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
