I'm in one of these (temporary) lulls where I want to give up publishing and live out the rest of my life in a molehill. I've been here before and it passes -- although never quite this bad. I'm gonna ride it out like I always do. It only takes a couple poets to put me in this funk. It's always dealing with the most basic of expectations: respond to e-mails and don't freak on my ass. All I want is to do is publish your poems. Why do you have to make it so difficult? I really take the freaking on my ass personally. No poems are worth being abused. That's how I feel right now, abused.
I'm thinking about requiring poets to take a Myer-Briggs test before they ever submit a single a poem. That and a 30 minute consultation with my personal astrologer. Instead of a book contest, I'm gonna send potential book authors to Poet Survivor Island for a month making them eat snails while competing for toothpaste and condoms. I'll interview them in a dark closet and ask questions like: How bad do you want this book? and Do you think I'm pretty? I'll put it all up on YouTube and let the filthy internet people vote on it.
Sigh -- the thing is, a lot really nice things have happened this past week. I should be focusing on the wonderful people instead of fantasizing of a hermit-lifestyle. Seriously, I wouldn't have a thing to wear.