March 9, 2018

          

Wrote a little at a table in the Book Fair, but recognized that I was writing like the mass of AWP writes, a sort of middle-of-the-road smoothness, a surface expertise without height or depth, like a writing exercise where teacher says, “See that park bench?  Now make a poem about it! Go!” and all the talented children do. There are a number of reasons why my way has been slow: this is one of them; poetically speaking, I have no small talk.

          

Sat at the edge of the water and celebrated my neighbor the cormorant in a poem. This is how I’m best.

       

All the UNCA people attended M’s panel; none came right next door to attend mine the very next hour. Try not to hang on to such things for longer than I have to. The panel and the reading went well. The selection of The Falls of the Wyona is perhaps more remarkable because the judge is a Japanese-Hawaiian trans woman—who was tapped to insure inclusiveness-- who said that my manuscript floated above the rest, and that she knew on the first page I was the winner. I always feel this must be true, but when somebody actually says it, I am abashed. Liked the sound of it in my own ears as I read.

          

Back now at the hotel, feeling a little antic-climactic. Was this experience worth the time and expense? If not, how was I to have known? It was worth it to see Tampa.

          

Tried to find somewhere to walk. Went a little west of the hotel, where there was a lot with a few trees, and I let the content me. There was an anole sunning ion a piece of cement, and I let that delight me.

          

How I felt at the head of every flight of stairs tells me I am not as recovered as I hoped.