I’ve tried my hand at some Haiku. It’s here for your enjoyment.
Love ~ Eaton.
engulfing sadness
unshed tears burning like fire
punishment complete
secret obsession
stars unfolding mysteries
Illumination
clouds, swirling turmoil
dangerously raging storm
seeking sweet solace
As we head into what shows every sign of being a prolonged period of economic stress, it pays to look to our own houses and make sure they are ready to weather the coming storm. As writers, we must be sure to keep our spiritual and emotional house in order so that we may continue to create. It is the times of challenge that show us where our weak points are, the cracks in our armor that let the wind in; the leaks in the roof that send drips down on our heads. These don’t need to be as onerous if we just remember the universal principle of the power of thought.
While not a new idea, it bears repeating. I’m not talking here of ‘blame the victim:’ “Oh, you thought about cancer, so that’s why you have cancer.” That kind of cause/effect leap is specious and unhelpful. I’m talking here in a subtle reality shift of what reality we choose to inhabit. The key word there is “reality” – I’m not talking about avoidance of reality, quite the contrary. But there’s a world of difference between being aware of reality and cynicism – though cynics will, of course, tell you differently.
Every day we are given a choice (or, if you prefer not to think of something “giving” us anything, then I’ll say merely each day we have a choice to make). We can inhabit the reality of abundance, or the reality of lack.
It’s easy to get down about the future, the world, when things aren’t going our way. But Rena Tarbet once said, it doesn’t matter what stops you – your mother’s diagnosis of cancer, a sick child, your own injury, the dog threw up. What does it matter, if it stops you? There are stories of great everyday heroism – Christopher Reeve, Helen Keller, Steven Hawking… these stories can inspire us, but better, they can inform us of what it takes to inhabit the real. We are far more wealthy than even we are aware of, a fact that immediately becomes apparent if we watch footage of Iraq and Afghanistan, to name just two of the places on earth today that are torn by war and worse. We have safe homes to live in and people to love us (even at the remove of the internet – love is love, don’t throw it away because it’s not physically sitting next to you on your couch).
Okay, so all of that is very good and well, if we already inhabit the reality of our own abundance. But if you are reading this, thinking “Yeah, yeah, but I’m really NOT living in abundance and have no idea how to get there,” do not despair. Two simple tools can help each of us shift our reality. If you consent to walk this path with me, you will not be the same person three weeks from now.
The first tool begins as soon as you finish reading this: count your blessings. That’s right, pull out a sheet of paper, (yes, please handwrite this exercise; the hand knows reality better than the keyboard). Write down each of your blessings: you have underwear, socks, pants, shirts, sheets, a bed, four walls and a roof, food, and go from there. Try to get to fifty, then a hundred.
The second tool is a gratitude journal. First discussed in Sarah Ban Breathnach’s lovely book, Simple Abundance, the idea of the gratitude journal is to make us aware of just exactly how much we have in our lives, every day, for which to be grateful. Each night for the next month, before bed, write down five things for which you are grateful. Some days they may be magnificent. Others, particularly if you are really in a state of lack, it may simply be the simplest: I am alive, I have an internet connection, I can type, I can read, I ate food today. That’s okay; they don’t have to be big things.
And that’s the lesson. It doesn’t have to be big things. But the reality of abundance is the mirror image of the reality of lack, and they are both simple realities. It’s your choice which one to inhabit.
Please, leave a comment and tell me how your blessings list went, or any thoughts on the twin nature of reality that you might like to share. We are not alone, and sometimes just that simple fact can remind us of how abundant our lives really are.
Resources
Ms. Sarah Ban Breathnach’s website: http://www.simpleabundance.com/
Author, Simple Abundance (and many other excellent books, including Moving On)
Available on Amazon, http://www.amazon.com/b?ie=UTF8&node=282922
Ms. Rena Tarbet’s website: http://www.renatarbet.com/
Author, How to Succeed in Spite of Life’s Challenges
Available on Amazon, http://www.amazon.com/Rena-Succeed-Spite-Lifes-Challenges/dp/1880692325
The Night Is A Harsh Mistress
by A. Catherine Noon
Chapter 13
Viktor’s smirk widened. “I can find it because I know where to look.” He paused. “You’ve had no contact from the boy?”
Rachel squinted in an effort to keep her reaction to herself. She knew it didn’t work, but he didn’t react to her, just watched her. “No. No contact from him or his parents. Whoever they are.”
He digested that. “No other contacts?”
She almost didn’t answer him. What right did he have to question her? But the fact remained that he saved her life, and that she probably owed him at least a little for that. He seemed to be her biggest ally in this mess, even though that didn’t mean much since he refused to actually share any of his information. “I saw Mrs. Dawson today and followed her.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? And where did she go today?”
“Mario’s, again. Same as last time.”
“Same as… You mean you’ve already followed her there once?” His attention seemed sharper somehow.
“Yes. Viktor, maybe if you told me what is actually going on I could give you better answers.” She was proud of herself. She didn’t shout or snap at him when she said it. No matter how much she wanted to.
He seemed startled. He studied her without speaking, his blue eyes intent and slightly less empty than they seemed usually. Finally he inhaled and sat back. “There’s more going on here than you realize, Raych. Not all of it is safe.”
“I realize that,” she snapped.
He nodded. “Yes. But what you don’t realize is how much danger you,” he pointed at her in emphasis, “are in.”
Her stomach tightened. “What are you talking about?” Her voice came out breathy and even squeaked a little.
“You’ve managed to stumble on something that has nothing to do with your business. How the Greenes managed to get to you in the first place is beyond me. They never should have come to you. But now that you’re involved, I’m trying to keep you from coming to the attention of people you really don’t want to meet.”
“Viktor. Stop it. You sound like a bad crime novel. ‘You’re in danger.’ ‘There are people you don’t want to meet, more going on than you know.’ Talk to me, like I’m an adult! I’m not an infant, and I can take care of myself. If you gave me enough information to actually make better decisions, then maybe I wouldn’t be in so much danger!” She was shouting by the time she finished her little speech but stared at him, seething. She meant every word.
For his part, he just stared at her. A buzz caught her attention and she watched him reach inside his jacket to pull out a handheld. He glanced at it and his face went blank.
When he met her gaze, he was back to his remote, dangerous self. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” He held up a hand when she started to argue. “I promise. When I come back, I’ll explain as much as I can. Please, Raych.” His eyes, as he stared into hers, seemed intense suddenly. “Just stay here. Keep the door locked and don’t go anywhere until I get back, okay?”
And then he was gone. Just like that.
Dammit!
I almost posted an entry this morning but I farted and I lost it. “Well, shishkabob,” I said (plus, a whole lot more).
I wrote about something that I’d been wanting to write about for a long time, but hadn’t because it was a kind of touchy subject. But this morning, the sun, moon and stars were aligned just so and I came up with the perfect way to present this touchy subject. I included links and shared a bunch of helpful information. It took forever to write. I had to take an aspirin because I was frowning so hard at the monitor in concentration. I had to get up and stretch during the writing of it. I might’ve even had lunch.
So I wrote the entire entry in an e-mail, ran it through spell check, then copied it. I’ve done this hundreds of times. I should’ve mailed the e-mail to myself, but I didn’t because I was thisclose to being done. I pasted my this is going to change EVERYthing words of gold into the entry, clicked on the Save button (and my e-mail with everything was right there, right there) and kablooey! the whole program went buh-bye. I’d somehow lost what I copied. I control-veed my keyboard at least ten times and nothing.
I can’t tell you how much this sucked. All of that long, brain-straining work and I was at the final steps to bringing it to light and pfft, it was gone. I wanted to dive into my closet and cry my heart out, but there’s no damn room for anything else in my closet. Meanwhile, I don’t think I could write it the same way if I tried. What does it really matter in the swing of things, anyway?
I’ve been writing. Last weekend, I wrote over 5000 words, which is a record for me because I’m slower than a one-legged turtle. But it gives me hope, great hope.
Rachel got halfway through planning her day when it dawned on her that she had parked her car downtown for her date with Steve. “Great. Just great,” she muttered out loud. In the process of looking for the telephone, she lost her temper with the mess and decided to clean the office.
It took her the better part of an hour. Other than the hard drive, nothing seemed to be missing. Except for the folder that Viktor took, she reflected angrily. Of all the things for him to do when she had just started to trust him a little. Well, that was a lie; she trusted him a lot, almost in spite of herself. The question remained why he’d take the file.
She sat down on the couch, finally finished. She wondered if she had time to vacuum the carpet but decided to call a cab to go pick up her car. She needed to get out for a while, if nothing else.
If the cabbie thought it odd that she asked to be taken downtown to a parked car, he gave no sign. Maybe lots of people left their cars behind on dates like she had. She paid him and walked over to the driver’s side and looked around before getting in. No one loitered nearby and she decided she could afford to pretend nothing was wrong.
She winced at the price the attendant of the garage charged her, but paid it and pulled into traffic to navigate her way home. She pulled up at a light and looked to her left. A red Audi pulled up next to her, leaning over the line into the crosswalk as though impatient to be held back. She glanced at the driver.
Mrs. Dawson checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, oblivious to Rachel’s shocked gaze.
Rachel looked back at the traffic signal before the woman next to her could feel her staring. When the light turned green, Rachel hung back and pulled in behind the sleek sports car, keeping enough distance that it wasn’t obvious she was following. The streets started to look familiar and Rachel guessed where they were headed. Sure enough, they pulled up in front of Mario’s. Rachel went a few cars passed it this time, to avoid the house with its unknown watcher, and parked.
The same man admitted Mrs. Dawson, again checking the street before closing the door. Rachel peered back to the second floor window she’d seen the woman watching from the last time, but the curtains were still. She didn’t dare get out and tip the woman off that she was back again, and settled in to wait.
This time, Mrs. Dawson appeared after only maybe twenty minutes, a handbag hung from her left arm. Rachel blinked. She’d’ve sworn the woman had gone inside with nothing. She studied the handbag as Mrs. Dawson strode to her Audi and realized that the bag didn’t match the outfit. It was a plush, thick black leather, while Mrs. Dawson’s outfit was a royal blue dress with matching shoes. She opened her door and set the purse gently on the passenger seat before getting in. As she pulled into traffic, Rachel pulled in behind her, wondering about that purse.
This time, Mrs. Dawson’s course meandered through town and finally fetched up at home. As she pulled into her driveway, Rachel somewhat regretfully continued on, pointing her own car toward her office. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to leave Mrs. Dawson, but rather that now she had nothing clear-cut to occupy her attention.
Her mind stubbornly refused to let the issue of Viktor and the file go. Why would he take her file after making such a show of protecting her?
Then her stomach clenched and it was a good thing she was stopped at a traffic light. Steve had been killed, she assumed by Viktor, but that wasn’t what stopped her cold. She flashed instead on the gun near Steve’s hand. A semi-automatic pistol, it wasn’t a small revolver someone would purchase for “home protection.” It was a serious weapon, the kind someone carried when they knew how to use it. Someone like Viktor, say.
In fact, she bet Viktor knew what model the pistol was. Not for the first time, she wished she had a phone number for her elusive Russian. As she pulled into her parking spot behind the building she saw him waiting for her, leaning against the wall next to the back door with his foot cocked against the bricks behind him.
“Viktor!” she exclaimed as she stood away from her car.
“Raych,” he responded laconically.
“Where the hell is my file, Viktor?” she demanded, stalking up to him with her keys in her fist.
“Did you lock your car?” he asked instead.
“What?” she shot back, annoyed. “Of course I did.”
“Never can be too careful,” he murmured and turned to allow her to pass by into the building. “After you.”
She almost stopped and repeated her question but something in his manner made her step inside the building. She could hear him behind her, nearly silent steps and soft breathing, like some kind of ghost.
She didn’t speak until they arrived at her office and she shut the door behind them. She rounded on him and threw her keys on the desk. “Now where is my file?”
He studied her without speaking right away. “Have you had any other contacts from the boy?” he asked.
“What? No! No, I haven’t figured out any of this stuff yet! Why did you take my file, Viktor?”
“I’m trying to find your hard drive,” he said.
It took her a moment to parse what he said and then her mouth fell open. “How?”
He shrugged and turned to sit on her couch. “Sit down, Raych. Let’s talk.”
“Let’s talk?” she echoed. “Just like that?”
He laughed, startling her. “Yes, Raych. Sit down.”
She sat in her desk chair, just to be contrary. He watched her do it without saying anything.
“Okay. Now give!” she snapped. “Where is my file, and how can you find my hard drive?”
The Element of Fire
Evelyn ran down the steps of the Church, where she had been praying for Hugo. She dashed along the cobbled lane towards their home, heart pumping, lungs heaving and muscles burning with the exertion. He was home! Dear God! He was home at last! She would find him, throw herself into his arms and her fears would fade. After weeks of worry and sleep filled with a profusion of nightmares, she could finally reassure herself that he was in one piece.
“He is upstairs my Lady, awaiting your arrival. Impatiently I might venture to add.” Claire, the cook, chuckled as Evelyn sped past her.
“Yes, Claire, the Vicar told me soldiers had ridden by. I knew it was him, I just knew it!” she laughed as she took the stairs in an eager rush.
The passage way seemed so long and she was in a hurry to get to him. Thoughts flashed through her mind of another long walk down this passage. Her wedding night! Her Baptism by Fire! Hugo had allowed no argument or embarrassment to keep her from experiencing the fullness of their union.
At last, their door! Evelyn stepped into their bedroom and was shocked at the sight before her. Hugo was covered in dust and mud, his hair was disheveled and his face bore the pallor of an exhausted man. She let out a moan and ran across the room to where he stood staring into the fire place. His eyes solemn and transfixed on the writhing flames and smoke performing their exotic dance. He looked up as she came hurtling towards him, love softening his eyes.
“Hugo!” she threw herself at him, entwined her arms around his neck as her lips sought his with desperation. The kiss was wild and wet with tears. Relief speared her, he was whole. “I was so afraid for you.” she cried into his mouth as the kiss broke.
“Ev, I am safe love, no damage done. See, touch me.” She felt him shudder as her fingers roamed across the front of his uniform. “Yes, flesh and blood, not a ghost. Don’t cry, not now. I need your sweet smile and the sound of your laughter to drive away my dark mood. I need you.” he drew her back into his arms, his hold strong enough to elicit a gasp from her.
“Hugo, come, sit in the chair with me. Talk to me, please. Perhaps, with the telling of it all, this lingering darkness you feel will be cast out.”
“I want to sit here and hold you, take your warmth into me. I want to forget the ugliness. Images of the battle bombard my mind day and night, I feel soiled and sick of heart.” Her head rested on his shoulder as her hand stroked up and down his arm, her finger finding and gently tracing the outline of the still healing scar on his forearm.
“Tell me about it, it will help.” She cuddled closer, hoping she could erase the stain of war, but unsure of how to go about it. “Have you eaten, are you hungry?”
“Claire, brought up bread and cheese, but I have no appetite.” His grip tightened on her back as he brought her face up to his. “I don’t mean to be so bleak, but when I am not with you it eats at me. The futility of this useless war weighs heavily on me. It is so hard to keep my perspective. I am finding it harder and harder to understand why I do this. Help me, Ev.”
“Hugo, you have always fought with honor because you believed it was your duty. Do you not believe in that duty anymore? I would be glad, very glad if you decided not to go away to fight again. It would not lessen my opinion of you, you know that don’t you? You have nothing to prove to me, nothing at all. I love you.” An undeniable hope that he was done with war and death, rose up in her.
“I was committed to this war, but I am no longer filled with the flush of pride for soldiering. I can no longer tell you that I like what I do, that I am that same young man who once would give all to his country. I am questioning what I once believed to be the absolute truth. Who is this enemy I kill? What sin has he committed that I must slaughter him? These questions haunt me.” He leaned his face against her head and let her presence soothe him as nothing else could.
“Take me to bed, Hugo, I want to hold you. I don’t know how to advise you but I have comfort for you whilst you consider these things. Come love, let us idle away a few hours in each others arms and pretend the world has disappeared. Pretend all is as it should be. Pretend that man does not wreak havoc upon himself. That innocence still prevails.”
Smiling for his benefit, Evelyn led him to their bed and undressed him slowly. Deliberately lingering at the places she knew would illicit groans of approval from him. She watched his eyes cloud, his breath catch and his mouth relax and her heart leaped for joy. Her intention being, that they would escape into the heat of their passion.
While Evelyn lay sprawled across their bed sleeping, Hugo rested his head on his arm as he leaned against the mantle piece; his stance tense. Decision made, he picked up the letter of Commission, bent down and dropped the document into the fire with cold, unsteady fingers. The edges of the paper turned brown immediately, sending smoke spiraling up and out the chimney into the cold night air. As the fire engulfed the remnants of the document, soft murmurs brought Hugo back to the moment. He turned to the women on the bed, his wife, his love. His future!
Rachel woke, the dream fading too rapidly for her to capture it. She inhaled and caught a whiff of her own scent and her eyes popped open. She really needed a shower. The sight of her office chair moved all the way out from behind the desk, in a position she never left it, brought her fully awake. She gasped and started to sit up.
“Gently,” a voice said from next to her and a hand pressed her shoulder down.
She squeaked, startled, and her eyes flew to Viktor’s face. “Viktor! What are you doing here?”
Viktor studied her, his eyes serious. “What do you remember?”
She started to say, ‘nothing,’ and then like a strobe light she flashed on Steve’s face. “Oh, God…”
Viktor blinked, expressionless. “Raych?”
She closed her eyes, not wanting to see his eyes, the knowing look. “I remember Steve…”
“Do you remember anything else?” came the careful voice.
“You slapped me, and yelled at me for going out with him.” Sudden tears, hot and uncomfortable, welled up in her eyes. She turned her head into the pillow, ashamed for him to see it. “He seemed so nice,” she whispered.
It took her a moment to realize his hand on her arm was meant as comfort. He rubbed back and forth, up to her shoulder, in long gentle motions that were oddly soothing. “We all do dumb things when we’re lonely,” he murmured.
She didn’t look up. She didn’t want him to see her tears, to know that she was hurt by the stranger with the attractive face and enticing cologne.
He seemed to guess it anyway. “It’s okay, Raych. You’re safe now.”
She wondered about Viktor, suddenly, and met his gaze. “Why do you care?” she demanded. “Why are you here, Viktor?”
He studied her, not answering right away.
He said something in Russian, softly, that she couldn’t catch. Then he stood up. “You need some food,” he noted abruptly, and turned to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
Before she could react, he was out the door, closing it softly behind himself.
“Dammit!” she burst out and sat up. “Jerk,” she said more softly, superstitious that he might hear her. She blew out her breath in annoyance and looked around her office. “I need a shower,” she told her desk, more to ignore the feeling of being completely alone than because the desk would answer her.
She gathered up her toiletries and gym bag. Her unknown intruder had scattered everything all over the floor and it took quite some time to put it all back in her bag. She couldn’t find her brush and turned back to the desk and got down on her hands and knees to look underneath it.
A picture caught her eye and she fished it out from under a pile of papers where it was half buried. It was a picture of the Greene family.
She sat back on her heels, her shower forgotten. “David, where are you?” she asked softly. Her mind started into gear. First, Viktor showed up to tell her not to search for the boy, saying that it was too dangerous. Then she met Steve, who Viktor claimed was one of Krichoff’s men. How were they connected? And what about the parents, if that’s what they really were? What was their part in all of this? They had seemed harmless to Rachel, worried for their son; not members of a crime syndicate spanning three continents.
She fished out more of the file and sat on the floor to rifle through it. First there was the original visit, the report she hadn’t had time to type up yet. Then there were the pictures she’d been given. She sat staring at the contact record for several moments as the plan formed in her mind. She was so engrossed she didn’t register when Viktor returned until he was actually in the room.
“What are you doing?” he snapped.
She jumped and compulsively stacked the papers. “Cleaning up,” she lied.
He glanced at the papers in her hands and frowned. She shoved another set of papers on top of them and stacked them all together, despairing of ever getting her files straight again. Instead, she stood up with the sheaf in her hands and laid it on her desk. “What food did you get?”
He blinked and his eyes snapped to her face, as though he saw through her subterfuge. “Corner Bakery,” he answered. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got a couple things. We can put the rest in the fridge.”
Her stomach growled loudly and she blushed. “That sounds good,” she said gratefully. “I’m actually hungry.”
That got a smile out of him and he set the bag on her desk. She moved the stack away and set it on the chair behind her. “Let’s see what you brought.”
They ate their food in companionable silence, only speaking in short sentences. He seemed as hungry as she felt, stuffing his mouth.
“I have to get a shower,” she mused out loud when she finished the last of her eggs.
“You mind if I make a phone call?” he asked.
“No problem,” she answered, spying her brush under the desk. She fished it out and popped it in her bag. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
He nodded and pulled out his phone as she went to the door. She shook her head and went down the hall to the locker room. The shower washed away a multitude of sins and she found herself just standing, letting the spray beat down on her skin. She turned it off with a pang of regret and got dressed, wondering what she would say to Viktor when she got back to her office.
She had to unlock her office when she returned. Viktor was gone, the scent of his cigarettes the only thing remaining. Then she saw the desk. A new pack of his cigarettes sat in the precise center, with a note: ‘Just don’t smoke them all in one sitting. V.’ “Smart ass,” she muttered.
She turned to set her gym bag down and her eyes fell on the place where she’d stacked the papers with the Greene’s file.
The file was gone.
She tore through the remaining papers franticly, hoping that she’d just misremembered where she’d put them. But they did not turn up.
Viktor had taken the entire file, including all the pictures.
“Dammit, Viktor,” she whispered to the empty room. “Why did you do that?”
Most of the contributors of the Writer’s Retreat Blog participate in the weekly meme, Thursday Thirteen, so every Thursday we link to the individual sites of each writer’s TT. Hopefully, this helps you get to know each of us a little better. This week we’ve got:
Eaton Bennett: Life Meme
A. Catherine Noon: 13 Balls in the Air
I found this article very interesting, it’s great to have an insight intowhat other writers do to get in the writing mood and then what they do whilst writing too. I’d love to see what the Writer’s Retreat member’s writuals are *cough*hinthint*cough*
“Virginia Woolf, George Bernard Shaw and Roald Dahl did it in sheds at the bottom
of the garden. Shaw’s desk was famously on castors, so he could turn it
throughout the day to get maximum light. Dahl even had one of his own hip bones
sitting on the desk. Every writer will have their own ritual. Kerry McKittrick
examines the modus operandi of some of Ireland’s favourite writers and asks:
What are your Writuals?”
Where are you?
I write at home in my bedroom, usually surronded by the bits of scibbled on paper that contain my plot, character bios and obscure doodles of things to do with the story. Oh and Jérôme the cabbage patch is usually around somewhere.
What are you writing with?
Always paper for the plan and then my laptop for writing
What’s the oddest object in front of you?
I’ll take a picture, there are no words for its epicness.
What are you listening to?
The Sharpest Lives by My Chemical Romance but it can be anything from that to Ludovico Einaudi. I can’t write with the TV or radio on though because people talking disturbs me.
Is there anyone else in the room?
No way, that would drive me mad.
What time of day is it?
The best stuff seems to appear around 3am but any time in the day seems to work alright.
What do you look at when you’re looking for inspiration?
Go on wiki-trails, for people who’ve never heard of it, you start on a random wikipedia page and then click on any link on the page that catches your interest. And generally stuff in my room or out the window that catches my eye, sometimes dreams can be quite useful too.
What is guaranteed to remove your concentration?
People talking and lack of tea
One of my favorite writing websites is Writing World, www.writing-world.com (don’t forget the dash or it’ll send you somewhere different). Now edited by Dawn Copeman, it was started by Moira Allen. They publish a free monthly newsletter on the first Thursday of each month. The website has over 825 pages of information covering every genre.
Moira Allen was editor of Cat Fancy magazine for over a decade and has numerous writing credits to her name. I took a class from her, Breaking into Magazine Writing, that I found tremendously informative and useful. She is very business-like in her approach. She doesn’t have fairy-dust in her eyes about how the publishing industry works, but she is very proactive in how she approaches it.
Writing World covers all sorts of material of interest to the beginner and experienced author alike:
Beginner’s World
The Business of Writing
Freelancer’s World
Commercial Corner
International Writing
General Fiction
Romance
Mystery
SF/Fantasy
Children’s Writing
Poetry/Greeting Cards
Creative Nonfiction
Screenwriting
Publishing Your Book
Promoting Your Writing
In addition, Moira Allen has written several books of interest to the freelancer. In particular, she has released an e-book, How to Write for Magazines, which is a synthesis of the class I mentioned earlier. I have it, it’s excellent.
Their Links page is worth the price of admission. It’s enormous; I don’t have room to fit all the topics here. That alone is worth seeing; I highly recommend you check it out. She’s even got a section on Rights and Copyright, which is always an important thing to understand.
Most importantly, they do accept submissions! Since they have nearly 600 articles already, it’s important to double-check their guidelines, but check it out!