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Now Playing: The sound of the fan overhead. Because I’m too tired for anything else.

Look, I know what you’re thinking. But this isn’t that kind of blog.

I’m just saying: my novel is big, hard to maneuver, and no matter how I position it, it never quite fits where I think it’s going to end up.
(Actually, I love my mattress. I complain when we’re not home because I miss my bed.)

Some days, I manage to inch it forward, a few lines at a time. Other days, I find myself wedged between the banister of what-this-novel-could-be and the wall of what-it-currently-is.

This is the part of the process I always forget about. The awkward stage. The flailing, illogical middle. The place where I no longer have the wide-eyed energy of a fresh idea, or the smug satisfaction of a final draft, but instead inhabit a kind of narratively ambiguous purgatory.

The characters squint at me. The timelines cross their arms. Minor characters insist there’s no such thing. Love storylines ask to speak to the manager.

And yet, I love this mattress. It began as a picnic blanket on the ground, a thin spread that couldn’t hold any weight, and I built it with batting and layers.

I asked myself, “What is there to notice? What needs to be captured about what is happening? Whose story is not being recorded? What truth is being neglected?”

And I started writing. I may be capturing the last gasps (cliche but tired, so). I may be snapping word photos of a world I have loved and have benefited from that others may never experience. I may be writing large the literary powers of love.

Gotta make this short—Barry and I are prepping for a quick trip to the island later this month where a certain author wrote about an Anne.
No, not that island, and no, not that Anne. But we’re still excited.

In preparation, I’m reading Anne, the 1880 novel by Constance Fenimore Woolson, which takes place on Mackinac Island and doesn’t get nearly enough credit.

I saw Woolson’s grave in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome a few years back, and something about that quiet patch stayed with me. Like she was still waiting to be read.
I remember saying I wasn’t familiar with her work, and yet I didn’t forget her.

They were watering the area where her grave was, and it was so complicated—to see the modern green hose feeding the greenery and be grateful for the care, and yet irritated at the disruption while we walked the cemetery. I have photos, I swear, but where?

So I’m reading Woolson now. Or soon, anyway.
Before the ferry, before the fudge.

Would you like me to bring you some back?

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Meanwhile, back in the Word Raccoon burrow:

Even though it’s been submission hell week, I’ve written a few new poems:
The Gaze, Praying Chicken, Drafting, Bobsledding to Hell, and an unexpected, tender one called Red Vests at Odd Times this morning that crept out as solemnly as a choir boy and asked if he could sing. I was astonished at his tribute and gladly transcribed, as I agree with him.

There’s also an untitled one featuring Sid and Nancy—arriving with its own strange little energy in which Word Raccoon threatens to jump a train and is offering tickets.

I’m also working on a humor essay (because apparently I think I’m an octopus. Word Raccoon does not like that.)

Word Raccoon, for her part, is furious. She’s been mostly sitting in the corner all day, arms crossed, clicking her pen like a threat.
She is not impressed.
“This is not the vibe,” she’s muttered more than once.
I’m hoping next month, WR. I really am.

Also—note to self: I’ve reluctantly accepted that Mondays are now at-home writing days since the café decided it needs a rest.
Fair. So do I.
But I miss the caffeine buzz and eavesdropping opportunities.

Still, I’m digging my home porch as a place of writing perfection—while it’s cool enough out, anyway.

There’s the rest of the week for coffee, right?
And who knows? Maybe my novel just needs a vacation.
Or maybe I do.

Which is to say: the novel’s not done. But it’s not dead.
It’s just heavy. But alive. And trying to get up the damn stairs. Which it will, eventually.

You don’t have to help me carry it. But unless you’re Ross, you could at least quit yelling “Pivot!” at me.