After a frustrating writing session the other morning, during which a waitress kept coming to bother me, I packed up my stuff and stopped by the bathroom on my way out. “Lattes and lipstick are all I need,” a decorative sign in there declared. What the hell is up with these text-as-decor items? Who wants to read the same banal words over and over and over again in the bathroom or the kitchen? “Snowflakes are…kisses from angels in heaven.” “Life is not made up of days, but of moments.” Fuck you. You’re not writing. You’re not making art. You’re oppressing women and all people with your containers made of brainless words.

The night before, I had read a piece that claimed the average sales for a book of small-press poetry are 25 to 30.

After leaving the restaurant I went to the grocery store and, waiting in the checkout line, noticed that Jenna Bush is trying her hand as a freelance writer! Her byline is getting prominent placement on the cover of Southern Living.

It’s hard sometimes. Luckily there’s always the reading life.