I had on two of my many hats yesterday: both writer (in submission mode) and editor (the dom, of course).

As an editor, I’m organizing the receiving, logging and reviewing of the submissions for Best Lesbian Erotica 2012. As a writer, I’m in marketing mode, trying to get my work out to the venues that will be the best matches for it. I’ve been keeping a fairly comprehensive tracking chart of the work I submit (both plays and fiction, as well as the occasional non-fiction or essay, applications for grants and residencies), since the early/mid 2000s. I’ve been submitting work a lot longer than that, but wasn’t nearly as conscientious about tracking it.

By my figures, I’ve sent out approximately 750 submissions to approximately 545 venues since 2005. If you count the lost years, I’ve sent out hmm…I’d say well over 1,000 submissions to 600-800 theaters, magazines, book publishers, websites, newspapers, anthology editors, contests…you name it. (And if you think that’s a lot, I know people who have been more prolific…and guess what: they’ve been published/produced a LOT.)

When I sit down to figure out what I’m sending out to whom, this is how I start: going over the available opps to see what THEY want, not what I want to send them; going through my work to find out what fits their needs, and in some cases deciding NOT to submit to a particular theater, contest, or festival when I don’t think it would be a good match (saves us all a waste of time).

If I have a piece that fits the theme of a festival, but it’s already been produced, and they want unproduced, I don’t submit it. Their loss. (And who needs a "world premiere" of a 10-minute play that hasn't been done within 1000 miles? These are the things I ask myself...as I move on).

I don’t try to wedge a piece (say, a play about a fireman) into a theme that’s not the same (“plays about cowboys”), by saying “well firemen are like cowboys” or trying to change the fireman to a cowboy.

I comb the ‘net for submission opportunities, and subscribe to several email lists I can cull them from. When I’m updating the En Avant Playwrights board (my OCD/hobby), I make note of the opportunities that might be a good match for me, and what the deadline is. (And sometimes life gets in the way, and I miss some deadlines I’d like to make).

We’re not perfect here. Last night, I sent out a selection of short plays to a theatre company via email, and this morning had a polite response that they needed a certain number of people in the cast. I’d misread/not seen that stipulation. Fortunately, I had a couple other plays with the right number of actors to send them. (A fellow playwright once complained about the weirdness/specificity of the themes out there, and said he was just waiting for a call for plays about Evil Clowns in Saloons).

I try to give my work every chance to be seen for what it is (not what’s missing). This group wants a bio; that festival wants a production resume; the other wants a synopsis; those guys want a blind copy. Theatre A wants 3 hard copies; Theatre B wants online submissions only; Theatre C would like you to upload a file and fill out a form on their website. Grant D wants six copies of your first 10 pages and the meaning of life.

It’s like dressing a child for school on a snowy day: do you have your earmuffs? Your mittens? Your permission slip? Your change of clothes in case you have an accident? Don’t forget your tissues!

And here’s where I segue into Editor mode.

I just started the database for Best Lesbian Erotica 2012. I’ve been getting submissions since summertime, but between now and April 1, they will start coming in faster, and I’d best have my recording/reviewing process in place. I’ve been tinkering with the guidelines, trying to make them both more user-friendly and more efficient for me. I’ve got them up on my website, and sent them to Cleis, and have been posting them around, and did a mailing to my own list of writers/teachers. So I’ve been getting some manuscripts at my PO Box, and some e-mail queries from writers wanting to clarify points in the guidelines.

Some of these are the kind of queries I expect from professional writers: asking me about whether/when prior publication might make a piece ineligible, about how much I pay, things like that. There was more than one query asking me if I’ll consider one-act plays. I look at my guidelines: “Submit short stories, self-contained novel excerpts, other prose.” (Firemen are not cowboys). I’ll stretch a little (I sent a long narrative poem to the judge in ’11), but work with me here.

What started me off on the thought-chain that led to this post was an email I got from a writer who has written THREE short stories and had been told they were “very captivating,” and would like to get a “professional’s” opinion on whether they were publishable.

Honey, don’t send your child out into the blizzard naked.

But rather than laughing at baby writers’ blunders (which, admittedly is fun), I decided to figure out a way to explain to her (without sounding too bitchy about it) how to break down the process that makes up the beginning of the journey. Maybe if I break it down, give her specific steps, she might sign up for a workshop, read everything she can get her hands on, start writing every day. (Who am I kidding? I don’t write every day…)

Or…take a look at the video below.

I have run into folks like the little bear (that’s a bear, isn’t it?) in the striped shirt. I’ve also seen people go from “Wow! I’ve always wanted to WRITE,” to acquiring a craft and getting published. Tristan Taormino, the founder of the BLE series, had a mandate to include new writers, and I’ve kept it. BLE 11 has four writers with their first published story, as well as stories from writers whose work taught me lessons about craft.

I remember the newbie who sent a letter to a writer on a TV show (picking a name off the credits) asking how to break into sitcoms. The screenwriter sent a detailed, encouraging reply, copies of scripts, and best wishes to the rookie. That aspiring artist was Pearl S. Buck. No, it was me.

When I am frittering around on the Internet, trying to avoid writing, I sometimes come upon articles or discussions that get me…at least thinking about writing something.

On one of the boards I frequent, there was a discussion of cursive writing, or “joined up” writing, as Gilderoy Lockhart called it. I went to a Catholic school as a child, where the nuns and other teachers (who were, contrary to stereotype, very kind and never would have raised a hand to a child) made sure we learned the Palmer Method of Penmanship.

I noted that I still write in cursive (which is apparently becoming a lost art), especially when I send “thank you” notes. I had to go to the store yesterday to buy more when I ran out, and have noted (ha!) that it’s getting harder and harder to find them, with the exception of small pre-printed packets that pertain to babies or weddings.

Since I have had/am planning neither, I have to take whatever too-small glossy pink or green thing in a barely-suitable font is hanging in a packet of 8 on the endcap at the drugstore. Condoms come in more sizes. I’m also sorry to see that there are fewer beautiful blank cards. (Well, except for things with kittens on them, and I’m just not sending a card with a kitten on it. Shades of Dolores Umbridge!)

But getting back to both penmanship and thank you notes, I’ve dropped a steady pile of hand-addressed envelopes in the mailbox across the street in the last few days. If no one dumps snow or a suspicious package in the blue box, the cards will be headed to their destinations Monday. It’s not instantaneous, it’s not convenient, but it’s nice. People appreciate hand-written notes, usually with a level of positive response that more than covers the minimal effort to write them.

It’s a personal style that makes sense to carry over into a professional style: everyone appreciates a thank you, an apology, a “nice job,” whether the person who’s getting it is your sister or the director of your new play.

I’ve been working on a book about marketing for playwrights with Patrick Gabridge, a guy who knows a lot about these things, and as we put together the outline, I suggested we include a section on the importance of saying “thank you.” Each morning, when I’m planning my day, I make a note of anyone who needs to be thanked. Did a colleague create a really cool map on deadline? Did a fellow writer give good critique at Playwrights Circle? Did someone read a beautiful piece at Drunken! Careening! Writers!? (interrobang!)

So a line or two of thanks is in order, more if it was a big project. Detail is always appropriate: as in “your comments helped me figure out the first act” or “the character in your short story is someone I will think about for a long time,” or “I really, really liked the chocolate-covered bacon.”

And at the end of the year, along with totting up things like how many books I’ve edited, how many plays and stories I’ve submitted, how many readings I’ve curated, how many manuscripts I’ve screened, how many plays and novels I have unfinished, and how many birthdays I’ve forgotten, I try to remember if I’ve thanked everyone. (That’s  one of the things that keeps me up at night, or wakes me up, along with scary dreams of giant animals attacking my pets. No, I don’t know what that means.)

There were many people to thank in 2010, especially because there some unpleasant surprises where people stepped up and stepped in, both personally and professionally.

As a playwright, I have to thank the folks at Upstart Productions in Colorado, the Universal Theatre in Provincetown, PlaySlam in Boston, Twenty Percent Theatre in Minneapolis, and The Women’s International Theatre Festival (also in Provincetown),  Working Theatre Collecective in Portland (OR), Playwrights for Pets in NYC, and Vanguard Rep in Los Angeles, along with my alma mater, UMBC, for putting on/giving staged readings of my plays (and thank you, Dramatists Guild for representing my interests!) 

Thank you Smith & Kraus, Applause, Samuel French, Dramatic Publishing and United Stages for publishing and keeping many of my plays, scenes and monologues in print. And of course, I must thank my home theaters EAT and TOSOS for making it possible for me to help put on a benefit for the Dublin Gay Theatre Festival last March (and all the artists who gave of their time and donated to the raffle), and for giving me a platform to hear my work read, and presenting staged readings by playwrights whose work I LOVE and often producing it.

Team Wombat (aka the team that put on the TOSOS production of The Five Lesbian Brothers’ “The Secretaries” at the NY Fringe and Fringe Extension) deserve “not over yet” thanks for one of the productions I’m most proud to have been part of  in my career.

Thanks to all the talented writers who participated in Drunken! Careening! Writers!, and to KGB Bar, which continues to host the series for an eighth consecutive year. And thanks also to the hot writers (and guest judge Lea DeLaria) who made editing Best Lesbian Erotica a sweaty joy (and all the people at Cleis, who continue to back this series!)

Huge, great thanks to all the bloggers (and the Extra Criticum blog, where I endeavor to blog on occasion!), journalists, photographers, editors, artistic directors, directors of marketing and publicity, and fellow travelers who list the events I host and plays I have produced, and books I edit, and give of their time, talent, knowledge and wisdom.

Thanks as always to mentors and friends from Tina Howe to Kaylie Jones to Doric Wilson, Mark Finley, Paul Adams, Carol Rosenfeld, PENolan and so many others. And  if I haven’t thanked you this particular time, expect to hear from me soon & often.

I’ve just ordered some new thank you notes from Vistaprint, which are much nicer than the ones at the drugstore.

Oh, and before I close, I should tell that you can say “thank you” in an infinite variety of ways. The only constant is that when you say it, you have to mean it.

Thank you.

Kathleen W.