So to my absolute surprise and pleasure, the epic Copper Canyon Press announced they’d be opening
submissions for exactly 1,000 poets on a first come, first served basis.

The moment I read that? 
Church bells, baby.

I’d been lurking their website for weeks like a devoted ex-girlfriend, paranoid I’d miss the portal to Olympus.
And then *divine timing* I finish What Lies Beyond Me, and Copper Canyon announces the window:
May 1st, 2025, 9 AM Pacific Time.

Which is 6 PM Munich time.
I marked it like it was my wedding date.

To-Do List:
- Calendar reminder: 6 PM, May 1st — check
- Author bio — check
- Query letter — check
- Manuscript sample — ready to haunt souls
- Submission guidelines — studied like a biology exam, memorized like my grandmother’s perfume

I couldn’t miss this.
I wouldn’t miss this.


I plan my day with military precision:
Car rented. Cameras packed. Cleo kissed gently on the nose.

My mother and I take off to find some peace in nature before the big moment.
What was meant to be a 45-minute scenic drive becomes two hours of slow, escalating madness with not 
a single parking spot in sight.
I briefly considered parking the car in the lake.

Eventually, I find a spot, eat a Bratwurst Semmel mit Senf, have a moment of soulful conversation in the sun, 
take a few photos, and try to breathe like a human being.
But peace is short-lived.


We drive back toward Munich with just enough time to prepare and submit—
or so I thought.

Because the universe heard I planned to submit my work to“Copper Canyon” and said:
“Yes—but first, let me cook.”


Traffic turned apocalyptic.
The highway into Munich? Closed. Fully blocked.
GPS laughed in my face.
Time was melting away. I was fully spiraling in the car—hands sweaty, heart pounding, teeth clenched like
I was driving through a warzone but also trying to keep it together. 

I kept trying to find a place to stop for a bit. Just a patch of earth where I could pull over, catch my breath,
and beat the clock.
Nothing but an endless line of silver cars and bikers in sight.


Sigh

“I guess it’s just not meant to be, mom.” I said and shrugged. 
“Don’t lose hope quite yet.” She said with her unwavering optimism and sweet delusion. 
“Well, I am trying but it’s kinda hard. I’d need a miracle.” I said casually while stomping on the gas pedal, 
then the brake, then the gas again.



Then, two minutes before 6 PM,
a dirt road appeared.
Like some backwoods portal from a fairytale gone feral—“Hansel und Gretel” comes to mind.

I said:
“Fuck it. I’m pulling over. I don’t care if I ever make it to Munich again.”
I whipped into that dirt road like a possessed GTA NPC, parked the car in pure adrenaline. I look down at my
Phone and I actually had a data connection again—I almost cried from relief. I immediately pulled up 
Submittable, submitted the damn manuscript from the middle of nowhere, exhaled —
and drove back like nothing happened.

And yes, I laughed at myself the entire rest of the way home because I am fully aware of how extra I am…
but I’d be damned not to give it my best shot. 

So yeah, submit or die. 


Later that evening, I called my father to tell him. He was proud.
And then he said,
“You never stop, do you?”
Oh, if he’d seen my face in that moment.

No, dad.
I never stop.

Because stopping?
That would be spiritual, creative and mental death.
And I’ve already died once— 
I’m not doing it again.
Disclaimer: No cameras or manuscripts were harmed during this.
Proceed at your own risk.​​​​​​​

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