Dear Reader,

Word Raccoon has been busy today! We prepped for tomorrow’s paintathon, which took more time than it should’ve and naturally included a trip to a local store for painter’s tape and a paint roller frame, because when we went to examine our painting supplies, we discovered we had left the roller from our last job on the frame and alas, could not pry it off. 

While picking up supplies, WR hid her face anytime she saw someone she knew because she was deep in unglamorous cleaning mode. She also asked if we could buy a big Reese’s peanut butter cup for after our painting session tomorrow.

I rolled my eyes and said yes, though the way she stashes candy around the house, it’s not like she’s out of it. But also, it cost $1.75 FOR ONE SINGLE PEANUT BUTTER CUP! 

Everything is now prepared for tomorrow except a bit of space at the top of the hallway that needs to be taped. I did what I could, but I thought it best to start out fresh if WR was going to have to hang over the stairwell to tape.

We even primed the bookshelf and spot-painted a couple of places in the hallway I was afraid might give us trouble otherwise. (You know the downside to installing a stick-up light? You have to take it down and guess what’s going to come with it? Yup. Drywall.) 

Digging our painting shoes out of the trunk of our car and retrieving our latest thrift shop finds that had languished there for three days also mysteriously made their way onto the list.

(See any poetry here? Me neither. Did we scare it off after yesterday?) 

Though we seldom buy decor items en masse, WR has been acquisitive lately in an effort to finish redecorating. I didn’t have places in mind for the items we bought the other day. I just asked myself if they “spoke” to the house. Were they a pleasing color? Did they lend texture? Did I just hate the idea of leaving them behind? All made them instant yeses.

WR didn’t like how involved I was, or that I asked Stanley’s opinion, but I know better than to let her loose in a shop on her own. As it was I had to tell her several times to put a particular necklace back. 

(Herbert, the scourge of my mind who refuses to pay rent but still has opinions about everything, is harrumphing about us painting at all. I suspect his ideal home is tobacco-stained and drenched in ’70s decor.)

Bringing the items in meant finding homes for them. The copper colander naturally went in the kitchen, though it would make a great vessel for a potted plant. (Obviously the plant could not go solo into the colander…could you imagine?) A spotless patterned white bedspread is the perfect throw for the back of the sofa. Just looking at it makes me smile, not to mention how cozy it feels. A wicker shaded table lamp made its way to the seating area on the porch, though, alas, there are no outlets over there. That’s where it said it belonged. I suppose this means I will have to buy it a battery-operated bulb.

There were other characters I whispered “Places, places,” to before the curtain went up. 

Anyway, suffice it to say we’ve done decor tweaking, paint prepping, errand running, and little else all day, though that was not the plan.

The real headline is this: even climbing up and down ladders and stairs, we were able to manage it. This means my latest appointment with the doctor was successful: he has me taking my medicine every day instead of every other day. (He’s also overly impressed with the weight I’ve lost. I’m like, dude, it’s just because I can move again.)

After years of not really wanting to talk about my body and arthritis (yay, genetics), pretending the arthritis didn’t exist, not allowing myself to see just how much it had limited me, I am having to slow myself down now. My doctor told me to stop pushing too hard when I’m feeling better. It’s almost as if he knows me. 😂

But it’s difficult to not want to do every project now, now, now, because a part of me says, what if this doesn’t last? I do have those days when my body says absolutely not, but especially with the nicer weather paired with this latest dosage, I have a hard time stopping. 

I’m grateful, so grateful, to be feeling better. 

Here’s to tomorrow, when, after about 30 years of owning this bookshelf (!), WR and I paint it. (Wallpaper to follow!!!)

The hallway is just a grace note.  

Reese’s and Sunshine (or, in the case of the hallway, Canary Yellow),

Drema 

A meditation (fretitation?) 

Dear Reader,

Why is there no schematic for a poem, please? 

When I, say, build a towel cabinet, done. Visible. We can all agree that it’s a towel cabinet. 

I put together an outfit. Even if it doesn’t win “Outfit of the Damn Year,” it’s an outfit, and if it covers me, it’s done its job. Next.

A poem, who’s to say? My ear? My mind? My soul? 

You can’t spackle a poem. There’s no agreed-upon template.

Which should be freeing. 

And often is.

Except when it’s terrifying. 

Because.

I don’t want to come to think of poetry as a trick, as just something I can (sort of) do because I’ve been at it long enough. 

Today, I’m trying. But some of the screws and at least one bracket seem to be missing.

A certain actor says in her memoir that basically acting is just something you learn, and I get it, but also, if you reduce poetry to just a wink and a word, then damn, I want off the ride. Now. 

I want a McDouble and fries and dipping sauce. 

Because fries are not scary.

They’re not very nourishing, though. 

Unrelated: Behold the desk! I tried several times to get a good picture, but alas, none of these do it justice. Not to brag, but in person, this really pops. 

I am pleased. Word Raccoon is as well, because she thinks the scarf on it is now most conveniently placed for stealing whenever she wants to wear it. 

I listened to Adam Walker read Frost’s “The Oven Bird” on YouTube and tickled myself by initially totally misunderstanding the topic of the poem. 

Which caused me to write a poem about that. And about the closing words of Frost’s last line of “Oven Bird”

…what to make of a diminished thing

I’m not done chewing on that. Because he points out that summer is diminished by succumbing to fall but then he reduces it to a thing, thereby diminishing it further.

And obv. we’re not just talking about summer.

I had gone to YouTube because I was feeling all the things I wrote above, and I needed a jumpstart; I was lost in revising a poem and I tend to make them worse, not better, when I’m in that frame of mind. 

Naturally, I both argue and agree with Frost in my poem that his work inspired.

(Do you suppose I ought to collect all of the poet-wrestling ones together? I seem to be filling a folder.) 

Poets are supposed to excavate Truth, so I examine their poems closely to see if they have.

Which doesn’t mean they’re right or wrong, or that I am the final arbiter of Truth, but I know when I hear its opposite. 

Or I hope I do.

I ordered a salad at the cafe today, and I jokingly shortened the title and they said, “I think you just gave it a new name.” 

My suggestion for the salad topped with blueberries, blue cheese, and bacon? The 3B Salad.  

Yes, please. 

Yes. 😊

Drema 

Dear Reader,

Word Raccoon began the morning by testing the solar lights predawn and yanking them out of the front yard and tossing them over by the fence when they didn’t light up.

They may or may not eventually make it to the thrift shop.

The problem is that even if they worked properly, she now knows she doesn’t actually like them. During the daylight hours, they look like decorative spiders.

No thank you.

Afterwards, WR had peanut butter toast, a banana, and coffee (she almost didn’t speak to me today when she discovered she is out of C.Z. Again.) while she negotiated with Stanley over the day which he insisted she not let devolve into Project House. 

We compromised by setting a timer for thirty minutes with the goal of stopping wherever we were on the towel cabinet at that point. 

This should be viewed in light of the fact that last night it took her three separate attempts to successfully take her medicine.

First she set an alarm.

Then she got up to take the pill, became distracted, and wandered away.

When the snooze alarm went off, she once again rose with purpose, only to become distracted a second time.

By the third attempt, she was midway through assembling the towel cabinet when she realized she still had not taken the medicine.

Barry tried talking to her while she was heading into the house, but to avoid losing the thought again, she just kept saying, “pill pill pill pill pill pill pill” while holding up her finger and walking away.

Eventually, success.

Anyway, back to the cabinet. Which she sensibly did not finish assembling while cranky last night.

It came with screws for the back panels but no pre-drilled holes, which felt like a test devised by our rheumatologist. 

WR’s hands were not strong enough to simply force the screws in normally, so she held each in place with the screwdriver, tapped it with a hammer to start it, and then hammered them into place.

It worked. And as long as no one inspects the back of the cabinet, she’s feeling pretty proud of herself.

Feeling smug after attaching the backs to both the upper and lower sections (even though the directions said not to do that yet), she then discovered she had created a problem. 

The cam locks that connected the two cabinet sections were now inaccessible.

She briefly thought she might have to rip the back off one of the units entirely.

However, earlier in the process, she had accidentally installed the drawer backwards and had been forced to remove and reverse the drawer tracks. (It took no time.) Which turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because she was now extremely aware of where the drawer-track screws were located.

A quick twist, and success! (Let us not examine the left side too closely.) 

The first project of the summer can now safely be crossed off the list, and this before summer proper. 

Applause, please.

Also, importantly, Word Raccoon turned the timer off two minutes before it went off because she knew she was close enough to the end that stopping would actually be more irritating than continuing. Once she had finished, she stopped with the projects and got ready for writing time.

I’m counting that as personal growth for her.

Now she is trying the “stay on the café porch while shivering” challenge because she so badly wants to be here. It promises to be a nice morning later, but right now, she’s thinking going indoors might be the move. 

After what she hopes will be a productive writing session, then will come all the emailing, product review writing, admin, and so on. 

She likes that too, but not as much as writing, obviously. 

Later she will place the towel cabinet in its new home and christen it something ridiculously fun. 

Why do you suppose cursors blink? That’s so much pressure when you’re trying to write. 

On the (usually) daily,

Drema 

Dear Reader, 

A thank you to Bruno Mars, for showing up on the radio this morning and accompanying me to the café with Just Might. (We will not be doing a deep dive on the lyrics; we just appreciated the energy.) Also for covering the music here that is never to my taste, but which AirPods mostly obscure with “Uptown Funk.” 

And damn you, Google Docs, for not making accent marks easier to add.

Today is another hot-poker day: it would have been my youngest sister’s birthday.

Word Raccoon does not count my blessings; she drags them over to me in her teeth and drops them at my feet where I can either acknowledge them, now, or trip over them.

I get it, mangy raccoon. I get it.

At least I’m not in my bathrobe watching You’ve Got Mail for the billionth time. I’m at the cafe plotting my summer, considering poetry, although honestly: does the world need another grief poem?

But if you don’t take out the emotional trash, the house starts to stink. The writing suffers.

Anyway, let’s discuss summer household projects, shall we?

I want to paint things, wallpaper things, rearrange things, make the house feel more alive. Poetry hisses at anything ugly or untended, unless something is purposely ugly. Then poetry adores noticing it.

Yesterday’s foretaste of heat divine reminded me that I’d better finish the upstairs projects before July turns the second floor into Satan’s attic, so I’m thinking WR and I ought to start there. Where the Big Bookshelf handed down by my Mawgy resides. (Cue the dramatic music.)

It’s bare wood, so first I have to unload all the books, then sand, prime, paint, wallpaper behind the shelves, and inevitably spiral into reconsidering my entire book organization philosophy.

WR rejects organization systems on spiritual grounds. She prefers literary surprises scattered all about the house. Though she does love how books sorted by color look. 

Here’s a list for the summer that Stanley helped me organize. Honestly, I’d love to finish them all and some sidequests, but if I can accomplish even half of them, poetry will kiss my hand. 

I hope.

Easy-ish Weekend Wins

• put up mirror trim (I want to write how hard could it be, but every time I say that, I regret it.)
• make a dishwasher curtain 
• assemble the bathroom cabinet (I plan on attempting this later today. Fingers crossed.)
• paint hall walls (Ooh…this weekend might be just right for this.)
• add fun paint to door edges just because (I’m brewing up designs for it, little secret slivers of color you’ll only see if you pay attention.)

Medium Projects

• bookshelf overhaul (DO SOON! Because coming heat. Also…the hall paint is also going to be used on the bookshelf so maybe the bookshelf first and then hall??)
• downstairs bathroom trim (Ugh – can we delegate that, WR?)
• figure out cleaning tool storage because we do not decorate with steam mops, WR!

“Research ONLY So We Don’t Cry in July” But also we LURVE the possibilities!

• refinishing the kitchen cabinets
• dining room ceiling options 
• bathtub regrouting (Gross.)
• headboard possibilities 

Then there are the sidequests: rearranging, deep cleaning, finding homes for new decor, and, for instance, finishing the mirror for my desk project.

Oh mirrors, you Friends of Narcissus, why are you so expensive?

So naturally I decided to Frankenstein one together from a thrifted beaded frame and a makeup mirror I already own.

The frame originally contained a unicorn, but WR liberated it from captivity and set it trotting.

The mat I bought looked black but there was a hidden gold mat underneath, at which point WR snatched it and yelled, “Now we’re talking!”

I just need to trim and glue everything together. Possibly paint the frame too, because at the moment the color palette looks like it lost a fight in a Michaels parking lot.

WR says not to forget she intends to write poetry all summer too.

Naturally. That’s why we’re doing all of this, WR. 

A songwriter in Nashville once told us he wooes his muse with fresh flowers and candles. Aside: never play Boggle with him. He’s intense. LOL. 

WR and I are more “show up willing, show up unwilling, but show up” writing types.

Still, we’ve been known to employ strategies.

Nope. Different post, Word Raccoon.

This morning WR showed me how her bag of treasured tidbits is growing. She’s such a curious creature she’d probably be fascinated by someone’s pocket lint.

She just can’t help it. 

Dear Reader,

The travel laundry is washing. The bags, books, and items accumulated over the past few days of dunes traveling have been (mostly) put away.

For once I remembered to reapply sunblock often enough to avoid a sunburn!

Eventually, I will have to find new homes for Word Raccoon’s latest nature treasures, which I’m sure she will demand showing you when I find them all. They’re in my shoes, in the cooler, in shorts pockets, and definitely some are still in the car.

For now, this.

While emptying my desk for painting (updated photo on that project to come after I’ve finished with the desk decor), I ran across a journal I almost put in the “donate” box. I asked Stanley just to be sure, since he’s always such a fan of decluttering.

“I wouldn’t,” he said.

I told him it wasn’t my aesthetic, and that it barely had any pages in it.

He harumphed and said maybe I didn’t like it, but it looked tailor made for Word Raccoon. (I knew they were in kahoots!)

So it became my “bad poetry lab,” a low-stakes place to record at the very least notes.

I took it to Lake Michigan’s edge, sat in the sand on a beach towel, and wrote.

And wrote.

And wrote.

Honestly, I only remember one line from it all, and it’s a heavy one, so I won’t repeat it here.

After the day’s activities, after dinner, WR and I went to the sun room where we had written on our writing retreat in December, and first, we took in the differences a season had brought. Then we wrote.

And wrote.

We noticed the trees and the river. We howdy-do’ed the ferns.

And…while we were writing, we received an acceptance of a poem we’re really proud of, “To My Grown Children,” to be published in September 2026 by The Listening Eye, Kent State’s journal. I’m so honored and grateful. I can’t wait!

It’s a poem (not to give it all away) that basically says, my grown babies, my writing is your heritage, and you have every right to read it, but you might not want to read some of it.

But it’s said, I hope, with more humor, starch, and sass than that.

This morning, Word Raccoon and I woke up before breakfast and wanted one last writing session on this not-writing-retreat. We spent an hour in awe of what was out the window, looking every which way for a path so we could go sit among the fawns, the cardinals and sparrows, the squirrels, always squirrels.

We asked ourselves how logs can look more alive in the summer. I could go on about the surroundings, but I’ll just add some photos.

Select poem titles from this weekend:

– Disproportionate Pique (Bitchin’ Crackers)

– She Has Your Eyes

– At a Distance

– I Have Crossed the Rubicon

– Tension in the Arms

– Same View, Different Season (obvious place holder)

– You’re Not Supposed To

– My Heart, a Child

– Dig Into Flesh

There are only two pages left in the journal. I had hoped for no good reason to finish it tonight, but unless inspiration outsprints my tiredness, I’m not sure I will.

Sometimes tiredness is its own inspiration.

Wishing you,

Drema

Dear Reader,

Word Raccoon has invented a mathematical system regarding Coke Zero that cannot be peer reviewed because no qualified scientists are brave enough to examine it closely.

While it might be akin to what the internet is calling “girl math,” being a feminist, she rejects the term. 

It begins before every trip, the mathing. Every trip by car, that is. 

This dunes trip apparently required twelve Coke Zeros.

Not ten.

Not “obtained as needed from gas stations along the route.”

Twelve.

This number was determined through raccoon calculations too advanced for ordinary humans.

Don’t try to figure any of this out. 

Unfortunately, before the trip even began, Word Raccoon “accidentally” drank three of them at home because the house supply had run dry, and tea was not cutting it.

Now, some people would say this means there were nine left.

Not Word Raccoon.

Word Raccoon believes:

12 minus 3

equals:

“Well, there are stores along the way, so have another right now.”

I yanked the plastic bottle from her greedy little hands and gave her a bottle of water. 

She also simultaneously planned to manufacture reasons to stop along the way just so she could sneak another. 

What, she wasn’t driving, she said,  although she also said she was the DD, and when I asked if she knew what that meant she said Designated Drinker of Coke Zero.

I sighed and filled her in. 

I further explained that though she blisses out in the stuff, it is not actually intoxicating.

She begged to differ. 

(That last joke could use some tightening but my eyes are pleasantly beach tired, so it’s not happening, dearest reader.) 

Regardless, this equation somehow brought her peace.

Later, while packing the car, she discovered only three Coke Zeros in the backseat.

Three.

Scandal! Intrigue! 

This meant six were missing.

Nine minus six equals raccoon beverage panic! 

Word Raccoon immediately concluded theft most foul. 

Not ordinary theft, either.

Organized beverage crime.

She became deeply suspicious despite/because:

1. The car had been locked.
2. Nobody is likely to steal lukewarm Coke Zero from a random car under a carport.
3. The prime suspect was, statistically speaking, herself.

Still, she mourned. 

She fumed. 

Not quietly.

And with a delivery service on speed dial. 

I told her to think about where she’d seen them last before rashly SOSing for more.

She retraced her steps like a detective in a prestige drama called Law & Order: Carbonation Unit.

She says indignantly that she’d totally watch that!

Reader, you will perhaps be relieved to learn that the six-pack was eventually discovered in the trunk, where Word Raccoon herself had apparently hidden it from future “accidental” drinking.

And had blamed me!

So three plus six equals a semi-happy raccoon who never-the-less insisted on drinking too many, meaning she was either going to have to replenish her stock, cancel the rest of her beach trip, or switch to coffee.

Hotel coffee. 

Gross!

With a day and a half of the trip to go as of this writing, she has 4 1/2 left, and she is planning to be on a hot beach most of the day, so those will not last long.

Don’t worry. I’ll make her drink some water along the way, too.  

Wait, she discovered two in the back of the car she’d forgotten about. Bliss! 

Raccoon math is not really math. It’s greed disguised as careful accounting. 

Before we say goodbye, Word Raccoon would like it officially stated for the record that if someone drinks three-fourths of a Coke Zero and returns the bottle to the cooler, they should be tried before a jury of parched women.

Especially if they haven’t asked for one.

Cheering you on with a Coke Zero!

Drema 

Dear Reader,

(Please read the title of this post using Tommy Lee Jones’s tone when he says “This is my happy face.”)

This is my summer reading list.

Just kidding. I don’t have a summer reading list. I have books I might read during the summer. I have books I think I should read during the summer. There are a few books I can’t wait to read during the summer, but I don’t have a list, per se.

Word Raccoon’s book procuring style is this: walk down the new section of library books and just swipe them all into a basket.

Not completely accurate, but some weeks, close.

She also loves to sashay over to the nonfiction side and pick up more books than she will ever get to. She stops grabbing books when she can’t see over top of them and not before.

It is no accident that she lives with a library within sight.

WR has this fantasy: wouldn’t it be fascinating to read every book another person has read and see where your minds bend similarly and where they veer wildly apart? She seems to think that reading forms you as much as nurture. Let’s not even talk about nature, because she can’t articulate it, but Word Raccoon believes reading and nature are closely related.

Ask William Wordsworth. He can explain it.

She also hears about books and runs to the Libby app to request them, only to get it months later when she doesn’t even remember why she wanted to read them. (But we’ve talked about that before, haven’t we?)

Modern Mrs Darcy’s 2026 Minimalist Summer Reading Guide is out today, for those with less aversion than WR to having summer homework.

A couple of her suggestions that really stand out are Land by Maggie O’Farrell (She’s usually a must-read for me, though TBH, I did skip her last book. Wrong time.) and Ann Patchett’s new novel, Whistler. I have heard nothing but good things about this book, though I think I’m still happily mulling over Tom Lake. Whistler sounds like it promises the publishing world and art. I’m in. (I should put in a library request for it now. It comes out June 6.)

But back to Land for a moment. Apparently it is set in Ireland, with a dazzling amount of unusual POV’s: a house, a bird? (WR is asking if there’s a raccoon. I don’t know, but I doubt it.) This sounds delightfully strange, which I quite enjoy. It’s out June 2.

As for us, WR and I will probably just pick up whatever calls to us, whatever is suggested by those whose taste we trust. That’s a plan we can stick to.

May exciting books and jaunts find you this summer.

Drema

Dear Reader,

I’m beginning to see the same writing topics repeated in articles and writing forums: avoid adverbs, add sensory information, show don’t tell, write every day, on and on. Not to say that’s bad advice, but hear me out, dear reader.

(I am preparing for a trip, so this will be just the beginning of the conversation.)

While I am a literary fiction writer with an MFA, I know there are not only tons of MFA grads, but thousands of others wanting writing tips. Here’s the thing: we’re not all writing at the same level, yet we’re all being fed the same five tips. (Not literally five, Word Raccoon says, but she says she’s tired of the big five in spirit.) 

Word Raccoon has a suggestion: what if, instead of endlessly discussing writing “rules,” we took a deeper dive into practices that actually open us up as writers?

What if we started with this, which might seem facile:

Read writers talking about how their writing has been influenced by the writing of great writers. Read writers talking about reading other writers and what they see as the most valuable or delicious parts.

I’m serious. There should be a class devoted entirely to writers discussing books and other writers. Instead of every writer struggling alone to reinvent the…you know, we could (sorry, but WR insists) suck the marrow from the best of the best. (Does that make sense? We’d be getting their insights on writing filtered through their influences, which would help us appreciate both more.) 

It would also be a way of examining our literary heritage.

Oh, oh, that would be fantastic, too, a literary family tree!! (I know to an extent it does exist, but what if we literally made it visual? Now WR wants to paint a mural in her writing room!)

Can we make this happen?

What if…what if someone wrote a book called Literary Kin? That has Word Raccoon spinning and asking if she saw Oreos in the kitchen because she eats ideas sometimes. There are cookies, but she’s not getting them tonight. 

She knows why not. 

One recommended practice for improving your writing is to copy by hand a book you admire, I’ve been told more than once. I’m not sure Word Raccoon has that kind of patience, but I love the idea. Certainly you could copy out sentences and paragraphs; I do that when I’m reading a book I admire, retracing a sentence, seeing how it functions within the section, the chapter, the book.

But who has the time to copy out an entire book?

Also, there is the anxiety of influence. I think it might be a mistake to imitate anyone else too closely when voice is our biggest asset as a writer. Most anyone who tries can string together sentences. Not everyone sounds distinctly themselves, but everyone should try.

WR says I’m sounding starchy again. That happens when my thoughts climb in altitude. (Or when I’m recording poetry. Reciting in front of an audience? Intoxicating. Recording myself? Ugh. I’m working on it.)

Don’t mind her. She’s peevish because she wanted pink but they were out, so she got blue. Not that she really minds. Yes, that’s meant to be vaguebook.

For now.

Journals full of poem ideas for you,

Drema

P.S. Did you know pocket soup was apparently a thing? Tasting History with Max Miller over on YouTube says so! WR says we are absolutely writing a poem about that, as long as she doesn’t have to ever eat it from a pocket! 

Dear Reader,

The sun only woke after I went into its bedroom multiple times this morning, pulling on its big toe, and not really even then. As soon as it finally rubbed its eyes and stood up this afternoon, Word Raccoon grabbed both of my hands and the laptop and rushed outdoors.

I, meanwhile, am trying to balance the part of my brain that insists I should be doing all of the things at once. You know: Read. Submit poetry. Clean the refrigerator. Solve literature for X and Y. 

Today I decided I was not in the mood for deadlines, so I only looked at places on Duosuma without them. Word Raccoon approved. I ended up submitting poetry to three places, which feels like quite an achievement for a crowded week.

I walked to the library to pick up a book I had on hold and also found a book of Somerset Maugham’s writings in the free bin. I’m not mad about it.

I also joked with the library clerk that it always has to be intellectual him there when I am picking up my less-than-literary books.

Reader, why do I suddenly become a twelve-year-old trying to explain herself whenever someone sees me carrying both Somerset Maugham seriousness and something with a celebrity cover? Word Raccoon says all books are valid and has threatened to bite literary snobbery directly on the ankle.

And for the record, the clerk, not being a literary snob, defended my choice. It’s a celebrity memoir that WR insisted on, and since I am about to feed her Somerset Maugham, I suppose she deserves some lighter fare. (Okay, fine, I probably won’t start on the former just yet. But I’m so tempted. I remember once telling someone that while I adore Somerset Maugham’s fiction, I wish I could just sit and let him talk at me. I’d just take notes. The way he writes about art!)

At home, I oiled the pocket door to the music room because it squeaked every time it opened and WR was threatening to rip it off its…well, I can’t say hinges, can I? Off its track? The screen door qualified and received the same treatment. Both are now silent.

Word Raccoon has since been stalking through the house in coveralls with the can of oil like a tiny maintenance worker daring anything else to squeak in her presence.

The funny thing is that my brain feels absolutely afire lately with poems, projects, furniture ideas, books, submission plans, work, and approximately twelve thousand thoughts about art and life and whether cabbage can become lunch if you put eggs in it. (It can, by the way. Surprisingly good. Don’t forget the sesame seeds.)

WR and I feel like we are on some strange game show where it’s ready, set, go! She did take screenshots of phrases that she very much thinks need to become poems while reading today, and if there is time before dinner, I will oblige her. Or after. These particular lines aren’t going away any time soon.

One of the phrases was “the weather of the heart.” That just smells like a poem.

Another, “provider of moonbeams.” I want that poem in my ears, now! (Except it’s not a poem yet. Give my writing sidekick time.) Can you even with that?

Then this: “self-appointed inspector of snowstorms.” That one made us giggle with delight. It could be so much fun if it were built out, am I right?

Not every day has to become a gladiator match against time itself, WR. Some days are for reading while the sky picks a mood and Word Raccoon patrols the hallways for avoidable noises.

Meanwhile, I am contemplating gathering items to bake German chocolate cupcakes while admiring the sunny view as it flies by.

Cupcakes and tons of strong coffee,

Drema

Dear Reader,

Today’s poems written: “A Class in Common,” “Cat in Irises,” “Xylem and Phloem,” and “Untitled.” They were all odd little poems, not strange for my work, I know. 

The first is me struggling with the title of the collection The Gospel According to Shrug, because if you know me, you know I probably care about everything too damn much.

The second watches a cat in, yes, the neighbor’s irises, who had made it further on his travels than I had in my poem at that point. (The title sounds like the title of a painting.)

In the third, xylem and phloem contrast language vs. plot. I want to dig into that one more, but I don’t want to polish the thought out of it.

The untitled one considers how something you think is just everyday about yourself might be the thing someone loves about you most.

Anyway.

Word Raccoon insisted we write today, after all we had:

– Painted the knobs on the desk after all

– Put things back in the desk

– Papered the inside of the secretary (which turned out to have a removable shelf! Who knew? Also, pretty! And I’m working on staging it.)

– Found new homes for thrift shop storage purchases (I blame YouTube shorts for the idea to put the glass trays in drawers for jewelry, makeup, etc. and Martha Stewart for the, yes, baskets! WR grabbed the red one and stuffed it with all of her favorite snacks immediately.)

– Washed two loads of laundry

– Emptied dishwasher 

– Read (a book with musical language and great use of detail, but too many?) 

– Other misc. work (as ever, but nobody wants to hear about that, LOL.)

– Rearranged so much

For the first time in a week, I submitted some poetry tonight. 

I also received the best rejection. Not only did they tell me what they admired about every poem, but what they wished had been in them as well. Very helpful. WR wrote to thank them though usually you don’t reply to rejections. 

At least I don’t think you do? 

I typically don’t, unless they offer a personalized response, because I know so many journals are inundated with messages and submissions.

I’m thinking about ideas in poetry vs. imagery. Oh, how I love ideas. No matter where I am, it’s like I’m lying on my back staring at the sky the way I was in New Jersey as a child when I first remember intentionally thinking, back then about the clouds and wind. 

Wouldn’t it be fun if you could schedule an idea appointment with someone, not like some big think-tank kinda thing, but where you stare at the clouds and just let the thoughts roll, a little drunk on life, a little drunk on conversation?

Macro and micro lenses, they are both absolutely fascinating and dang, isn’t life beautiful?

I know this is more listicle than post, but maybe that’s just right for now.

P.S. Recorded “Sonshine” today, newly out in the Bards Against Hunger anthology. CW: death. It’s the story of a face painter (Word Raccoon loves getting her face painted) who told us the story of her dog and a opossum and, well, mayhem ensued. And parallels, obviously. 

Must stop doing so many household projects but unfortunately WR views this as censorship. And she sees the projects as poem portals, so…I want to write ornate, flowery garlands right now but instead my brain is refusing service to all but the most basic activities. WR and I have been up since 4 a.m. just because! (Not just because. She wanted to finish the desk because she was so excited she couldn’t rest.) 

A tiny pleasure to you today and always,

Drema