Some boxes arrived from the printer the other day. In them were copies of ESP: accumulation sonnets: a book written by me and designed by me and Mark Goldstein and published by BookThug. So now I've gone and done it. I've published myself. Again.

It's terrible. I'll be entered into that category of writers inhabited by the likes of Walt Whitman, Gertrude Stein, Virgina Woolf, bill bissett, bpNichol, Gwendolyn MacEwan, Victor Coleman and Stuart Ross to name a few -- poets who paid for their own work to be published or disseminated their work through publishing houses they either owned or worked for.

So why do I feel guilty?