A first book of poems is rather, I’m discovering, like a marriage. One has ideas for a long time about what it’s going to be like, and confrontation with reality can be a little distressing. I spent the morning vivisecting five of my poems because the publication format was too narrow for their expansive lines. What a downer.
Yesterday I got totally sick of my own face, trying to choose an author’s photo. I finally settled on one that doesn’t bother me too much, but after I’d sent it off someone pointed out to me that it has a tree growing out of the top of my head.
I’m reserving hope that, like with marriage, after I’ve come to terms with reality, it turns out even better than I’d imagined, just different.