from the diary: “Saturday 8/15/87
“I’m reading this bk: Against the Grain [which consists of] interviews with small press ‘maverick’ publishers. Some are really interesting characters, some are not. I kind of despair when I read these – I’m a populist I guess and these guys say, ‘There are only so many good writers or artists …’ So much junk or mediocre or ‘competent but has nothing to say’ and every time I read my name. Always, always I wonder why I’m writing or what I’m writing. Will I ever be famous? Will I ever be considered ‘the great writer’ or will I be labeled ‘minor poet’? Will I be unrecognized throughout life then hailed after death? Or hailed as I live then vilified as an overstuffed hack upon death, vanishing from history? Or will I write and write, remain unnoticed, die, and disappear into eternal oblivion. Maybe in a few years I’ll stop writing and look back on follisome youth or ‘Oh, yes. I wrote poetry when I was in college. Even got a little published.’ And then, not write.