“Be arrogant and vain when you’re young. That’s the only time it looks appealing—and it’s also the only time it’s forgivable.”
—Jamaica Kincaid, on writing
Got written off as a "dead-tree poet" this week, by none other than Bill Knott. That was exciting. I admire his poems, so it stings a little. One of his bones of contention was that I don't distribute my poems for free via PDF; which would be a blatant violation of my press contracts. I'm all for web-based journal publishing, as can be easily Googled, but does that mean we now have to be anti-book?
Like most Washingtonians, I love it when the city clears out on holiday weekends. (Except, in the particular case of Memorial Day, for the influx of bikers. But they're a good bunch.) I am home, anti-social, clad in cropped jeans and a thin red t-shirt decorated with virtually the same falling-cat image as the cover of Theories of Falling, and barreling down on the deadline for the memoir.
Before that...Went to Miami, lectured at the Rubell Family Collection, read at Books & Books, and sipped a ridiculously overpriced Johnnie Walker neat while staring out over the city lights from a 50th-floor rooftop club.
Came home and hosted two dozen folks at my place for a Writer's Center fundraiser starring the Great Lakes Brewing Company and Kathleen Rooney. We raised $1,200. $1,200!
Went to Annapolis for the celebration of "The Corner of Poetry & Main"'s five-year anniversary and took part in a reading that was one part euphoria, one part marathon: six featured readers, umpteen open mic slots, and a musical guest.
Also, made more broccoli slaw than can be consumed by one woman.
Check out what happens when a great poet misreads "Another Failed Poem about Starlings"...
I've been listening to the Good Will Hunting soundtrack quite a bit as of late. The new Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings album is also a winner (enduring goal: to hear them play a New Year's Eve show, which they've done at the 9:30 Club in several years past).
Ready to get these thousands of words written, head on down to Oxford, and write a sestina or three. June! June. June.