So tomorrow is my birthday. What can I say that I haven’t said before, many times, and at great length?
Last year I made a “birthday sale” of my book; I might do something similar around Easter, but not this week. By this time next year I hope Dreams and Prayers will be out, if not long enough to merit a sale-price promotion, or at least nearly ready, and The Invasion will be well on its way to being ready. But God alone knows how well the summer and autumn will go.
Throughout my years of school, unlike so many of my classmates (and the stereotype), I was never particularly happy to see the end of a year or a semester. (Thus the poem I read at my high school graduation.) But this was only one of the ways, if perhaps the first, in which a reaction, inclination, or idea that seems natural or obvious to me seems completely foreign to those around me, and in retrospect vice versa.
In middle and high school, I would never have believed that my happiest hours would ever be in social situations (and I had only begun to understand how exhausting they would be), nor that I would wish I had fewer books. Nor, once I started writing poetry in high school, did I imagine that a day would come when I would still be writing poetry but when most of my poetry would be deliberate, rather than spontaneous, compositions.
“This, too, is vanity, a chasing after wind.”