Now playing: “You and I” Wilco / Feist

A huge thank you to the weather for finally allowing comfortable outdoor writing again. I’ve been back on the porch, watching cabbage butterflies flit, and the neighbor’s cute black dog act unruly and adorable, and honestly, isn’t that the best kind of doggy?

Reader, I’ve been wary around dogs since childhood. I was bitten by the family dog, not a strange dog, mind you, but our family dog, which makes it worse and probably explains why the fear lingered.

Still, I’ve grown braver. I can read dog body language better now, though basso profundo barking still makes me shiver.

A man and his dog, a boxer named Otto, came by the cafe, and the dog licked my feet under the table. Yes, really. Years ago, I might’ve fainted. But instead, I was grossed out and laughed in equal measures. I even pet him. Word Raccoon might’ve nudged me to do it. Or maybe it was something else. 

Just because I’ve been scared of dogs doesn’t mean I don’t like them. The nice ones. Especially Otto, now.

Now, none of that was what I meant to say. I blame the steroids. (Side effects possible. Watch out, world.)

My doctor prescribed a steroid for my fingers, which I started today. The pain’s lessened a bit and typing this is easier.

Might be the acetaminophen I’m also taking, since I threw out my back on Friday.  Sigh. 

Still, I made it to the café yesterday to write, where the cook greeted me with a warm “You’re back,” and a berry banana bowl.

The barista kindly opened my pill bottle for me. (Embarrassing? Yes. Was I grateful? Also yes.)

On Monday, writing outdoors at the Monday Cafe, I was hailed by a stranger who asked, “Are you Drema?”

Obviously, yes.

She quoted part of a passage from Victorine, my first novel, something unforgettable, she said. Something true. It was about mothers and daughters, parents and children, so we started talking about mothers and daughters. She’s a writer, too.

Here’s what she quoted (well, part of it because who would memorize something that long, right?):

I almost didn’t include that last sentence here because it takes it from the universal to the particular, but also, I want to show that for all of her understanding (and I stand by my words), Victorine still longed to understand and to be close to her mother.

Back to the encounter. 

The woman and I traded poems, poets, TV shows, and writing resources. She recommended a poet to me (Andrea Gibson, amazing – how have I missed their writing?), and I gave her a book rec. We connected on Facebook, though she’s of the generation that barely uses it now. She thought I was her age. I told her my actual age. She’s 40.

I wish I were still 40.

(It reminded me of turning 40 myself: my classmates sang to me, one student brought homemade biscuits in to celebrate, and the professor didn’t seem to mind. Sweet memory.)

All of that to say: I’m not telling this to humble-brag about my writing (okay, Word Raccoon admits, maybe a little), but because it meant so much. To hear that your words made a difference to someone? That’s an author’s dream.

She doesn’t live here, the woman who stopped by my table, but she has family who does. I felt as if I knew her with just that limited interaction. I hope we cross paths again; I have a feeling we will keep in touch. 

I wrote a new poem yesterday, “I’m Best Friends with My Brain,” though the title might change and WR is protesting that she’s my best friend. It’s miles from being finished.

Also revised “Gone Gray.” It features Syd and Nancy. It’s getting closer; it’s one of those I want to get just right, if I can. I may have moved the words around too much today. Did I save the first draft? 

I also created a Google Drive folder for my Sears poems (no chapbook title yet). 

One’s about a childhood game with the Sears catalog I did that spoiled the Christmas magic a little. (I was just too smart for my own good. Good news? I don’t think anyone figured out what I was doing.) 

Another’s about my first bra, a Wonder Woman bra from Sears, with patriotic colors and white stars that I was proud of, but was also told to hide (because “young lady,”) which I did, though not without mental protest, anyway. It was cute!  And how come Wonder Woman got to show HER outfit?

Though come to think of it, I might’ve had more restraint then. A decade ago, I showed a new pink bra strap to my director at work, “Look how pretty this is!,”I said to her, not noticing a male coworker sitting nearby. Oops. We laughed. 

Word Raccoon says she wasn’t there so I can’t blame the strap showing on her and, for the record, doesn’t want a damn dog. (I think she’s jealous.) Also, she might be the one experiencing the steroid side effects.

My husband’s been warned to stay alert for the next few days just in case I turn into She-Hulk.

I think I saw him quietly lining up some outdoor projects. And he said “yes” very fast to a last-minute Saturday night gig. Not that I blame him. Who knows what the next few days hold? 

Whatever happens, it’s on WR, who keeps saying stop that! She refuses to take responsibility for this post or any superhero antics. LOL.

I won’t go Saturday, but I also won’t write more Bonnie & Clyde flash fiction while he’s gone. That’s not going to become a habit just because my chest stops up sometimes with prolonged absence and won’t let me type some nights.

(Though I will write on Saturday evening. Because, obviously. I will just demand a conference with the muse so I can write. Ha! As if it were that easy.)

Word Raccoon had a conversation with poetry last night.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “What do you want?”

Poetry wants a room in the house, it said. Not the whole thing. Just a room.

It knows I’m a novelist first. But it wants to stay a while. It’s asking for something, not everything.

My sun porch has already been claimed, though there might be some room for a pallet, if you ask real nicely. The swing is a cozy resting place, too.

Let the negotiations begin, Poetry. Apply in person, preferably. Paper airplanes acceptable, if necessary; experienced birbs only.