A Writer's Notebook, One-Thousand-Seven-Hundred-And-Ninety-Three

I have had a very long and rather frustrating day, including some really infuriating revelations.  I was finally able to go up to my office and I found that my poetry books were simply dumped into haphazard piles so that the shelves could be moved.  I was told explicitly that they would be fine and I did not need to move them, that the shelves would be left in place and covered with plastic to protect everything.  It is all a disaster and I am really upset about it.  My poetry books have a huge amount of value to me on so many levels, especially because many of the books are personally inscribed, often by writers with whom I have had some type of acquaintancesbip.  I haven't had the strength to start going through everything, but I can see from just a cursory overview that the books are going to be a mess, with at least some damaged.  It is just too much to even contemplate dealing with tt right now.

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