The Sentient Blob’s Guide to New Year’s Resolutions
An exercise for the boneless, the bone-seeking, and the skeletal amongst us
Welcome back, dear readers! With any luck, our first letter of 2023 finds you well-rested, well-fed, and eager to tackle a fresh month of writing. And if you’re joining us for the first time, we’re so glad you’re here: If you’d like a quick run-down of what you can expect from this newsletter, you’ll find one in our very first edition.
Before we can get to our listings for February, however, we need to address the giant elephant in the corner, the one still wearing a top hat and a HAPPY NEW YEAR sash. Kindly admire his spangly cravat as you pull up a footstool. This month, we’re going to tackle resolutions.
NEW YEAR, NEW...WHAT, EXACTLY?
I used to be the type to march into any new calendar year and grab it by the lapels. I arrived with goals, not dreams. Plans, not hopes. My Januaries snapped to attention and bent to the will of my fleet of color-coded spreadsheets.
All of that changed when I moved to a region where the first of January brought me five hours and 39 minutes of daylight, all from a weak, far-off sun that stayed so close to the horizon it rarely crested the top of the trees.
Frankly, the flip of a calendar page means nothing this far north. The sleeping bears won’t emerge from their dens for months; the red squirrels have barely made a dent in their winter cache. Nothing new will bloom in this part of Alaska until May. Big changes should wait until there’s enough daylight to see what the hell you’re doing, I’ve decided. I’ll save my marching for March.
I’ve since learned to relish how many ways we can greet a new year without a long list of ready demands and heady expectations clutched in our fists. We can ease into it, slide in when no one’s looking. Hold our breath as we hop across the threshold and never look back. We can skitter into January sideways like a crab. We can shimmy through the doorframe and boogie right into February.
And every new year is different. I’d hoped to enter 2023 using the shimmy-boogie method. Unfortunately, a disappointing bout of medical news late in the year left me feeling more like a sentient blob, creeping toward 2023 like it was a city I might accidentally destroy if not stopped by a team of plucky scientists and/or teenagers. It’s not the most graceful or eloquent way to greet a January, but being a giant sentient blob isn’t the worst way, either. Sure, I may have no skeleton, no structure, and no discernible facial expressions, but at least sentient blobs have momentum. It may happen at the speed of snail and leave a trail of goo in its wake, but oozing movement is still movement.
And movement matters very much to me. Movement, no matter how small or slow, on the page or in my life, is always something to strive for. Especially this time of year. Because today I know I will see two minutes and 55 more seconds of daylight than I did yesterday. Tomorrow, three minutes and four seconds. The sun, a giant blob in its own right, will creep closer and closer, inching higher and higher on the horizon – and by the next time I sit down to write to you, I will have almost eight hours of stronger, brighter daylight to greet me. The smallest of movements will always add up to something more than the sum of its parts if given enough time to build.
I’ve written a lot about resolutions over the years: How to make them, how to revise them, how to keep them all year long. But this particular edition is dedicated to all my fellow sentient blobs, the ones uncertain of how exactly to proceed in 2023, but determined as hell to keep creeping forward anyway.
If you, too, find yourself without a team of plucky scientists to right your path, I have a quick, easy exercise for you that may bring some clarity and focus (or at least a little fun).
EXERCISE: The Daffy Do & Don’t List
This exercise is inspired by the astrology – er, “astrology” – app Co-Star, which I became aware of after many friends began sharing the app’s oft-unhinged horoscopes in the early stages of the pandemic (a time when many of us were looking for a little direction, from the stars or otherwise). I’m afraid I know next to nothing about astrology, so I can’t speak to its accuracy. But I do enjoy seeing everyone’s daily “Do and Don’t” list, a tailored sequence of suggestions that manages to be absolutely bananas yet impressively specific. One recent “Do” list of mine included heart-eyes, string quartets, and “hitting send,” while another suggested I seek out sparring, one-ups, and sequels. Meanwhile, recent “Don’ts” have instructed me to avoid erosion, sugarcoating, nightmares, and caution tape. While I don’t intend to seek out any string quartets in my near future, I do love the idea of making our own madcap lists of things to pursue and avoid in 2023.
So here’s the exercise: Make a list of 3+ things – feelings, concepts, activities, ideas, vibes, etc. – you’d like to see more of in 2023. Then list 3+ things you’d like to avoid. This can be as serious or as light-hearted as you wish, but aim for specificity as much as possible. Your list of Do’s might feature things like “10 a.m. walks,” “prose poems,” “horror podcasts,” or “kale Caesars,” while your Don’ts might include “doomscrolling past 9,” “dangling modifiers,” and “eating cheese for dinner...again.”
That said, sometimes specificity isn’t in the cards for us sentient blobs. (It’s hard to be precise when you don’t have bones, you know?) I ended up making up a wacky list of blobby compound words to serve as my personal Jell-O mold for the new year:
DO
JOYBOOKS!
POEMTIME!
MORNINGWRITES!
FRIENDSPEAKS!
GREENLUNCH!
DON’T
TWITSCROLL!
FEARTHOUGHTS!
BIGHIDES!
NIGHTWORRIES!
MUCHCAFFEINE!
It’s goofy and absurd and nonsensical, but creating it delighted me, and delight is something I’m chasing hard these days.
If a straightforward list isn’t speaking to you either, why not be creative in your definition of a Do & Don’t List? Make a list of poetic imagery instead, or evocative one-word phrases, or sketch your list of Do’s and Don’ts as illustrations. Create a feelings chart. Express your Do’s and Don’ts with memes you’ve saved. Write them as a grocery list or an instruction manual. Cut out pictures and paste them to a scrap of cardboard.
Because no matter if you choose to be silly or serious in this exercise, there is clarity to be found in sorting our future desires into straightforward piles of WANT-MORES and WANT-NOTS. When you’ve finished, gaze at your list and ask yourself: How can you make more space in your life for the do’s and block off more of the don’ts? What do you need to pursue the things in the left column and dodge the things in the right?
The comments are open if you’d like to share your gelatinous Do & Don’t lists with us; if you’d rather keep them private, we certainly understand. Not every aspic is ready for public consumption. Either way, I can’t wait to see you all here next month, hopefully with more GREENLUNCH (and less TWITSCROLL) in my wake.
Until then—
Keep writing,
Nicki
February 2023 calls for submissions
Note: We have a shorter list of calls for submissions this month due to February’s short length and the greater popularity of January and March deadlines, but there’s still a fine round-up waiting for you below. And several January calls for submissions from last month’s edition are still alive and kicking for writers quick enough on the draw to make those deadlines.
This month’s listings in brief
Spotlight pick
National Flash Fiction Day Anthology: “Time” flash
At this point in winter, we’re all short on time and shorter on daylight, so what better moment to write a short-short on time? Editors of the 2023 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology seek flash submissions in 500 words or less that somehow relate to the theme of “time.”
“Do you see it stretching before you, or reaching back? Is there never enough, or does it drag?” editors ask. “Does it make you rush, slow you down, make you wish for more? Where will time take you? We can’t wait to find out.”
Selected entries will be published in the 12th annual edition of the National Flash Fiction Day anthology. Submissions are free, although there is a small suggested donation for multiple entries. Published contributors will receive a free copy of the anthology. The editors will each select one piece to receive their “Editor’s Choice Award” and subsequent £50 prize.
I know we’re all slogging through the worst of winter’s dark, but it’s just 500 words, the entry is free, and the theme is both endlessly complex and blessedly simple. Let’s all try for this one, shall we? What have we to lose?
Deadline: Feb. 15
Other listings
The Last Girls Club: Feminist horror with a panic theme
The Last Girls Club Magazine, a feminist horror magazine published quarterly, is seeking poems and short stories that explore the theme “Panic.” “Either personal panic, like PTSD or phobias; or global panics like epidemics or famine/water,” editors explain. “Get creative. We had a panic over baby formula and cat food in the US this year. The sky is the limit for how civilization or an individual will fall. We're all holding on by our fingernails these days.” (Amen, right?) Short stories should be 2,500 words or less, while flash submissions should be less than 1,000 words. Submit up to three poems, each with a max word count of 200 words. Fiction rates are $.01 per word, while poets will be paid $10 upon acceptance.
Deadline: Feb. 1
Phantom Kangaroo: Surreal, mystical, and occult poems
Spooky poets, assemble: Phantom Kangaroo, an “eerie place for poems” founded in 2010, is on the hunt for work for its April 2023 issue. Send one to three “esoteric, paranormal, surreal, mystical, or supernatural” poems by February 1 for consideration in the issue.
Deadline: Feb. 1
The Fabulist Magazine: “Cross-genre romance” fantastical fiction
The Fabulist, a publisher of fantastical fiction and art since 2007, is offering a fun monthly series of themed bite-sized submission windows for the Winter/Spring 2023 season. The next one, open from just Feb. 5 until Feb. 11, has the theme of “cross-genre romance,” although editors remind us that any sort of unthemed fantastical fiction is also welcome during this time. All core genres, “as well as their subvariants, crossovers, hybrids and mutations,” are welcome. Stories should be less than 3,000 words. No reading fees and a flat $25 honorarium is offered to all contributors. And if you jump on it, there’s still one more day to enter January’s “hopepunk” themed submission window. See all of The Fabulist’s upcoming submission windows here.
Deadline: Feb. 11
Applause: “Evitable endings” from undergraduate writers
In this season of new beginnings, it feels deliciously refreshing to see a journal ask us to reconsider our work’s endings. For its 33rd issue, Applause seeks poems, stories, and essays from undergraduate students with “the most interesting angles you can give us as your piece approaches its evitable ending.” In other words: “Imagine the ending. Avoid it. Then send it to us,” editors say. Submit up to five poems or one story/essay up to 5,000 words. Payment is $25 per contributor.
Deadline: Feb. 14
Brink Literary Journal: Hybrid or cross-genre writing
Any writers “who identify their work as hybrid or cross-genre in nature” are welcome to submit up to 15 pages of work to this brand-new contest from Brink. The winner will receive $1,000 and publication in the October 2023 issue, plus 5 complimentary copies of the issue. Entrants will also receive a free copy of the issue. The entry fee is $22, but Brink offers a limited number of fee waivers available upon request. Lars Horn will judge the inaugural contest. Winners will be announced in early May.
Deadline: Feb. 15
Oakwood: Submissions from Great Plains-affiliated writers
This literary journal from South Dakota State University, published since 1975, seeks literary work from writers who live in or “had a significant, long-term relationship with” the U.S. Northern Great Plains region (Minnesota, North Dakota, Iowa, Nebraska, Montana, and Wyoming, as defined by the journal). Send no more than 3,000 words for prose or no more than five poems. No submission fee for this journal, which, I must delightedly quote, is “handsomely printed” each spring. Go get your handsomely published bylines, Great Plains writers!
Deadline: Feb. 15
Meat for Tea: “Dark” submissions
Meat for Tea: The Valley Review is currently open for submissions for their “Dark” themed issue. All that editors advise is to “have fun with the theme and know that we discourage literal approaches to our themes.” Poetry and short prose should be no longer than 1500 words, with a 1200-word limit for flash and microfiction and a whopping 8000-word limit for short fiction and essays. Entries should be clean and edited upon submission; editors remind submitters that revision will not be possible after a work is accepted for publication.
Deadline: Feb. 18
Apparition Lit: “Symmetry” poems and short stories
Editors seek speculative poetry and short stories that relate to the theme of “Symmetry” for Apparition Lit’s April issue. For poetry, send up to five poems (no longer than two pages each) that “have obvious fantasy or sci-fi elements that make it clear it this isn’t a literary poem that you stuck an ogre into.” Speculative short stories should be between 1,000 and 5,000 words. Payment is $50 per poem and $.05 per word (with a minimum payment of $50) for fiction.
Deadline: Feb. 28, with an extended submission window for BIPOC writers that ends on March 7
Capsule Stories: “Lost in Translation” submissions
“Lost in Translation” is the theme for Capsule Stories’ spring/summer edition, and editors want “stories, poems, and essays about miscommunications and cultural differences,” especially “pieces that take place in spring and/or summer and evoke the feeling of those seasons.” Submit a short story or essay under 3,000 words or up to 5 poems. There is no submission fee.
Deadline: Feb. 28
Hungry Shadows Press: Apocalyptic fiction
For its upcoming The First Five Minutes of the Apocalypse anthology, Hungry Shadows Press seeks short “horror, weird, or dark” fiction set less than a day after the beginning of a fictional apocalypse. “We want the experiences, the points of view, the wild, weird, disgusting, disturbing, beautiful, heartbreaking things that happened at the very beginning of the end of the world,” editors say. Stories should be between 1500 and 4000 words and should not focus on the origin or inception of the fictional apocalypse but rather on the characters who survive. Payment is $.03 per word plus a digital copy of the published anthology. Finally: “We’re gonna get a lot of zombies,” editors admit, “so points for originality.”
Deadline: Feb. 28, with an extended submission window for writers from marginalized communities that ends on March 7
That’s all for February! Meet us back here next month to see what editors are looking for in March.
And if you know any writers who might enjoy this sparkly new endeavor of ours, please feel free to share this newsletter far and wide. The more eyes we have in our ranks, the more calls for submissions we’ll find...and the more future bylines we’ll all be able to toast together.