night of 10/19/2011

E-- K-- and I have both become poets. (I ponder on how, of all of us, it's turned out to be we two.) We are finishing our manuscripts, I in a room off to the side and E-- in the bigger room with the others. We finish at the same time and trade. I think mine's a little better, a little more polished, and the poems a little better too, though the styles are different. Well done. We trade back. I look at the last page and exclaim--damn, I missed a typo. There's a bigger problem, too--the very last line is dry and uses big words for no good reason--but I can complain about the typo without having to admit that aloud. A shame; to end, to leave the last impression, with some imponderable, impenetrable bit of jargon.