My muse (if I believed in a muse, which I don’t) appears to have deserted me since April. I think it’s a combination of lots of work, and bright mornings wakening me too early. I’m brain-dead come evening.
Even in prose I can hardly string a few sentences together. I wrote a review of John Ash’s book, but I’m not yet happy. I’m fine with what I’m saying, but not with the way I’m saying it. I do believe in reviews. Note: I’m not saying I necessarily believe reviews, but I believe in reviews. I think they should be interesting to read, every bit as much as a good poem. At their best, they contribute something valuable to literature, even if they get things wrong. But they must be well written.
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