I’m working on a comic book.
I can’t tell you what it’s about—yet. But I can tell you the idea first came to me a couple of years ago while my husband and I were having lunch at Cardoso, a now-defunct local place that served great chimichangas and even better ambiance for impulsive creative sparks. The idea made me laugh out loud—still does. It’s strange, satirical, and deeply on-brand for me.

I’ve invited my comic-loving husband to collaborate on it. He’s thrilled, of course. He’s also allowed to tell his best friend—the one who adores comics almost as much as he does—but that’s it. For now. Consider this a soft launch whispered into the void.

It’s going to be a limited 6-issue series, and I already have summaries and loose outlines for each one. Which means—yes—I’m learning a whole new kind of writing. Even more compact than poetry, in a way. You have to rely on images more than words. Thankfully, I’m a visual queen. (Cue dramatic raccoon lighting.)

A friend I told—someone who doesn’t even like comics—said she’d read it. That vote of confidence is tucked in my pocket like a magic token.

And btw, it has no superheroes or characters from classic literature in it.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to give my novel its due, but for some reason, it feels far away at the moment. Maybe it’s the heaviness in my heart—a loved one is sick, and the worry doesn’t lift easily. Sleep comes late, and when it does, it’s restless.

But creativity, oddly, isn’t.

I’ve been writing poems at all hours of the night, waking to scribble down lines before they vanish. I suspect it’s the Word Raccoon again, that strange, protective little creature who guards my mind and heart when the world is too much. It’s hoarding scraps and stanzas, and I’m letting it.

Right now, it feels like my soul is in kindergarten. There’s finger painting and snack time and naptime (if only). I’m trying to stay present inside the bright corners when they appear.

And here’s the other truth: I have all these lovely books around me—books I’ve been longing to read—but reading doesn’t quite appeal right now. I’m reading a little, here and there, but not taking much joy in it. It’s like my reader-self is resting, too. I’m letting the books just be near me, more like company than obligation. I know I’ll be back to them when the time is right.

Meanwhile, tonight (Friday, actually — probably not posting this until Saturday), we’re letting a local fundraising meal do the cooking and heading to a wine tasting afterward. I did a quick yoga workout, paid the bills, and ran the dishwasher. I’m trying to adult. And honestly? My writing goes better when the house is clean.

The comic is happening.
The poems are happening.
And even if the novel is napping under a story-time rug somewhere, I trust it’ll stir when it’s ready.