The calendar doesn’t move the way it used to. Now it has spikes embedded in it.

Dates arrive with weight already attached. Birthdays. Death days. Anniversaries. Holidays that still show up but don’t bring everyone with them. I feel them coming sometimes before I remember them.

The calendar remembers every damn thing.

Today (Sunday) would have been my sister Tammy’s birthday. My eldest sister. 

So we went out to the cemetery, cleaned things up a little, talked to her like we always do.

A vase on her grave had broken, likely in the last windstorm. A stake in the ground was bent. I straightened what I could. I wanted it to look right before her daughter came out later.

While we were there, we cleaned my parents’ bench too. Wiped it down. Threw away old and worn decorations that had stayed too long in the weather. Said hello to the rest of the family. 

It may seem silly, decorating graves. But it feels like something you can do when you can’t do anything else.

Just a few days before that, St. Patrick’s Day came and went. That used to be my parents’ anniversary.

The dates keep coming whether I’m ready or not. I’m trying not to be overly dramatic, but some sting more than others, and I haven’t figured out yet which ones are going to catch me by the throat. 

Today, after the cemetery I sat on the porch in the gorgeous sunshine finishing George Saunder’s Vigil because it is due back to the library tomorrow and can’t be renewed.

That felt apt, although it was simultaneously a tough read for today. But I finished the short novel. (I was 50 pages in and it’s only just over 170 pages, so I couldn’t see taking it back when I was already so far in.)

In Vigil, someone looks back on a life from the edge of it, trying to understand what mattered and what can’t be changed. It circles the idea that everything was inevitable, even as it leaves room to wonder if that’s comfort or something else. (I’m intentionally being vague.) 

There’s talk of inevitability. Of “elevation,” a slippery term in the novel that I’m not sure is ever completely defined in it. (Maybe it was; I wasn’t reading as carefully as usual today.) What I got out of the word is basically spiritual transcendence, getting “above” life, mercy, something like that?  

I kept wondering who the comforter (Jill “Doll” Blaine)  was trying to comfort when she said everything was inevitable. 

There were things hinted at in her former life that we could only feel. Things she may not have wanted to look at directly. 

And I found myself thinking that maybe the way the word elevation is used in the story could be termed as denial, just as “inevitability” may well be a way of trying to escape responsibility. 

Or maybe they’re both something softer than that and I can’t see it today. Maybe it’s just the only way a person can keep going. (Does that make sense?)

The book was a little like As I Lay Dying, a little stream of consciousness, and a lot like Lincoln in the Bardo, Saunder’s first novel. Inventive, descriptive. You have to pay attention, unless you just ride the stream. That’s an option. 

Grief doesn’t accept stage directions. If it did, I would have given it marching orders. As it is, I try to dance with it instead, even though I alternate on days like this between tears and grumpiness. 

Grief doesn’t rise where you expect it to rise or resolve where you think it should. It doesn’t care that the library book is due tomorrow. It doesn’t wait until you’re ready to feel it. And the year doesn’t smooth itself back out. The calendar remembers for me.

I try to honor the family in the ways that are still available. Cleaning. Straightening. Showing up. Saying their names out loud.

And I try to be patient with myself on the days when I’m off.  I don’t know if that’s elevation or denial. I just know it’s what I have. It doesn’t change anything. But it matters.

That brief book review in the middle of this post is not meant disrespectfully; that’s just my way of handling the loss. 

After slipping the library book in the dropbox (they have a hold ready for me to pick up tomorrow, a juicy one, so I can’t have any overdue items out and I wouldn’t anyway), I took advantage of my remaining restlessness to drop some items off at a donation bin and vacuum and wash my car. 

My heart still aches, but they haven’t invented a wash for that yet, not that I know of. 

I admit it: I am breadcrumbing HelloFresh. I buy a box or two. I call it off. They email me. Text me. I leave them on read

But also? I’m still thinking about them.

I click on everything they post. Ah, mangoes this week. 

Wait, are they making One-Pan Mango Pork Salsa Tacos with someone else? Who is that in the background? Enlarge, enlarge… have they replaced me?

Is someone else eating their Ancho BBQ Burgers with Bacon? I thought that was our dish.

I definitely didn’t venge-text Blue Apron, “wyd?”

When I do go back (and we both know it’s when, not if), I’m going to insist on that deep discount and free shipping they keep dangling.

Every time I tell them we’re through (we’ve broken up more often than Kelli and Ryan on The Office), they try to be mature and ask: What could we have done better?

I try the “it’s me, not you,” before admitting, “Okay, it’s mostly you.” I only like prescriptive meals for a limited time. By week’s end, I’m freewheeling with the remaining ingredients: cilantro potato soufflé in tortillas? 

No?

Speaking of, there’s always too much cilantro. Ditto garlic. 

Also? I hate that you don’t put “use by” dates on ground beef.

What if I don’t cook it tonight? Is tomorrow too late? The day after? I need to know!

And no, I don’t want your prepared meals. Jesus. You’re better than that.

That time you forgot my almonds and credited my account instead of sending them out? I didn’t want digital jewelry. I wanted my pumpkin spiced almonds! I’m kinda not over that.

You email me. Text me. Mail me letters. That almost always sends me to your website, and you know it.

You say I’ll be back.

Maybe. 

Because I already miss your Fully Loaded Beef Taquitos. 

Too bad you gave me the recipe. I can make them by myself without having to use scissors to open every one of the ten tiny packets. 

I admit it: the first few days after the box arrives, I can’t keep my hands off it. You promise layered flavors, new techniques. You deliver.

Even with the ever-present sour cream, you still surprise me. That Crispy Chicken Milanese? Well okay…

You’ll keep working me with discounts, thirst-trap photos of butternut ravioli, drizzled with brilliance and a hint of nutmeg.

You’ll catch me on a random late August afternoon and I’ll picture it: just the two of us in the kitchen, that huge recipe card I didn’t ask for but don’t hate, even if it’s a waste of paper.

I’ll cave. My fingers will say what my mind refuses. I’ll accept your free shipping and be deep into debating pasta or chicken before I know it.

And if I don’t get back to you soon enough and you presumptuously send me a fricking box you picked out while I’m on vacation and Word Raccoon gets into it and strews trash across the yard?

No. We’re done.

Hmm… What’s this gift card in the mail?

Not my fingers texting: You up, Babe?

Now Playing: something low and ominous, probably with a cello that knows too much.

At approximately 2:12 PM, the poem, “Christmas Feels Like You,” was last seen intact.

Witnesses report it was doing well. Not perfect, but breathing. A little wordy, perhaps. A touch indulgent in the second stanza. Title feeling a touch ornamental on its head, but stable.

Hopeful, even.

At 2:14 PM, the editor/poet (dba Drema Drudge) entered the scene.

She carried scissors.

She said things like “just a quick trim,” “let’s beta test a new title,” and “we’re only tightening the ends.”

The poem did not resist.

Oh, reader, it trusted her.

At 2:19 PM, Word Raccoon was spotted nearby.

No one knows who let her in.

Security footage shows her rifling through metaphors, stuffing half-rhymes into her cheeks, muttering something about “streamlining the narrative” while actively making it worse.

At 2:23 PM, the first cuts were made: Snip, snip to “My mind adds synapses and synopses.” 

No one objected to that cut.

A line here.
A phrase there.

The title hit the floor, splitting the kitchen linoleum. Said title was quickly replaced with “No Crib for a Bed,” which WR, perched on a nearby light fixture, was no more pleased with. 

An entire image was quietly escorted out the back door.

“It’s cleaner this way,” the editor said as she held the scissors aloft.

The already slim poem began to lose what little volume remained.

At 2:27 PM, things escalated.

Word Raccoon seized the scissors.

Witnesses describe the scene as “aggressive shaping.”

Chunks removed without consultation.
Syntax rearranged mid-breath.
One particularly good line about hay… gone.

“No one even knows what it said anymore,” reported a witness, visibly shaken.

At 2:31 PM, the poem attempted to speak.

It managed only fragments.

A clause.
A whisper of what used to be a metaphor.
The ghost of a rhythm.

At 2:35 PM, the poem was pronounced unpublishable.

Cause of unusability: over-editing.

Contributing factors include:

Unsupervised trimming

Editorial overconfidence

Raccoon interference

Authorities would like to remind the writing public that revision, while necessary, should be handled with care.

Step away from the scissors periodically.
Check for a pulse.
If the poem begins to look “neater” but feel emptier, you may already be too late.

Word Raccoon remains at large.  

She was last seen dragging a stanza into the woods, insisting it “needed one more pass.” If seen, consider her armed and dangerous, but only to poetry. 

King Tuff has a new album coming out.
Is that a “Bad Thing?” 

I swear, that video is so campy.

But “How I Love,” there’s the porch song for me.

I only found out about his new album last night, which feels exactly right, like hearing music through a wall and realizing it’s been playing for a while without you. I haven’t really kept up with him since I saw him live with Father John Misty in 2018.

I remember enjoying him then. Not politely. Actually enjoying him.

Apparently, this new album was written to be fun to perform live. That’s so cool. There’s something honest about writing toward the body and interaction instead of the chart. Toward movement, noise, presence, and connection.

I’ve been trying to rediscover him a little today. I made a playlist. I’m also listening to Smalltown Stardust, which I think I kinda love.

Meanwhile, yesterday, I started editing another chapbook. This time seriously.
Inconveniently Alive. It certainly is. Alive.

I wrote most of it back in the winter, during one morning/afternoon when Word Raccoon was shouting at me for trying to cork her, but now I’m looking at it with a different kind of attention. Less like “what is this?” and more like “what is this asking to be?”

It’s always strange, that shift. The work doesn’t change, exactly. The gaze does.

Word Raccoon, however, has other ideas.

She is currently demanding music to feast upon instead of food, which I am, for reasons unclear even to me, obliging. The problem is that she is not just listening to music. She is making it. Or she was yesterday.

Songs. Plural. Rapid-fire.

And while this is, objectively, delightful and slightly alarming, it is not my preference at the moment. I would like to stay with the poems. I would like to finish something instead of opening another door.

But she has opinions. Strong ones. And apparently a setlist. I swear if I end up onstage with a bass in a tutu and combat boots, we all know who to blame…the problem is, this round of “songs” aren’t good. Like, at all. I was able to distract her yesterday with Portlandia, a show I just couldn’t get into back in the day. But for submitting poetry? The perfect background companion.

So far today I’ve lured her away from the lyrics with avocado toast and a banana. I allowed her to put the “songs” into Google docs in the song lyrics folder, because she would pout otherwise, but honey child raccoon of mine, if those ever end up onstage, it will be because the world ran out of songs.

How likely does that seem?

Yesterday was a day of submissions. Both poetry and chapbooks. Real ones. Not the kind where you hover and think about it and close the tab and promise yourself you’ll come back later.

We even sent a packet to a Notable Place. The kind that makes you pause and think, maybe not yet, maybe not this time.

And then we thought: why not?

I remember a poet we knew who said that once, just like that. Why not? As if bravery could be that simple. As if the worst that could happen was already happening anyway, which is to say, nothing.

It stuck with me. I admired the hell out of that.

So yesterday, Word Raccoon and I gave it a try.

No fanfare. No declarations. Just the quiet click of sending a packet that felt like it could take its shoes off there.

Today feels a little different because of it. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.

But something has shifted.

Maybe it’s the music coming back around.
Maybe it’s the chapbook insisting on its turn.
Maybe it’s the memory of someone saying why not and meaning it.

Or maybe it’s just this: being, once again, inconveniently alive.
Not inconveniently for me.

But you knew that.

(Should really not have used a colon there today; upon reflection, I’m pretty sure I used up my month’s allotment on yesterday’s post. 😂)

Now Playing: “Handlebars” by Flobots

(Re: Handlebars lyrics: I can tie a knot in a cherry stem. But I learned in the most innocent way ever: my son told me he could and I was like, do I want to know how you know, and then he challenged me to try, so I did.)

It’s not difficult. But it’s not a party trick I’m going to be trotting out any time soon, either.

Wednesday Was

When part of you says “Any more deadlines?” and another part yells “I don’t care; my eyes are exhausted.”

When you’ve managed to submit to four places and make a pork loin in the Crockpot with baked potatoes and green beans on the side and call it good.

When you tidied your chapbook and sent it out to four places, and even managed to, you hope, nail the dedication that you wouldn’t have written yet, but a place asked for it and you thought, yes, yes, that needs doing.

It’s not as easy as it sounds, writing one, at least not for me. A Japanese maple made its way into this one.

When restlessness rattles in you like sere leaves during a wind advisory, and you feel like you have to create something bigger than it.

The kitchen is tidy. Household fed.

Word Raccoon is hiding out, playing dead, saying she is DONE for the day.

Nothing on Netflix, Hulu, or Disney. Forget about Paramount or Prime. YouTube is only good for music videos right now.

You’ve had chocolate, water, and Coke Zero.

You get that itch that says you’ve got to write something besides another cover letter.

But what? What is this restlessness, and why are you now listening to The Killers? You started the morning with music, and now you’re maybe ending with it and hey, listen, maybe you should wake WR and see if she’s up to a poem.

“Didn’t we start one about Josh Tillman earlier?” WR asks sleepily from the chair with Book Goblin and the enormous pink heart-shaped pillow she’s cuddling up to. “Here’s a line you wrote earlier, build on it.”

Ah, yes: “You can talk while the wind is blowing and still be heard.”
What are we going to do with that line, Word Raccoon?

What I keep coming back to is this: FJM doesn’t owe us anything, whichever persona he chooses. Maybe Josh became Father John Misty to escape himself. Maybe he thinks we only want the struggle. But I’d listen to the joy, too. I’d be glad to hear him bloom. Maybe he already has.

(Why am I playing The Killers if I’m writing about FJM?)

Someone of my acquaintance went to hear a concert of his a while back and said, when I saw her next, he is SEXY?

The man drips blood when he sings, and all you can see is his sex appeal? Ma’am. Ma’am.

Word Raccoon gave her a look that could’ve boiled her iced coffee.

To be fair, the woman tried to clarify and qualify her remark, but WR had already heard her and wasn’t having it.

Go on, Josh. Be Father John Misty. Be Josh, if you prefer. Be yourself, dude.

I’ll gnaw on my line while WR naps. I need to.

I can see my muse’s reaction now: “Oh, so close.” Or, “Ew. What?” Sigh.

That’s the damndest thing about muses: they provide the voltage, not the material.

I feel like I need to label these “midnight missives.”

You can talk while the wind is blowing and still be heard.

Wait, I was supposed to stop the post there, but I’m not going to, not even though I need to charge my laptop battery. This is my Rooftop Concert and let them come drag me away from it, LOL.

What happens to ambition when the day refuses to behave? I am not the first woman to ask this.

There is a pork loin from the latest grocery order in the fridge, waiting to be transformed into, ultimately, stew for the Word Raccoon et al. 

There are competitions and poetry journals with countdown timers ticking so loudly they might as well be gongs.

And my husband is home sick.

On Monday, I asked Barry if he was feeling okay. He said he was. He is not the kind to not admit being sick. I mentioned my specific observations anyway and offered Zicam, just in case.

He said he was fine.

Monday evening, he was still “fine.” (We are not being mean, WR. We are gently mocking the nature of men. Some men. This particular man.)

Word Raccoon whispered that he was not fine and we both knew it. We assumed he’d know it soon enough.

Tuesday afternoon, after a meeting, we arrived home and he asked if we’d read his text.

Text? Even WR knows to keep her phone off during a meeting.

The text had asked if we would go pick up an olive burger so I wouldn’t have to cook.

Mmm hmmm.

That was a declaration of illness.

“Do you want a milkshake, too?” I asked.

“Salted caramel,” he said, head down.

I bought him a large.

He’s off work today, resting.

Which is to say: WR and I are off schedule. 

In this house, when one of us is sick, there are rules. They are as follows.

Nothing annoying should be done. No loud housecleaning, no vacuuming, no clattering of dishes that suggests effort or productivity. Large meals are discouraged, especially those involving multiple pans and ambition.

Meal requests from the sick party shall be provided within reason and will likely involve fast food or something very specific that cannot be substituted with anything already in the freezer. Nothing in the freezer will do.

If one in the household prefers tater tots and the other mashed potatoes, the sicker party (when both are sick; please god, don’t let me get sick, LOL) wins. Yes, both items could be acquired. But they are not to be. No one knows why. Them’s the rules.

Uncooked meat can and should, in theory, go in the freezer to take it out of the possibilities category. Except if the freezer is full. Which it is right now.

Routine, in general, is suspended. Work should be postponed, when possible. Gym trips are shortened or strategically timed during showers or shows you have no interest in watching.

You will watch the shows anyway. 

You will sit beside him while he watches YouTube videos you would not choose on your own. He will ask if you know who the obscure music producer is. You will say no. He will explain. You will nod. You will not retain this information, and he does not expect you to.

Morning alarms are turned off. Everyone “gets” to sleep in. You are not mad about this, although you are a person with goals.

You will be accused of not knowing how to take a day off. But why would you take a day off when you love everything writing related?

Word Raccoon is confused about what to do today. So far, she has been quiet. I’ve asked her to stand by, not down.

Barry didn’t ask to be sick. And if he’s sick, odds are I will be in a couple of days, though I just took zinc, so here’s hoping.

WR and I do have options.

While WR is contractually obligated to remain in the same room as these shows and videos, she can sneak her laptop in. Submitting poetry is the easiest work on days like this. Once begun, it becomes almost mechanical.

She can outlast the sick one. Stay up during naps. Stay up late with caffeine. Keep submitting.

Once submitting begins, it is difficult to pivot back to writing. But sometimes lines arrive anyway. She writes them down quickly and returns to the task at hand.

On days like this, she makes a short list: what absolutely needs to happen?

Do that.

Let the rest wait.

The pork loin will keep. Or it won’t. (WR is pointing at the slow cooker. She might be onto something.) 

Either way, something will be made of the day.

Maybe even art.

I’m in a quandary. Word Raccoon asks why I’m “in” a quandary and if she joins me, should she pack sunscreen? Is it like a black hole? If so, she says we really ought to consult Hank Green for the best way out.

“It’s an idiom, WR.”

“You’re an idiom.”

Stop it, WR, I didn’t say idiot…anyway, I am debating a real dilemma: Anne Lamott’s (co-written with her husband, Neal Allen) latest book on writing, Good Writing: 36 Ways to Improve Your Sentences, is out today.

I cannot wait to read it!

Here’s the issue: it is being released in ALL FORMATS right away.

That’s right, you can get it in hardback (to be expected), paperback (already??), on Kindle (naturally), and audio?

And Anne’s the narrator. (Turns out, one of them. Her husband is the other.)

Price points and strengths and weaknesses of each (because obviously it’s not if we buy it, WR, but which format):

---

📊 The Format Dilemma

Format	Price	Vibe	Pros	Cons	Hidden Plot Twists
Kindle	$15.99	Sleek, efficient, slightly unromantic	Instant delivery, searchable, highlightable	No tactile joy, no margin scribbling	✨ +$3 Kindle reward = girl math (woman/raccoon math, actually) says $12.99
Hardcover	~$25–27	Serious writer energy	Beautiful object, durable, display-worthy	Bulky, less cozy for casual reading	Does it come w/ a dust jacket? WR sees those as straitjackets and tosses them immediately
Paperback	$29	Casual intellectual with opinions	Does not require a crane to lift	Somehow MORE expensive??	Existential pricing crisis, WR refuses to pay more for this version.
Audiobook (Add-on)	+$9	“Let Anne Lamott talk to me while I live my life”	Narrated by the authors (!!), multitask-friendly	You can’t underline brilliance mid-laundry	🎧 Sample only featured Neal Allen… who, respectfully, is not Anne, but WR and I will try to remain open-minded.

---

Here’s where things take a pricing turn.

If I buy the Kindle version, I will cross the threshold for a $3 Kindle reward, though I cannot use it for this purchase.

If I buy the hardcover alone, I will not. (You get fewer points for anything that is not the Kindle edition.) I will also be eligible for a $5 off $25 coupon, but nay on the Kindle. 

I will get points, yes. But not the reward. Not the satisfying little “you did it” moment.

Which means the Kindle purchase is not just a purchase. It is a completion.

And then, if I buy and love the book on Kindle (of course I will!), I could buy a physical copy later. (That $5 off is available for the next two days, if I listen/read that fast. I know it’s a lotta $, but books, especially books on writing, need to be part of the writing budget if at all possible. Borrow your novels from the library; buy the writing books.)

Word Raccoon would like it noted that this is all very simple.

“Get audiobook,” she says, already halfway out the door with my phone. “Hands busy. Brain open. Maximum intake.”

I point out that one cannot annotate an audiobook.

She pauses.

Considers.

“Fine,” she says. “Then we get both. One for thinking, one for absorbing. This is called strategy.”

She is now wearing my reading glasses.

I no longer know who is in charge.

Yes I do. Her. Always her.

Psst…we bought the Kindle version and added the audiobook, which we RARELY do. We are listening now, and it’s wonderful. Neal turns out to be very listenable, and I admire how he thinks about writing. And Anne has also entered the chat at this point, so that’s always cool. Very.

WR, however, says she prefers the cover’s “36 Ways to Improve Your Writing” to the online book description that calls them rules.

She won’t accept writing rules from anyone. “Not even from Queen Anne and her consort,” WR says.

WR, that’s rude! Neal Allen seems perfectly lovely and has quite the publishing record of his own. A defense of a favorite does not need to include a takedown of someone else, you cheeky monkey. Er…raccoon. Sorry, Mr. Allen.

Actually, he’s listed first on the cover, I just noticed, so we may have this backwards, Ms. Word Raccoon. Go to your corner.

Moving on…now I have that $3 Kindle Reward, and I’m gonna need to find another book to order. Wink.

In other writing news, WR and I are pleased.

First of all, there’s now a publication date for our poem, “Vincent in His Brother’s Arms”: March 28. Link to come.

Secondly, we received a “Your collection made it to the last round” email. About Cathedral. Last round! It wasn’t chosen, but hey, we’ll take it. What an honor. We’re calling it an opening gambit on the path to publication. (The revised version is tight, according to WR, meant the way the kids say it.)

Then, most excitedly, a poetry acceptance last night. “Lady Lazarus Worries Me” has found the perfect home with Merion West. I’m so pleased for that beloved-by-me poem. And the editor was truly kind in his praise. I’m so grateful.

I remember writing the slightly dangerous, very opinionated, accusatory poem on the porch of a favorite café, its awning sheltering me from sunstroke. WR was newly born, side-eyeing every poet, trying to figure out who she was. She read Plath and asked how anyone missed it when it was staring at us all. 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. That was my parents’ anniversary, though they didn’t realize what day it was when they married, or so my mother said. I always think of them on this and most days.

Now Playing: “Mystical Magical” by Benson Boone

Saturday night Word Raccoon and I stayed up way late submitting our Look I Built a Cathedral collection to a few places that were closing to submissions ASAP. 

But WR and I made the mistake of looking at the book first. Like, the whole thing.

We glanced back through our “Ready to Submit” folder and realized there were several poems there that belonged in the collection. 

Naturally, we spent the next few HOURS subbing poems in and out like a coach does players. 

WR insisted on adding in “Rumours,” the one about Stevie Nicks and George Harrison. I told WR I did not see how that one fit. She said it was a hinge, and that I didn’t need to see, I just needed to feel. 

I was tempted to call her unhinged and take it out, but she was right. 

I’m reminded I don’t need to understand everything to trust it. 

There were newer versions of some of the poems to swap out.

There were stronger versions.

There were poems that repeated themselves. 

There were poems in the collection that weren’t much more than a vibe, too.  

I cannot describe the soul searching involved in sorting these. Not easy. But also, kinda fun. It would have been more fun if I’d had someone by my side with a better eye than mine.

WR says her, that’s HER, but we all know she gets overwrought sometimes.

Dang it, I just remember a poem with a donut in it that I think was inadvertently left out. How did that happen? WR loves the food poems. 

Oh well. I’m much happier with this version. It feels full grown now. 

While we were hunting for deadlines we might have missed, and also, since we were finishing up a series on Netflix, (No, it wasn’t Bridgerton. We’ve tried. We also gave up on Emily in Paris some time ago. Pretty dresses and puff pastry are fine, but…), we discovered a more than helpful free spreadsheet with both poetry reading periods AND a tracker courtesy of Emily Stoddard’s Substack. 

It’s great.

She says to share, please share, and apparently she is facing some health challenges, so if you’re able to buy her book of poetry, please consider it.

Also, what’s up with me and spreadsheets? 

WR is giggling and saying next I will be creating a spreadsheet of the feelings: 

– Emotion type

– Number/types of feelings cycled through in the past hour

– Intensity (11?)

– What was worn in protest of a feeling/what wasn’t worn in protest/what was worn because of a feeling

– Trigger

– Coping Mechanism (If it’s not chocolate, it’s wrong.)

– How long until WR and I are laughing at one another and saying It’s not that serious, Sis! 

– Resolutions made

– Resolutions broken

– Art created? Y or N? If no, go back to the laptop until you get a Y.  

– How many fingers did WR attempt to put up that she really ought not have. 

– What the hairstyles mean: (Hint: up vs. down = very different moods.) 

Obviously each category would have subcategories which Word Raccoon really wants to delineate but I think we’re getting way far from the blogging shore. 

Anyhoo, the spreadsheet will tip you off to even more opportunities to get ye olde poetry collections out into the world. 

And hey, isn’t there reading to be done? 

Here’s a sneak peek at the current table of contents for Look, I Built a Cathedral.

Like most buildings, the scaffolding may shift a little (or a lottle), but this is the structure as it stands today.

Dear Reader, you’ve seen some of these poems here. Others have been published and I’ve shared the link. One was nominated for a Pushcart. 

Look, I Built a Cathedral

Table of Contents

On Reading Crush

Tilted Metaphors

The Last Arts Department Standing

Lens, Crafted

Congratulations on Your Assignment

Mutual Mass

The Gaze

Weird Eye Contact with the Soul 

dangerous flirtation 

Strawberry Jam

Planchette

All In

Salty

One Blackberry 

It’s All the Same Damn You 

Gone Gray

Blue Cardigan, Loose Buttons

Nearer Than Sorrow and Frost 

Duet of One

Soul in the Key of G

Self-Rising

Valentine, If You’re Still Reading

I Stand to See the Trees

Vanishing Act

Conversation at the Edge of Indifference

Wonder Woman’s Donné 

a betrayal of the universe

Something in the “Rumours”

Quietly Feral

Panic Breathing

You Know, You’ve Been to Rome

Face Down in the Ache

My Halo Cracked Last Spring

Squirreling

Cohabitating With My Past

Not Here to Help You Sleep Better

I Looked Out for You

The Gift

An Accidental Wedding Song for Misfits

When I Go

The Soft Apocalypse

Oh, you want a line from one of them? Greedy, greedy. But ok, fine. 

Last lines from “Wonder Woman’s Donné” :

I’m not saying this right; 

please understand anyway.

I was reading an article recently on Modern Mrs. Darcy where one of the staff members mentioned that she tracks her reading in a spreadsheet.

Immediately my brain did the thing it always does when spreadsheets appear on the horizon.

Oh. Word Raccoon and I could do that.

Not because I don’t already track my books. I do. I use Goodreads like many readers do, and it works perfectly well for keeping a list of what I’ve read and what I want to read, but not much more. (Also: it’s way overdue for a facelift.) 

But spreadsheets…

Spreadsheets are a different creature entirely. Word Raccoon is all about the spreadsheets! 

Several people in the comments under that article mentioned pre-made reading spreadsheets. Someone recommended a free one from Book Riot. Others said there are elaborate ones you can buy on Etsy with charts and genre breakdowns and colorful dashboards.

All of which is lovely.

But here’s the thing.

Spreadsheets are actually very easy to make.

Even if you only have a perfectly average level of spreadsheet skill (which is where I would place myself), they’re wonderfully flexible. You can add columns. Delete columns. Drag them around. Reorder them when your brain decides a different structure makes more sense.

That flexibility is the real appeal to me.

Because once you start thinking about it, you realize you might want to track more than just books read.

You might want to note things like:

• where you heard about the book
• why you picked it up
• whether you finished it
• what mood you were in when you started
• whether it made you want to write
• whether you’d read the author again

Suddenly the spreadsheet becomes less of a list and more of a little reading laboratory.

Now, I realize this probably sounds very organized.

Which is ironic, because as a writer I am absolutely a pantser.

I don’t outline much. I discover things while writing. My notebooks tend to look like the aftermath of a minor literary tornado.

And yet I love spreadsheets.

A spreadsheet is just a quiet little grid where patterns begin to appear.

You might discover that every book you adore has a slightly strange narrator. Or that you keep reading winter novels. (Nope!) Or that every time you read a certain author you suddenly want to write for six hours. (Sometimes.)

Those kinds of patterns are revealing.

Naturally, Word Raccoon became extremely interested in this idea.

Which is how Word Raccoon’s Infinite Reading Log came into being.

It’s a simple spreadsheet that lets you track a bit more of the experience of reading, not just the title and author.

Things like:

📚 Title
✍️ Author
🗂 Genre
🗓 Date started and finished
⭐ Rating
💬 Would you recommend it

And Notes. Obviously.

For example, Word Raccoon might add:

🦝 “Suspicious number of soup scenes.”
🦝 “Why did no one warn me about chapter twelve and where is the chocolate?”
🦝 “Made me want to write immediately.”
🦝 “Word Raccoon believes this character should have made different choices.”

The beauty of spreadsheets, of course, is that you can add whatever columns you want. Or delete them, if they’re annoying.

Want to track seasonal reading moods? Go ahead.

Want a column titled “Why Would Anyone Recommend This”?

Perfectly reasonable.

WR recommends adding a column that says “Ate every page after reading.” 

If you’d like to try it yourself, I made a starter version of Word Raccoon’s Infinite Reading Log that you’re welcome to copy and adapt. Consider it a flexible little tool for curious readers and mildly obsessive note-takers. 

(Google will ask you to sign in so it can save a copy to your own Drive.)

Word Raccoon strongly encourages customization. Add the year to your copy. Move a column wherever you please. (WR changes her mind on where she wants things all the time.) Create a new sheet within it that is reading adjacent, like maybe “best snacks for reading” or music playlist suggestions.

Books may end.

But the reading list is infinite.

Careful: if you leave a spreadsheet open long enough, Word Raccoon will absolutely start adding columns. You’ll want to watch out for that.

🦝📚📊

P.S. I forgot to add Dear Hank & John to my favorite podcast list! On it they answer listener questions while providing updates on AFC Wimbledon (John) and Mars (Hank, obviously), plus fake sponsor bits that may be the best part of the show. Fun. Informative. Sometimes unexpectedly deep.