i missed the news that diane middlebrook, one of my favorite professors, became an emerita last year. phooey, as i had big plans to force my sister into her plath and hughes class. on the other hand, viking is to publish a marriage of true minds (on those crazy poets) this year; if it holds a candle to her work on anne sexton, buy buy buy.
on biography. i chucked aside my publisher's proof of the disastrous mrs. weldon, an utterly uninspired treatment of a peripheral victorian naughty girl. the copy was free, you see, and i thought it might be exciting to read it before an editor came through. pleh, however. source material was apparently so scarce that the author resorted to nonsense like "thackeray's daughter was roughly georgiana's age at roughly the same time, and she too had blue shoes". i moved on into an edna st. vincent millay biography; this one looked like high cheese, but it's tasty. no lack of material on vincent, who posed for naughty photos with her husband and is said to have seduced most of north america. does one become a bombshell after recognition as a poet, or is that supposed to come first? i'm eyeing the red hair dye again, eyeing it and planning.
on middlebrook. i've yet to find a template to help me explain that she should accept me as her serf, read my poetry, and maybe write to grad schools on my behalf. the plan is to be honest about my professional crush and hope that she's willing to speak with me. if that fails, i enjoy housework.
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