Dear Reader,
This morning began in the blue chair. Tea in hand, book in lap, rain doing its persuasive drip: stay home; stay cozy.
I had the vague and lofty intention of making oatmeal, which made Word Raccoon’s ears perk up.
But oatmeal is not always to be trusted.
If I make it in the microwave for speed and ease, the bowl is never big enough no matter how large or hopeful the bowl and, let’s face it, I feel like I’m half assing it if I do that. If I make it on the stovetop, it takes just long enough for something to go wrong, or nearly wrong, or to feel like it might go wrong.
So instead, in what I can only describe as a small act of genius, I warmed a Clif Bar in the microwave and added peanut butter. And Reader, I tell you: it was almost like oatmeal. Warm, soft, slightly sweet, and, most importantly, reliable.
There is something to be said for choosing what works over what is ideal. I know it sounds…improvised, but I’m kinda proud. WR approved.
I caught Maureen Corrigan’s review of Yesteryear on Fresh Air. Just a few sentences, really, but enough to suggest that the book might have ambitions beyond snark. And while I enjoy a good bit of snark as much as anyone, I found myself curious about what else it might attempt. (I’m still reading Still Life and my god, I might be in love with a book.)
From there, I found myself in a familiar negotiation with Word Raccoon: whether or not to go to the café. I like the idea of being there, of seeing and possibly being seen, of sitting among other lives in motion. Of listening in when I’m not actively writing.
But the café is always cold, persistently, and I am not at my best when I am shivering over my own ambitions. It was 67 here the other day. So I took extra time getting ready, putting on layers like it’s winter.
I submitted a packet yesterday to a place I didn’t realize was even open (and closing!) to submissions. I ended up adding three poems to the chapbook God Blinked for length, and turns out, they very much belonged.
Today, I have four submissions on the calendar IF I get around to them, among the other “these things, too, must be done.”
To be honest, I want to wrap myself in Pity the Fool and put on my slippers and read with a pot of tea. It’s the perfect day for it.
After. After the “musts.”
Parking at the cafe this morning was a headache because of the chitty chat crew, as WR is sulkily calling them today, and our timing sucks because we are the queen of almost and we are pouty about it. Very.
Well, at least we got a glimpse of a good parking space, even if we stared longingly after the space we wanted. It’s the perfect space. Sigh.
Let’s write, now, shall we? Or submit?
Oh, and also, my poem. “Any Color,” is now live over at whimperbang. Many thanks to them for including my work in this issue alongside such other stellar work. I’ll write about my poem tomorrow. Much to say. https://whimperbang.com/issue-28/drema-drudge/.
Yours,
Drema
dremadrudge.com 