Prizes aren’t love. Because people who never met you can’t love you. The slots for winners are already set, from here until Judgment Day. They know the kind of poet who’s going to win, and if you happen to fit the slot, then bully for you! It’s like fitting a hand-me-down suit. It’s luck, not love. Not that it isn’t nice to have luck. [From Less.] |
FRI: My Book World | Armistead Maupin, Michael Tolliver Lives
TUES DEC 3: A Writer's Wit | Michael Musto
WEDS DEC 4: A Writer's Wit | Barbara Amiel
THURS DEC 5: A Writer's Wit | Joan Didion