I received some happy news yesterday: Chestnut Ridge is one of three finalists for the 2020 Maine Book Award in Poetry. Maine has many very good poets, so I'm excited that my book made the cut . . . not least because it's had zero publicity otherwise. [Why does no one ever review my books? This is so puzzling to me.]

Also on the accomplishment list: my Frost Place partner Kerrin and I hammered out a second draft of our teaching conference schedule. We're making all sorts of adjustments, trying to account for time-zone disparities, zoom exhaustion, loss of collegial hang-out time, and the huge gap created by our physical distance from Frost's farm. The process has been sad, but also challenging in a good way. We've had to keep asking, What is the essence of the conference? How can we feed the flame? And because we're adjusting so much in the schedule, we're also opening new spaces for interaction and experiment. So that's exciting.

Today, the usual: Editing, Rilke copying, manuscript reading. Laundry, dishes, firewood, floors. Last night I pan-fried Arctic char with fresh chives and lemon, baked spoon bread, roasted sweet potato cubes and tossed them with sorrel leaves and balsamic vinegar. Spring is creeping into the menus, though the weekend will be cold, maybe even snowy.

Things go on and on. My writer's voice is hoarse . . . I'm not sure what to say, or repeat . . . I'm struggling again with the knowledge that all I do in this diary is recycle the same-old same-old . . . which is what all diaries do, but still.

Anyway, you are kind and long-suffering about it. I appreciate that.