Yesterday I received one of those aforementioned lovely typewritten notes from George Core, editor of the Sewanee Review, in which he accepted my essay "Not Writing the Poem" for the journal. I seem to remember talking to you during the composition of this essay, which deals with inspiration and the lack thereof. Among other topics, I consider a writer's determination to soldier on even when the job of writing feels about as thrilling as sorting through old clothes for the Goodwill. But I also talk about the importance, sometimes, of just accepting that one is not writing. Merely putting down words on the page doesn't make those words valuable. There is, after all, much to be said for silence.
Here's the opening to Joe Bolton's poem "Aubade." Which means dawn, as you know. Which means I have to take it seriously.
Somehow they're never quite what we meant them to be,Our lives and the little musicWe make of them.