Today, in beautiful Carrollton, Ga, the temperature was 70 degrees.
I tried to deliver a bag of Cheetos.
The door was locked.
After that, a bit of hockey and golf. On tv.
***
Friday: I turned in the final edits of my next book to Ecco.
This was very cool.
About Me
- Paul
- Paul Guest is the author of four volumes of poetry and a memoir. His debut, The Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World, was awarded the 2002 New Issues Poetry Prize. His second collection, Notes for My Body Double, was awarded the 2006 Prairie Schooner Book Prize. His third collection, My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge, was published by Ecco Press/HarperCollins in 2008. His fourth collection, Because Everything Is Terrible, was published by Diode Editions. His poems have appeared in Harper's, The Paris Review, Poetry, Tin House, The Kenyon Review, and elsewhere. His memoir, One More Theory About Happiness, was published by Ecco in May 2010 and selected for the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers Program. The recipient of a 2011 Guggenheim Fellowship and a 2007 Whiting Writers' Award, Guest lives in Charlottesville, Virginia.
9 comments:
It was 20 degrees here with 30 mph winds.
If you'd tried to deliver a bag of cheetos here, I'd have...
well, lets just say you'd have made my day.
Congrats on the final edits!
I'm looking forward to the new book. Putting final edits in the mail always gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Or is that the liquor I drink to celebrate...
Yay!!!
Cheetos, pleh.
Final edits, yummm.
Paul Guest, I heart you.
...and I would pants you if you'd only drop the restraining order.
Gawd, you seem to have a lot of stalkers.
You have the same name as my son. He died in a car accident Friday. He had his seat belt on. I have to bury my son on Wednesday. He was just married in August. He married his best friend. He was born on my birthday. You are a stranger to me but you share my son's name. His middle was Joseph. He was my oldest. My only son. Everyone keeps talking to me, the phone and around me. I am hiding now, still in my bathrobe. It's 2:17 in the afternoon. He read a lot, not poetry though . . .
I have to bury my son. He was 27. I can't say it out loud. Tomorrow I pick his casket. You share his name and you are a stranger. I have to say it for the papers tomorrow. Typing it is almost saying it . . .
So awesome. Can't wait to get my hands on the book. I'll stalk you from a distance . . .
Anyway, Tag!
Lisa, if you come back here:
I am so, so sorry for your loss. Please know that I will be on my knees during my lunch hour, praying peace over your bruised and wanting heart.
Glad to see I'm not the only nut with a crush on you.
We had heavy snow on Saturday, but it melted by Sunday...I think our highs made it to the 40s. A beautiful day to be sure. The hills were still white, and the sky was somewhere between electric and postcard perfect.
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