There is much to think about when you travel. I’m headed to Boston in the next couple of weeks, and I’ve thought a lot about my itinerary. I’m one of those people who plan, organize, and then plan again. It becomes a balancing act when trying to measure which things to do or places to see to constitute which weighs the most. I’ve thought about going to Concord while I’m there and daydreaming about my childhood obsession with “Little Women.” I’ve thought about knocking on Paul Revere’s door to see who answers and even contemplated buying a studio there to put a desk next to a window facing the Back Bay area.
There’s something thrilling about starting a new project, whether it’s starting work on a new short story, cracking the spine of brand new book, trying a new recipe, or beginning an online literary journal. From the earliest meetings about South85, I was positively giddy about the opportunity to serve as editor. Behind that excitement, however, there was (and still is sometimes) an underlying feeling of fear. Who do I think that I am? Sure, reading lots of submissions and picking the absolute best to share with our readers sounds like my ultimate idea of fun. But deep down, there lingers a smidge of doubt. I’ve met literary journal editors. Mostly, my fellow writers and I speak of them in hushed tones, praying they will remember our names when one of our manuscripts come across their desks.