in the bookstore

from the diary: “Sunday 2/15/87

“Hung out at Copperfield’s for an hour. Looked at poetry books. Felt alternately encouraged and discouraged by them all. Look at all this poetry to read! Wow! But nobody buys poetry. Look at all the starving poets, the crazy poets! How beautiful much of this is, how hard to understand so much of it is. Will my poetry ever be noticed? Will I make a living as a writer? How can it all be read? It’s hopeless. Bleh.

“It’s better to take it in pieces. Read what I can, when I can – find what enjoyment, fulfillment as comes. Write what I can, when I can – don’t fret over the future, don’t fret over critics that haven’t noticed, editors that pay no attention, just write what needs be written and don’t worry about it. Life comes in pieces, doesn’t it? Nothing comes all at once – life doesn’t come all at once.”