Now Playing: Jane Austen’s Bookshelf (It’s on Libby, and I requested both it and the eBook, and this is what I ended up with. Not that I’m complaining about it.) I think we’re still on the introduction, and it’s one of those “Do I have any closets that need cleaning out for hours or should I go for a long walk? Because this, I want to keep listening to. Just give me an excuse.” It deals with the women writers who shaped Jane Austen and their erasure from remembered literature.

And this book is written by a book collector, which is a fascinating lens, though I’ve always resisted owning collectible books because I don’t want to be the guardian of something so fragile and I like to write in books and Word Raccoon does not need that temptation, no no. And because the written word is more sacred to me than its container. It’s an insult to the language to say otherwise.

Though of course I also get the aesthetics of a gorgeous book. As a matter of fact, I’ve been staring at a stunning set of books I received a couple of Christmases ago. But…If I read them, I’m gonna want to love them up with a pen. Let’s not even talk about the affectionate ruffling they’d receive from WR.

A friend, Rick Neumayer, sent me his new short story collection to comfort me after my mom’s passing, God bless him. Books don’t heal everything, but they certainly help. Especially his writing. I’ll post a review here in the coming weeks. He didn’t ask me to, but I want to. (And hey, I’ve linked his website. Buy any but preferably all of his books!)

I finally let Word Raccoon off the leash (not that she was ever really leashed, let’s be honest). I stopped trying to make my novel behave and gave her the wheel.

The result? The present-day timeline is now in first person, and I feel like someone’s taken the shrink wrap off my soul. There’s air getting in where it hadn’t before. There’s risk, sure, but also a thrill I haven’t felt about this thing in ages.

(I have not set myself an easy task with this novel, because, well, I’m me. I don’t always hit the mark, but I always have one in my sights. Let’s see what I can do with this.)

Word Raccoon is gleeful. She’s tearing through my scenes like a critter who’s just been handed the keys to the pantry. No more hiding behind polite third-person distance. No more trying to impress the imaginary Council of Serious Novelists. This is messier, wilder, and, for the first time in too long, fun.

I thought I was the one telling this story. Turns out, I’m just trying to keep up with my trash panda.

I wrote about 1500 words in my novel yesterday. Not bad considering I also wrote poems and a blog post. I’m feeling it in my hands but so what? We write on.

WR’s not wrong to get in there, head down, sawdust flying. With all of the sawing she’s doing, she’d better be wearing goggles.

She has turned up the temp on the very first page, which is…not what I expected.

The opposite of snowfall does not have to be a volcanic eruption, does it, Word Raccoon?

She’s glaring at me and laughing like she’s just had laughing gas. I AM NOT TELLING YOU ABOUT THE ONLY TIME I WAS GIVEN NITROUS OXIDE! TOO EMBARRASSING!

I’m not sure the trash panda understands just what kind of novel I intended to write. This is turning into a “book you don’t take home to mother,” when I meant for it to be all “Look at me, all able to write cool, refined language that doesn’t melt your face.”

I have a few lines that I’d like to crumple into poems tonight, but we’ll see. You know, those lines you capture because you’re like “oh my god, zing!”

One line is, are you ready for this, “Rusted Pot Smell.” Someone said that on a food video, and I’m like, “I wouldn’t have said that, but I know exactly what you mean by that.” And now I have to taste that line through my hands.

More lines I want to shape:

As if I didn’t already know

How many seconds old

You are. 

When those came into my head, I knew there was something tender behind them. Now I need to join them to more images, thoughts…something. But just those lines cause a little catch of my breath.

Looking over the poems I wrote, when, yesterday morning? The day before? ? They don’t have titles, but they are missiles. Dang, WR, you really need to bury those in the backyard before they detonate.

Although I must confess, she asked me the past tense of an impolite word.

Word Raccoon, stand in the corner and zip it.

We all know that’s not going to happen. (She put it in the poem anyway. I looked away.)

Anyway, there’s a line that I really, really like in one of the poems, but it’s an end-of-poem button, and it’s so good (unless it’s too harsh??) that I think I’d better sit on it for a bit.

Why is Word Raccoon suddenly craving a trip to an art museum? Oh…what couldn’t she do in Florence, in Rome? There’s a Kahlo exhibit of sorts at the Art Institute, Frida Kahlo’s Month in Paris: A Friendship with Mary Reynolds through July 13, 2025. Maybe there?

I’m afraid I’d have to blindfold WR if I took her there, now that she’s all aquiver, senses at the surface.

She’s quiet today. That’s because of a poem I wrote earlier – I wouldn’t let her anywhere near it and she’s pouting. I’ll try to write about that poem tomorrow, if I’m up to it. It was…intense.

Let’s put it this way: today I’ve been at the café writing since just before 9 this morning, and it’s now just past 2 pm and I have barely noticed time passing.

Like I said, intense.

I did submit four poems to journals today, mainly because I feel like I have this candy box full of assorted chocolates, and I want to share. Maybe one person won’t like an orange-filled center, but some of us do.