In the morning I copyedited, and then, in the early afternoon, I walked up to the local coffeeshop to meet with a friend and talk about goals for his manuscript. I still can't get over that I'm actually living a city writer's life: coffeeshops and craft conversations, stopping at the meat market afterward, walking home along buckling sidewalks as the wind whips through the Norway maples. What happened to that woman who spent her days shoveling manure and milking goats and lugging small boys out of the forest? How did she turn into this one?

What else is going on? (1) I sketched out a poem draft yesterday that quickly morphed into a fistful of awkwardness, so that was no fun. It's amazing how bad poems persist. You'd think I'd have learned to avoid them by now. (2) In the mail I received not one but four separately wrapped copies of the new Beloit Poetry Journal. I have no idea why. Please tell me you want one so I don't have to pitch them into the recycling.

By the way, here's a link to my book review in that issue. I've got a poem in there too, but it's not online.