Only five days till I leave for Franconia, and this cold had better be gone by then. Ugh.

I'd like to tell you all about my trip to New York, if only I could remember how to organize words into sentences.

At least the sun is shining. At least I have a white cat and a black dog napping on green grass. At least I have a son who wants to give away all of his pocket money to beggars on the subway.

Now I am going to go drink lemon-ginger tea and eat something or other for breakfast that I won't be able to taste. And then I am going to attempt to start editing a new manuscript. It's possible that this will be a very bad idea.

CavanKerry Press just told me that it has entered Same Old Story in this year's National Book Awards competition. This is extraordinarily kind of the publisher because the required submission fee is exorbitant. I find it depressing that only publishers who can pony up $135 per book have any chance of being considered for major awards such as the NBA and the Pulitzer. As a result, the judges don't really get to debate about the best book of the year; they can only choose from the handful that have paid the price. A big publisher can afford to enter numerous books, but I daresay that most small presses choose one book, or none. Of course I don't have any sort of solution for this problem. Judges, organizations, authors need to get paid, and where would the money come from otherwise? Plus, I have a cold, so I have no coherent solutions to any problems in any realm. Nonetheless, while I am pleased to be in the running, I'm also sad about all of the poets who are not.