I remember going to bookstores, always among my favorite places, and restlessly searching among the poetry books, for something, something, an indefinite object of desire, some electric word. Since I was often then in relatively small towns, the poetry selection even at the best bookstores was often limited, but there would be usually something that I would be interested in or decide to take an interest in (an important distinction, that which sparks you and that which seems like it might yield a match or two).
But on these occasions that I am remembering, no matter what books were available, nothing would do. At a certain point, I realized that what I was looking for was the book that I had to write; the words were in me, incipient, asleep, waking up in that mood of restless disquiet. So in a sense, that restlessness, that disquiet, something like a storm gathering on the internal horizon is always the beginning—this electrical field that is gathering within me."