I was in the library today, reading poetry . . .
—————-. . . when I was supposed to be writing prose.
I found a poem called “Berryman,” by W.S. Merwin.
Here’s the last seven lines . . .
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can’t
you can’t you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don’t write