(Also missing, inexplicably? Some of the letters for the above poster. But whatever.)

Now Playing: Hide and Seek. (See title.)

Okay, I’ve done it now. Word Raccoon is not speaking to me because I HAVE MISPLACED HER PINK POM POM EARRINGS. We went to find them this morning. They are nowhere to be found.

What’s worse, she skipped wearing a hat today specifically to wear those earrings. Now she has neither. And she is livid.

Are they in the van? No. One of my seventeen bags? (Barry asked me to pare down. I did. Until I didn’t.) Nope. In the writing room? Nightstand? Desk? No, no, no.

Sunporch? Reader, would I be writing this if they were?

I’m sure they’ll turn up. They must. And though they were handcrafted, I can probably buy a similar pair. But I’d rather not.

Stop hissing, WR. I said if need be.

Reader, if you see them, please let me know. I will reward you with my undying gratitude, a Snickers bar, and possibly a poem. (Substitutions available for those with nut allergies or genre preferences.)

Because of this tragic earring displacement (Ha! No vector quantity intended—though honestly, Word Raccoon is pure displacement), she has refused to write any poems today.

I managed to wrangle one and a half myself, but they’re squirmy. The one might end up titled Fountainhead, which feels too grand for a poem that includes stage directions and a water tank. The other is…naked. It needs both clothes and a reason for being.

But I don’t question the muse. That’s useless. I’m just the chosen mind-muppet. I do occasionally get tired of doing backflips, but I’m afraid if I stop, I’ll turn invisible again. And I could not bear that.

Not-as-Cutesy Interlude: This Is Me Yelling at Artists I Love

Okay, here it is. I know the rest of this post has been lost earrings and emotional varmints. But sit down, sweeties, because I’m feral about art and you need to hear this:

Performance art is lovely. Fleeting. A firework in July. But it fizzes and burns out. And we need that! We do.

But if you fancy yourself an artist, and you’re spending all your creative energy on vibes and charisma and charming your way through a room (yes, even with an instrument), where’s the legacy?

Where’s the sentence someone scribbles into the margin of their grief journal? Where’s the poem that makes a person late to dinner because they had to reread it just to survive?

I’ve heard lines that made me lose my breath and sent me running from rooms. Words braided into something almost holy. Words I wanted to tattoo on the inside of my wrist.

So. Sit your ass down and write it. Write my first tattoo. You can go with me while I get it. I am offering my skin for your words. It’s not like you can’t say I have no skin in the game.

(I don’t know whether or not I’m serious about that, so many limits apply. But slap some words on paper in front of me. Hell, include a freaky little drawing, and we’ll talk.)

Write the story. Write the messy half-draft. Write a song you’re not sure anyone will hear, but if you need an audience, I’m here.

Write a grocery list that ends with a line so honest you have to hide it in your pocket. (Is there such a line? Nothing’s too honest for me.)

If you’ve got the gift, use it. The world is already too loud with performance.

What it’s starving for is quiet brilliance tucked into a line break.

Yours. Recorded on paper, online. Wherever.

Now. Where are those blasted earrings?

(Maybe they’re hiding with the poems. Maybe they’re waiting to be found together. Ah, that sounds cozy.)