i'm bad at dividing my time neatly. i tend to dive into things and let the others starve. the last week i've been throwing myself at editing my ms. the hope to send it off again soon. i think it's much stronger with new poems, new arrangements, new edits/versions. i get why the publishers would have said no. but also, i believe in it. i can't wait to find an editor who feels the same. years later i want people to regret passing on it.
yesterday a slug of lit mail. a lit mag and three chapbooks. working my way through them, working my way back to the book i'm supposed to be reading. on my nightstand: six or seven more unread books, a few thousand pages. underneath the dresser: dozens more books. how many books do we even own? i don't know. a lot. too many. never enough.