decision and it has to be work that you stand by
  • Provide a little cover letter, but don't feel that you have to write an essay; it's just nice to have a note from the author rather than an attachment and a blank email
There's every chance that this post will see one or two further updates as the weeks and months roll by, but for now, these are the immediate thoughts in response. If you have any queries and concerns, you're welcome to contact Dear Reader by emailing: dearreadersubmissions@gmail.com

I look forward to reading your work soon! 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home by Jessa Forest

Home scratches at her shingles with tree branch fingers, pulls the air conditioning unit close to her grimy aluminum siding, and keens an empty song of mourning. We found her wandering the tornado snarled wild three months ago, starved and lonely. She doesn’t know how to take care of herself, you see? We fed her shards of dining room tables, kindling for the fireplace, and cast iron bathtubs clawed feet first. She was slow to recover so we gutted her plumbing, ripped out her nerves, and rewired the electricity. She let the water in every time it rained so we put a new roof on her and let her out for regular walks around the wolf pen. Let her mingle with the vultures, I said, let her feel useful and clean up the dead but no one wanted to listen. We found rot an mold in her corners, infused her insulation with antibiotics, and quarantined her for two weeks while she belched ladderback chairs, sofa cushions, wind chimes, and broken bookcases. She still has her bad days. After feeding time
50 comments
Read more

Smoking and Swearing by Ian Manson

He’s stood outside, he’s on his break. He’s unsure whether to be smoking or swearing. He decides on both. Inhale. Fuuuck! Inhale. Fuuuck! A person, a visitor, or a patient. Heading to the hospital, sees his scrubs and scowls. “ It’s not very professional for a nurse to be smoking and swearing. ” But he doesn’t care. He’s already done his good deed for the morning and by midnight he’ll have done a dozen more. Yesterday was a paltry four. Tomorrow’s shift will be five or two or maybe eight, and another night of finishing late. Inhale. Fuuuck! He breathes a cloud of smoke. Watches it swirling, ascending, a spirit en-route to heaven. The person’s saintly sanctimony means nothing to him. Because he’s on his break. And he’s smoking, and he’s swearing. --- Originally from Scotland, Ian has lived and worked in Worcestershire for the last 11 years. He can normally be found performing his poetry and prose at events on the Worcester spoken word scene
18 comments
Read more

This morning I wanted to send you a photo essay: The Year in Volcanic Activity by Marisa Silva-Dunbar

You’d see the beauty in a fountain of lava, fires spreading across the blacktop, the necessity of creation after destruction. I drink tea—try to swallow my suspicions with lemon and honey, the bright sweetness doesn’t stop my obsession with destruction. Monday, I will try not to disintegrate—try to unravel the lies, how you once wanted a weak girl who shared the same type of destruction. I find ways to eviscerate your former paramours in conversation with others; I have been leisurely indulging in my own destruction. Sometimes I want to spill the secrets that I keep from you; I see ghosts around every corner—they poke at my fear of destruction. My anxiety is death by a thousand cuts—yours a slow suicide; we do our own dances with the Grand Dame and Varlet—Destruction Even on the days when I rage alone, I long for the nights curled next to you tracing sigils on your back to protect you from self-destruction. Archetypes sewn in my bones—I’ve mast
1 comment
Read more