Adventures in Rejection, Rhythm, and Hairy Candy Bars

Now Playing:
“Black Horse and the Cherry Tree – KT Tunstall
(For anyone who’s ever rage-Googled drum kits, written poems mid-lasagna, or accidentally gotten rejected for something they didn’t submit.)

I don’t know how to tell you this, but the Word Raccoon wants drums.

Not metaphorical drums. Not “drumming up excitement” or “marching to the beat of her own literary cadence” drums. No, she wants actual drums.

Not just any drums, either. Not electronic ones, thank you very much, despite her husband’s perfectly rational offer. No, no. The Word Raccoon wants Pearl drums or the like. Real ones. Loud ones. Ones you can beat and thrash, presumably in a garage while wearing fingerless gloves and processing poetry rejections through percussion.

And here’s the thing: she’s never wanted drums before. Never once gazed longingly at a drum kit or air-drummed while stuck in traffic. But today? She wants them like her next breath.

This is, frankly, an escalation.

So I did the reasonable thing and told myself: Let’s breathe. Let’s just get the guitar out. Restring it. See if we even remember how to play an E minor.

Which, let’s be honest, if you can’t remember E minor—the saddest, easiest chord known to humankind—you may have forgotten everything. Like… which end of the guitar goes up? Where’s the music supposed to come out? Do I strum it, or offer it a poem and see what happens?

The Word Raccoon, meanwhile, is not interested in E minor. She is sketching out blueprints for a drum heist. She’s found a local musician on FB Marketplace who might have what she needs (“Lightly used kit, needs love and fingerless gloves”) and is calculating whether she can fit the entire set in the back of the Town and Country if she folds down the rear seats. (She’s sure she could.)

She does not want electronic drums. She does not want your quiet, convenient, compromise. The Word Raccoon wants thunder. She wants cymbals that crash like a nervous breakdown. She wants to rage in 4/4 time along with Nirvana and STP until the neighbors file a complaint.

We do not question the Raccoon when she gets like this. We hide the credit cards, unplug the Wi-Fi, and remind her that she still claps on the ones and threes at concerts. (That’s a lie, Word Raccoon has more rhythm than I do, and I don’t do that.) But she is undeterred. She’s already packed snacks for the road trip.

And yes, before anyone panics, the Raccoon has been gently reminded that I have an autoimmune disease that affects my joints. That maybe drumming for hours like an angsty teen in a garage band isn’t exactly in my ergonomic best interest. She considered this. She nodded solemnly. Then she started Googling “best drum aids for people with arthritis.”

And maybe that’s the point: I like to paint with my fingers, too. Often with a brush, sure—but often I need to touch the thing I’m making. To smear color around until it means something. Maybe this sudden longing to drum is part of that same impulse. To hit something, yes—but also to feel it hit back. To make a sound. To make something with my hands. Which is ironic, because technically, isn’t writing making something with my hands?

Anyway, speaking of rhythm and rejection…

I got my first poetry rejection!
Which would be perfectly ordinary—except for one thing: I never actually submitted the poem.

Apparently, I began a submission on Submittable, the place where all things submission live nowadays, then must’ve hit the literary equivalent of “snooze” because I forgot to finish. Didn’t attach anything. Didn’t click send. But that didn’t stop the editors. No ma’am. They looked at my blank file and said, “Yeah… not for us.”

And I kinda love that?

I feel like I should be offended. Or at least mildly perturbed. But honestly, I’m impressed. They rejected the vibe of my submission. The aura. The faint poetic whiff of something I didn’t even send. Iconic. Maybe it’s a warning about me and my poetry. Maybe I just won’t listen.

Anyway. The Word Raccoon is still refreshing Reverb listings. I’m going to tune my guitar and see what happens. Oh wait, I don’t even know how to change guitar strings. (Ok, I do, but also, I don’t, as in, I’ve watched it many a time but I never have.) But I know a guy…

In the meantime, here’s a poem.
It has vending machines. It has Eden. It has… hair. You’ve been warned. (Google it if you want – the subject is a real thing. Gasp.)

And that turn at the end—I promise it makes sense in my head, and it led to another poem.

(I’m gonna do it, so this is really a moot point to make—but still…)

But I’m wondering: should I invert the two things in that last stanza?

How do you write poetry in isolation and not wonder how to do it? If you’re doing it right.

I mean, I have poet friends. I could ask them.

But wouldn’t that break the spell?

And also, it occurs to me—I tend to like doing things without an objectively “correct” result.

Maybe being a creative just means I’m an incompetent who doesn’t want to be judged in other lines of work. Nah, that can’t be it because I do other lines of work.
(Insert multiple cry-laughing faces here, reader friend!)

Or maybe I just have a “don’t tell me what to do” streak a mile wide.
Eh. It’s genetic.

Heck, we were watching TV yesterday and I wrote a poem based on a line I heard. Could—could this be a disease, y’all?

If so, I don’t want to be cured.

(Can you tell I’m 42% through John Green’s Everything Is Tuberculosis? I saw yesterday that he’s giving a talk in Indy, and my first thought was: no.
But also yes.
But also it’s a school night.
But I’m not in school.
But also no.
But… maybe?

My husband—saint that he is—offered to take me. Said he’d use a vacation day. We’ll see. The Word Raccoon is still deliberating.)

With no further ado, this furry fellow:

Eden Meets the Vending Machine

And now I live
in the world
where there are hairy
candy bars.

I can’t unsee that.

Here.
You peek, won’t you?

Apparently it’s like
cotton candy or some sh*t—
but that’s not
what it looks like
to me.

Might’ve actually
cured me
of my chocolate addiction.

Why do we not
Equate
Frankenstein’s monster
with Eden.

Am I right?

P.S. Yesterday was Mother’s Day (today in blogland), and let me tell you—my husband’s lasagna and cherry cheesecake were transcendent. Like, write-a-sonnet-about-them good. Wicked played on the screen, the Word Raccoon took a nap, and somehow, I still got some writing in. A day with joy, sugar, and sentences? That’s pretty much the dream.