I'm happy to announce that Deerbrook Editions will publish Calendar, my sixth poetry collection, in fall 2024. Deerbrook was my first publisher, releasing Boy Land in 2004, so this will mark my twenty-year anniversary with Jeff Haste and his beautiful press. Deerbrook hasn't been my only publisher, but it's been my steadiest and most constant. It is rare to find publishers who are loyal to their authors, but Jeff certainly is. When he wrote to me over the weekend, asking about my collection, I realized how much I hate, hate, hate the terrible merry-go-round of submissions and rejections. Here is a man who makes gorgeous books, who cares about my work, who pays royalties. As soon as I said yes to him, a thousand-pound weight slipped from my shoulders. I'm full of gratitude. The manuscript is finished and the book will come out. I can focus my editorial attention on preparing it for press. And I can turn my creative attention to making new poems.

I'm fifty-nine years old, and I will never be a famous poet. I don't have an MFA network, I don't have any PR, I can't afford to apply for prizes, and I don't have the will to rush around the country making a name for myself. Still, what I do have is more than I ever thought I would possess when I was young and yearning: a list of published books, the friendship of top-notch writers who matter to me personally, and a teaching reputation. That's not a bad outcome for someone as po-biz wary as myself. Of course, humans are never satisfied, and I am always beating myself up for not being someone else. Ergo, this recent urge to submit my manuscript to more famous presses. As if, by magic, I'll suddenly spring out of the world I actually live in.

My poems are as good as the poems of more famous people. I work as hard. I have all of the fire and ambition. But my canvas is small. It is this little house on this little street. It is my classroom beside a lake in the Maine woods. A miniature life of letters. But it is still a life.