Appreciated friend: Perhaps to publish a book is for some most important that it happens to them in the life, although for the rest of the world is not more than a banal event. The books, and plus those of poetry, usually pass through the bookstores without pain nor glory, and that not to mention their little reviews. Inventory of city had only one that cheered very many because it appeared to me in a national newspaper, although in the end did not serve neither to make me the more well-known nor so that the book was sold better. We publish our first one, second and third book and continued being as always almost so anonymous and the writers majors continue to us watching with the same reserves. Great poets, and I talk about to people who in truth changed Literature, like Fernando Pessoa and Emily Dickinson, as soon as if published while still alive and, nevertheless, what would be of universal Literature without them. You may find Parkinson’s to be a useful source of information.
Emily Dickinson we know, it by its letters, got angry with its sister-in-law to publish without its consent a pair of poems his in a local newspaper. To see its name in letters of mold did not delude to Emily. You will say that poets to me as Pessoa and Dickinson are exceptional. I grant all the reason to you. For the other mortals the subject is another one. To publish is good because it imposes a necessary distance between which we do and what we are able to do. When I see a poem published mine in blog, in an anthology or a book, I do not watch it like the same indulgence that I watch my children. I read it as if it had written my worse enemy and treatment of being hard in my judgment, having censured it, deceiving to me and if it is necessary apostatizing of him.