Ok—please stop asking me how the poem-a-day is going. I are retarded and I should have never said anything. Because you know, my writing is often doodling—which is why there is so much of it as marginalia in my textbooks. I’m not particular about what I put up here, because I don’t know most of you :) (Although I’m sure you’re lovely folks I’d obviously love to know etc., etc.).
The people important to me tell me
(a) that I’m the next greatest thing to Shakespeare (sadly, they typically haven’t read “literature” since college and love to compare me to old Will only because he is the go-to litterateur they remember);
(b) that my stuff is “interesting” which is code for they haven’t read it/HATE it/can’t commit to liking it;
(c) that if I’m interested in seeing it published, they’ll help me rework and revise. (Ok this last was just Big A and I hop from love to sorrow and back about this. Help me pick a stance or a fight or something.) (And Sara, if you’re reading this, he’d like you to know that he’s embarrassed.)
Anyway, I wrote most days, but that isn’t unusual for me. The quality was quite execrable (which in my head ^excreta, therefore shitty). But I mean to start posting daily so I may resort to posting them on days I feel silent. Guess you’re in for a treat :P