Reading one’s old words baffles like a carnival funhouse with its warped reflections. How to square the I that composed, the I that judges, and the I that referees? Can I judge myself justly? Who’s to judge the judge? 

                  I open my “Works” file with trepidation. “Works,” granted, is a pompous denominator for four decades of unpublished tomes, but can’t dreams preen in private? I never wrote for a living but to live, to balance on words like a bongo board, to stay sane and inch myself toward sage. My “Works” file, like Emily Dickinson’s trunk, would be discovered posthumously – or not – I’d never know. Poets rake in psychic remuneration in excess of any money. More than composers, painters, sculptors, makers of other sorts, we can envision our words’ eventual vindication for they don’t rot in the dark. If they’re good, they might get better. Emily is, of course, our patron saint, but our late-bloomers’ club includes plenty of standouts. Thoreau sold two thousand copies of Walden – over five years! The poems of John Donne, George Herbert, Gerard Manley Hopkins only appeared after they disappeared. Herman Melville died forgotten. Stendahl predicted he’d be a hit forty years after he hit the dust – and so it was. 

                  Such dreams are a poet’s comfort food. More than content composing for no current eyes, I’ve been jolly. Unpublished how could I fail! Better yet, I could fantasize any rivals kicking themselves – posthumously, natch – as I sped from behind in the race to endure.

                  But then you arrived – readers! – who might enjoy my words while I was still making them. And the Internet – which permitted publication without the cooperation of profit-seeking publishers – at a modest cost, if the author’s paid nothing (which we mostly are). And then I foresaw my kids confronting a six-million-word pile of dead dad to dispose of, a cruel bequest. Finally, my words gazed at me with eyes sadder than Henry’s begging for treats: Don’t we deserve our chance? 

                  Today commences Carll’s Book of the Month Club, wherein these buried masterpieces come to light, one a month. I’ve got the first two years lined up, so the flow may outlast its faucet. We’re including these e-books as a subscriber benefit, hoping to grow the Good Morning Project faster. We’re also planning a monthly Zoomed confab to discuss the work and eventually podcasts, if they’re of interest.

                  Our project obliges me to revisit critically what delight produced. Opening an old text, my heart’s in my throat. What if my creation, fondly recalled, proves crud?  If revision’s required, how can I return to being the scribbler I was? I tiptoe warily to work, spooked by risk.

                  So far so good. The first six books have engaged me on reacquaintance. A few tweaks here and there but nothing dire. If calamity’s in store, it must wait till spring.

                  My deepest dread has been averted: that I will detest this author. Maybe he was full of himself or mean-spirited or, the worst, a bore! Maybe he was riddled with prejudices he did not detect. The danger remains that I will go too easy on my former self in psychic self-defense. A maker is, after all, his works: isn’t hating them hating oneself?

                  I doubt that will happen. I’ve critiqued too many words to concoct a separate standard for myself. I can face the music – praying that it is music. Join me in this unusual adventure if you feel like it. It might be fun.