Now Playing: “Kiss Me” – Sixpence None the Richer

I forgot how much I love this one. The video’s a soft homage to Jules et Jim—Truffaut’s bittersweet tale of art and longing. I couldn’t skip it!

Poetry and I Might Be at a Crossroads

After a wild, exhilarating couple of weeks, poetry and I are… reassessing.
It’s been dreamy—intense even. Poems scribbled at midnight, two a.m., whenever, titles arriving during errands, metaphors sneaking in like stray cats. (Also, yes, I know that’s a simile. Let me have this one. The raccoon was typing.)

But now? Things are getting serious. And serious means messy.

The poems are everywhere. Notes app. Email drafts. Random files with names like “ThisOneMaybe_FINALfinal.” Now I have to decide—do I share them? Keep them private?
Do I send them out or let them keep whispering just to me?

(I know sharing via publishing isn’t the same as selling out, but it feels like it. That’s always been a big snag for me in the creative process. Writing is sacred to me.)

Of course, the Word Raccoon is staying. She’s chaos, sparkle, and caffeine—my not-so-unofficial creative director.

But Sunday? Something strange happened that makes me wonder about me and poetry.

I was sitting on the porch, novel file newly open, sunlight landing just right, new pompom earrings practically applauding the weather.

And I felt it.

A sudden surge—something fast, familiar, and just a little electric.
The muse, maybe. Or a memory. Something poetic speeding past.

Whatever it was, it gave me the push I needed and made me pedal back into the novel—but I brought poetry’s rhythm with me. That’s allowed, right? It feels right. And there’s also some righteous anger at my novel because where the hell has it been, eating asada fries on the stoop?

Poetry, however? Even if you did start out as an invitation to the Waffle House, a friendly round of fisticuffs between poets just to get writing, this is a home for wayward and unwanted talent. I’ve fixed you a bed on the porch. I’m not even going to put up a flyer for your return. You live here now.

Some of your siblings are already here wearing pink sunglasses and eating barbecue chips. As one does. As one does. Perhaps they’re riding vespas you know where, too.

Working title for my next collection: Waxing the Parasitical Muse. Which is… a lot. Maybe it fits? At any rate, it’s pure raccoon.

I’m off to flip a coin: poem or novel today? IDK…poetry’s fun, but a lot of maintenance. But I could be convinced.