Literary culture

Just learned that Wordstock, the fall literary festival, does not have a reading spot for me. Although I'm not surprised, I'm mildly irritated by this reminder of how little my literary stock is worth here these days. This rejection would have been unthinkable during my time in the sun, when I was credited with writing "an Oregon classic," when the state's most popular columnist called me "one of Oregon's most precious natural resources." Beware of honey from the lips of critics and columnists ha ha! Yet this decision has a strong logic, given the current literary climate here, in which I'm pretty invisible. It's a zero-sum universe. Never forget it.

I'm not big on giving readings but I wanted to read from my book of poems at Wordstock. If I were younger, I'd park myself outside the building and read, a kind of alternative event, but I'm long gone from the energy required for such egotistical exercises. These affairs are set up to sell books, which interests me little. If a few more old farts had been on the selection committee, I might have been given a spot out of respect (that alien word), for indeed now and again my contribution is remembered in print by someone (their numbers always fewer each year), but youth rules, we all know that. If anyone wants to hear me read, they can do so online -- the entire book has been recorded. Here is the link.

In more important matters, my nighttime brooding has resulted in yet another major tweak of my protagonist, which changes everything in subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle ways, so I think I'll yet again go over the first 80 pages and fix things before stumbling forward.

More hot weather ahead in the weekend. Good! I've not had enough summer, not nearly enough.

My life is good.