Dear friend: publish a book perhaps for some the most important thing that comes to mind in life, although for the rest of the world it is not more than a trivial event. Books, and more than poetry, often passing through bookstores without penalty or glory, and that not to mention their scarce reviews. Inventory of city had only one that pleased me a lot because he appeared in a national newspaper, though in the end he not served neither to make me known nor so that the book be sold better. We published our first, second and third book and we are still almost as anonymous as always and older writers continue watching us with the same reservations. Great poets, and I mean people who truly changed literature, like Fernando Pessoa and Emily Dickinson, just if they edited in life, however, what would become of the universal literature without them. Emily Dickinson, we know from his letters, was angry with her sister-in-law for publishing without his consent a couple of his poems in a local newspaper. See your name in print not It ilusionaba to Emily.
Tell me that poets like Pessoa and Dickinson are exceptional. You concede absolutely right. For other mortals the subject is another. Publish is good because it imposes a necessary distance between what we do and what we are capable of doing. When I see my poem posted on a blog, in an anthology or a book, I don’t watch it as the same indulgence that I look at my children. I read it as if my worst enemy would have written it and try to be harsh in my trial, decrying it, burlandome and if necessary cursing him. I drove several of my poems to kicks and do not want them to see in my future books. Publish not means losing control over the same.