August 17, 2015
   
Nephew David’s birthday. Cloudy skies, grayish yellowish.

Pavel is my advocate at the Blank Theater in LA, whose interest in Edward the King forced me to prepare a submission I had decided not to on my own because of the unnecessary effort of the application. But, there it is. Done. I feel like those Irishman during the famine who were forced to work all day on one of the famine roads for a bowl of soup.

AWP announces that no winner was chosen in their non-fiction prize category because no manuscript was of a publishable quality. My own In the Country of the Young was one of the entries, and so I know part of that is false. Years ago, when I submitted a novel entry, no novel was deemed worthy of the prize. It is hardly a defect of the imagination to assume that some evil sprite would rather have a vacuum than to allow me peace or justice for half a minute. In any case, whatever the actual details are, profoundly and objectively disgusting. I hope they are put out of business. How much dishonesty blots out a history of good deeds? How many murders until you are considered a murderer?

First Humanities lecture was, I think, a triumph. I was happy doing it. The overflowing room was smiling at me. And my toe stopped hurting long enough for me not to be distracted. Pain going in and out today, as though trying to decide whether to linger or to subside.

It is just, objectively, too hard. That one survives is not an argument against this statement. It was still too hard.