Now Playing:“She Cleans Up” by Father John Misty

Okay, heat, now it’s personal. Word Raccoon and I have not been to the dunes once this summer, and we are pissed.

Well, mostly we’re pissed. Also, we’re hot.

Remember my post the other day saying I’m fine sitting in the heat? No, really, I’m fine.

I am officially not fine now. How dare you, heat? 

I sat outside writing for a couple of hours yesterday morning. Why? Because being indoors feels like leaving recess early. Nothing smells, sounds, or looks the same inside. It’s like I’m being punished by the weather, like my senses are forced to nap when they’re not tired.

I am devoted to writing outdoors, but even a devotee can get heatstroke. Even if Word Raccoon’s earrings did get her free refills from the nice man at the cafe today. 

Also, a patron there on a motorcycle offered me a job. Alas, I do not have the required expertise, but it was kind of him to ask. Word Raccoon was miffed that he did not offer her a ride on his motorcycle. (Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have let her get on.)

Tentative Weekend Plans

Earlier today, I was full-on spiraling about my writing. Looking back at my notes from then, I have to laugh. Drema, knock it off. It’s not that serious. 

Except in the moment, it always is. Word Raccoon just stared at me with her big loving eyes and offered me half a Benadryl. It made me thirsty and sleepy, but no more spiral for the moment. Don’t worry, I don’t do this often, but at least I didn’t fling my MacBook into the street. (Hyperbole, I promise.) 

Let’s say I did actually, totally suck at writing and everything I’d ever written deserved to be purged from the earth; even then, so what? I would still be a human worthy of love. (Most days I know this.)

I’m the only one ever feels this way about ye olde writing abilities? Cool, cool…cool. That’s not embarrassing.😂

In other news, there is a huge grill in our dining room. Barry spent hours putting it together, and we’re supposed to take it for a spin today; I’ll just be relieved to get it out of the house. That’s not the statement piece I want to decorate around, you know? 

Word Raccoon says it might make a nice bed for her. If I see her fluffing pillows in it, I’ll worry. Who would sleep at the foot of the bed and wake me with poems and songs if she slept in it instead? 

Anyhow, we have tentative holiday weekend plans that all hinge on energy and the heat. 

Lucky you, this is helping me refine my list.

* See the latest Mission Impossible. (At this point in a franchise, I don’t bother learning titles. But I do like an action movie on occasion.)

* Grill for the weekend. Cook once, eat for days.

* Attend the fireworks. If it’s not too hot. 

* Toast marshmallows in the backyard. Thoroughly. She likes them charred. 

* Read. It’s been too long since I finished a whole book; I have three going right now and am actively ignoring titles the Libby app tells me it has ready for me. Sorry, hon, thanks but no.

* Convince someone to start rewatching Platonic with me. Season two is coming in August! It’s soo good!

* Bake brownies really early or really late in the day to avoid the heat. Add walnuts. Obviously. 

Writing Goals, (Semi) Lightly Defined

I’m trying to stay fully present this weekend, so I’m keeping my writing plans minimal:

* Write no more than five poems. (I wrote about twelve micropoems the other night without meaning to; thankfully, I found a lit journal seeking poems under fifty words. Fingers crossed.) 

* Finish a blog post on Anne Tyler. She’s one of my favorite authors, and she’s giving interviews again after years of avoiding the spotlight. Yay!!! 

* Revise five poems. Prepping for submission shows just how rough some of my drafts are. Word Raccoon, please add some meat to those bones!

* Submit poems to five journals. This doubles as sneaky revision time: if a poem needs more than a quick tweak, it goes back into the folder until it’s ready. If it’s close, we revise on the go. Still relying on my ear; not sure how else to know. 

Also, I received a cool award for my novel Southern-Fried Woolf. Later, Word Raccoon. We will share that another day but we are very pleased. (She’s twirling her whisk earrings with joy!) 

Confession: Travel Anxiety

This is normally a dunes weekend for us, but HEAT!

While I miss the dunes, I’m also slightly worried about traveling or having people I care about travel. It’s a superstitious, PTSD-like feeling. When we went to Mackinac Island in May, my mother’s health, while already poor, declined rapidly while we were gone, and days after we returned, she passed away.

Now I’m a little afraid my loved ones will disappear if we travel, and I’m also afraid for them to travel. I know it’s irrational, but anxiety usually is. 

Don’t worry. It’s just a background buzz.

And the summer isn’t over. I’m sure we’ll squeeze in a weekend or two at the beach. 

Do you think the waves miss me as much as I miss them? 

Poems in Progress

Here are the only new poems I’m allowing myself to work on this weekend unless words start spontaneously coming to me (and they might): 

* He Would Nevuh** (I have three stanzas so far.)

* One about Frida Kahlo. The working title sounds scandalous, so I’m keeping it private for now.

* A poem about our original family cemetery in West Virginia.

* A vague concept. Nothing to see yet. Just trying to write the uncapturable? 

* Why Scrambled Eggs and Other Tasteless Things. The title says it all.

And btw, I just opened my notes app and discovered five ideas for poems I wrote there just yesterday. NOOOO!! I think I’ve discovered an extra sense: poetry detector. Actually, I love it. 

Housework and a Secret Plan

Barry’s best friend is coming over to discuss music stuff with him one day this weekend. I’m happy about it for a few reasons: he’s a welcome guest, it gives us a good excuse to tidy up, and I can sneak in more writing time. I’ll visit with them, maybe eat with them, then hurry back to the keyboard with Word Raccoon. Shh…

She’s got poems to write, and, when she’s feeling less mortified about it, a novel to backspace, blinking on it like nobody’s business. (What does that even mean, WR? Eh, the wind knows.)

Catch you on the other side of the marshmallow roast. Unlike Word Raccoon, they’re vanilla flavored.