Today I received some promotional material from what looks to be a very nice literary magazine. It made me feel guilty because I don't subscribe to one. A number of years ago, I read that we all have a responsibility to help support literary magazines, and to do so we should all subscribe to at least one journal.
Well, I thought that made a great deal of sense, so I did subscribe to one. It didn't even cost me any money, because the subscription was given to me for Christmas. Two years in a row, in fact.
That had to have been four or five years ago. I still haven't read the second year's issues. That's why I gave up on asking Santa for subscriptions. I knew I couldn't do the reading and having the journals stacked up around the house or on my To Be Read wears on me.
Kelly at Big A, little a has been doing posts on Making Space for Writing. This sound counterproductive, but one of the things I try to do is be realistic about what I can read. I limit the number of magazine subscriptions coming into the house. I've also learned that a lot of the single issues that I bring home carry pretty much the same articles month after month. I try to be selective. I try to accept that I'm never going to do anything with those glittery, pretty journals and leave them be instead of hoarding them somewhere and letting them grow stiff and mildewy.
I feel like a Philistine, but loading up my time caring for publications I have no hope of reading really does cut into my writing time, which is cut into plenty with all the reading I do do.
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