Two days ago I found this package sitting in front of our apartment door, brought up, no doubt, by a kind neighbour, or perhaps the postman. I wondered what it was, then realised that it must be the 20 copies of my new collection of poems, The Hotel Eden, that I ordered from Carcanet, along with my 6 complimentary copies.
I brought it in, of course, and set it on the bench in the entry with the shoes, my keys, my sunglasses, my backpack. Did I tear it open? Nope. Two days later it is still there, as pictured. My husband was ready to open it the first day, couldn't believe I wouldn't. Last night again. This morning. 'When I get results in the lab, I want to see them right away,' he said. 'What's with you?'
This happens with each book, not the translated ones so much as the ones I write for myself. Am I afraid I'll be disappointed in the poems? If only I'd had ten more years to work on them? Once I get the books there's nothing more I can do to improve them? It's way too final...
'I'm waiting to be in the mood,' I told my husband.