Dear Reader,
Word Raccoon has been missing her poetry. But her attempts at writing it during the café’s last day were rather unsuccessful, so she gave up and went home after saying her goodbyes.
She does not like goodbyes.
She spent the rest of the day at home, submitting eight packets of poetry to journals while a handyman did some long-overdue and some exciting house repairs. (You’ll get the full list when he’s finished!) He was there so long that she almost asked the him if he required a cot. She did feed him a snack.
Submitting poetry means going back through old poems and smoothing their hair. WR was pleased to note that for the two themed submissions she had plenty of water-adjacent poems, as well as scents for the ones that required those.
She enjoyed revisiting her lovingly crafted poems, those more polished, those less so, too, but full of fire. It reminded her of all she loves best.
Then, she surprised me. While she sat nearby in case the handyman had questions (and he did), she applied for a six-week residency, even though she had to update her CV. Ugh. She despises fiddly paperwork, but I told her if she wants to go focus on her novel for a month and a half in a gorgeous wilderness (maybe, if she is fortunate enough to be chosen), it takes doing just what she was doing.
When I told her that we also had to choose a writing sample from Novel #3 for the application, she put her little furry nose in the air and declared it impossible to choose from some many pages.
She demanded chocolate in kind, then acted wounded and betrayed when I gave her a freeze-dried peppermint patty.
Yeah, it does sound better than it tastes, WR. LOL.
Pardon me, dear reader, if we seem off. I think we’re still feeling a bit overwhelmed by the closure of the café. Or this headache. Or the fact that sleep again is a phantom. We tried to write two poems about it so we could process the closure, but they were laughably bad.
Sometimes the writing just needs a break from itself. Or for itself.
So next week, there is no master plan. No “Where’s Waldo” hunting for the perfect spot. I’ll just let the writing day happen. Maybe I’ll write at the kitchen table. Maybe I’ll wander uptown if I need to clear my head. The world keeps moving, and so do we.
We all know that poetry is as free as the wind. Which is, much to our regret sometimes, as it should be.
Would we want it any other way?
Sometimes, sure. But there is a quiet kind of peace in just appreciating and letting things be what they are. 🙂
Remember that, WR.
Fondly,
Drema