Dear Reader,

I’ve mentioned verticals before, and here we are again. Word Raccoon and I want to do more research into those microdramas that take the heat and drama and turn them up to eleven in very short videos, often only a minute or two long per episode.

Or, in our case, if we end up writing any, MicroDremas™. 😂😂

The vertical drama machine is lusting for:

Secrets. Status reversals. Hidden identities. Class differences. Inheritances. People overhearing things they absolutely should not have heard.

We have been training for this by reading nineteenth-century novels for YEARS, WR!

Maybe the opportunity isn’t for me to stop being a literary writer long enough to write verticals. Maybe being a literary writer could be the helpful thing I bring to verticals.

Well.

Obviously Word Raccoon and I are not announcing that this is all we’re going to write now. We like to write everything. But we do think verticals are an intriguing possibility, and we’ve begun wondering whether there might be room in the form for adaptations of classic literature.

In my mind, it’s a little like adapting a novel into a graphic novel. If you’ve ever fallen in love with that form, you’ll understand that it’s not the same thing as reading the original novel, but it does coexist in the same universe.

And sometimes all we want is a whiff of the novel, either for smelling or sharing.

So this is the beginning of my journey into verticals. Other than having watched some and heard them discussed on a podcast, I know very little. There’s a Substack newsletter devoted to them that I signed up for, although I have to confess that I haven’t read any of it yet.

I’m telling you: beginning of the journey.

But this is 2026. If I can bring something of myself to a new form and perhaps bring a (very) little of my literary sensibility to it, why not?

And that is not a criticism of verticals. It means that new forms can be fashioned and shaped to appeal to more than one kind of viewer.

For me, one of the most compelling things about them is that just when you’re engrossed, the episode is finished and you’re like, NOOOO! You just have to watch the next one. HOW DO THEY DO THAT, WR? Let’s find out!

Imagine hooking people on the classics like that. Although that brings up the question of what makes the classic a classic: is it the story or the language or both?

Oh my, WR, I think we’ve had too much caffeine because I could riff on that and I’d love to hear others’ thoughts on it, too.

There’s also the sometimes-teacherly part of me that immediately wonders: What if someone becomes fascinated by a vertical adaptation of a classic novel they otherwise would never have encountered, and then goes looking for the book?

That’s one of the benefits I see of graphic novels, comic books based on classics, and the like. I think we have to be careful not to dismiss new forms too quickly, because those may be the very things that help keep what we love alive.

And classics are hardly strangers to heightened drama in the first place.

Secret inheritances?

Forbidden relationships?

Class differences?

People overhearing things they absolutely should not have heard?

Please. The Victorians would like a word.

But why stop there? Imagine taking, say, Madame Bovary and making her an influencer. Too easy, am I right?

A Room with a View? If the room was assigned to an influencer who could not live stream from her window if she did not have one? I think we know why she needs a window, am I right? And what if someone catches her kissing you-know-who on video?

I mean…

Obviously, my adaptations would not consist entirely of making nineteenth-century women influencers. 😂 And the stories as written, even left intact, could be made extremely compelling in small snippets.

Although uh-oh, these could become the new Cliffs’ Notes of our era.

Wait, what am I thinking? There’s AI nowadays. Sigh.

What about taking a symbol from the novel, or a motif, and handing it through each scene? Mrs. Dalloway would have, what? Yes, flowers!

Of course we’d be missing the beauty and mystery of the language, something that could not be duplicated. But this is not the same thing. A unicycle is not a bicycle. A bicycle is not a car. And so on. But they all get you somewhere.

So again, this is the beginning of my research and experimentation with verticals. (Is that word supposed to be capitalized in this case? See, too new for me to know.) These are only my opening thoughts. I’ll report back when I know more and/or have more to say.

Or when I have a script, which feels like more fun than I have time for at the moment.

Wish Word Raccoon and MicroDrema™ luck, please.

Drema

Dear Reader,

I mentioned yesterday refilling the well after having dipped so deeply from it lately. And guess what I decided was ideal to do the refilling with? Mary Oliver: Saved by the Beauty of the World. It’s everywhere right now, and when I saw it on YouTube today, I knew that today was the day. But you can also watch it on the PBS website.

I’ve read some of her poetry, not nearly enough, and I’ve read her excellent Poetry Handbook. Obviously, it’s a classic. It was amusing to discover that she wrote it in hopes of never having to teach again, so she could just be left home alone to write at her kitchen table.

She was such a contradiction: she adored nature yet smoked and drank copiously. She was devoted to her friends and yet often preferred to be alone in the woods.

To see the celebrities and other poets who have been so moved by her work, particularly Stephen Colbert, who could not make it through quoting “The Summer Day,” was heartwarming; he reads it to his children every year. I find that lovely and wish I had done the same.

Her story was quite different from what I imagined, and Provincetown as a more or less artist colony was new to me, and now I want to know more. The footage was tantalizing, too!

There were things large and small that absolutely slayed me in the documentary, and I definitely want to watch it again. But what grabbed me most was a line from her Upstream writings: “Attention is the beginning of devotion.”

That’s the notion I’d like to chase today. I wrote the line down as soon as I heard it, and I know I’ve heard it before, but ironically, I haven’t paid it much attention, although I relate to it mightily. (That is an old-fashioned word but, in a sense, so is devotion.)

It’s early, I’m on the sun porch for now, and Word Raccoon is barely invited into this post, but here we are. When I’m not paying attention, she is, so I suppose that’s fair.

Attention is the beginning of devotion.

I have always paid attention. It’s funny how you can be accused of being a dreamer (my name, come on), of not being focused, of not listening when you are always focused, you are always listening. You always see. Just not what others think you ought to.

I’ve been on walks and asked if someone else sees the glimmer on a patch of pebbles, or the way the squirrel has flattened herself when we walk by. I’ve watched too many ants to count. I can spot someone by how they walk; I can imitate their voice; I can predict their cadence and almost what they will say. 

For those I am particularly devoted to, I even notice when they get a new sunspot.

You can’t notice everything, though. So what is it that draws the attention in the first place? Hard to say.

Maybe it’s a turn of phrase or a word no one else uses. Maybe it’s the mismatch between words and body language. Maybe it’s the way someone picks up an idea and twirls it in their hand like a globe, capturing it in 360 degrees in a way you’ve not seen before and you just want to be close to see if you can catch how they did that trick.

Devotion.

Attention.

You might not even use a thing from watching the hummingbird dip into your flowers while you think, “Sir, that’s quite enough, and what you are doing seems a little inappropriate.” But someday, you will encounter a poem about the lovely, sweet hummingbird and you will think, “Yeah, but that one guy…”

Those of us who create do sometimes want to be unnoticed. We don’t want attention paid to us so that we can pay attention. Being a stranger means you can take in a conversation; appearing absorbed in your own work while in public means you might catch an unguarded glimpse.

Those are the moments to treasure. But I’m wandering, WR. Why are you letting me do that? I could write reams on this.

This is not a post to write in a morning. This is not a post to write in a day. This is not a post to write in a life.

This is not the post to explore the audacity and agony of being noticed. 

There’s a reason people write poems about these things, people!

WR says it’s fine. Some topics we’re allowed to return to, over and over again. Maybe devotion is a bucket pulled up from a well.

(We like the shiny things no one else values in it because, WR says, those people are philistines. What, she says, you can be a philistine about more than just art.)

Isn’t it time for breakfast, she asks. She just wants to save me from embarrassing myself, which she says I am veering perilously close to right now.

Poetry lover or not, I highly recommend the documentary. You may question everything you have done with your “wild and precious life.” 

I do not say that lightly. The more people I lose, the more I know this to be true.

And btw, apparently “Flattened Grass” from yesterday’s post wanted to be recorded. Sorry about the AC running in the background; it was recorded on the fly, and alas, only once. Someday I’ll actually practice. But in the meantime…I guess WR just records poems whenever she pleases now. 😂

Drema

Dear Reader,

This has been a fussy bunny morning. Word Raccoon is clearing her throat. Sorry, fussy Word Raccoon morning, I guess!

I woke up at 4:30, couldn’t get back to sleep, and decided to read more of a short translated-from-French novel that I’ve been reading snippets of over the past three days. Initially, I loved the conceit. Alas, then the seams in the translation and the limitations of the form began showing. (It’s an epistolary novel, and there is only so much letters can do, friends.) I can’t tell whether all these characters are extremely prickly or whether I’m occasionally feeling the translation.

Oh, and the coincidences in the book are beginning to exasperate me. But I will finish it, because I’m 200 pages in and it’s only 270ish, so…also, I kinda want to see what happens.

Also, I had no idea how much of a letdown I would feel after All Novel, All August, was over. It was challenging, but I loved it. Now real life has re-entered the building, and I’m having trouble with the transition. 

I was feeling blah and I had a headache and I needed caffeine and even though I’ve been going to the gym, I’ve done a lot of sitting this month and I am sore. 

And this weather, WTH! I can’t even bear to sit on the sun porch. Sad face. I have resigned myself to being indoors at the moment and I don’t like it. What is there to look at indoors?, WR asks. She’s got a point. 

I’ve been listening to an audiobook since last month. Because writing does not lend itself to book listening, it’s been so slow going that honestly, I’m kinda sick of it. I tried to listen this morning because I’ve only got two more hours of it to go! But this morning I was like, I have no idea what’s going on, so that was a no.

I tried watching a Clutterbug video. Cass always cheers me up! And she was doing a house makeover, so…at first, it was a big no. But then I made some breakfast and tried again and I’m watching it while I write this, so yes, yes. 

The caffeine is helping the head.

But I wrote a melancholy little poem this morning, which actually helped, too. I know that if I ever make it a real poem I’ll have to take the writing part out of it, but for today, it’s just right for expressing my mood.

And WR and I have decided to make this a transition-back-to-real-life week, to give ourselves some mercy. 

Fair. Fair.

(This transition is probably not helped because I scheduled my BIG NASTY ADMINISTRATIVE TASK PART TWO TODAY, and IF I finish it, there will probably be two other legs of it before all is said and done. I’d like to speak to today’s scheduler, please.) 

Oh, you want to see the poem? 

Why not?

Flattened Grass

Carnivals and circuses

are the worst.

They’re glitter and 

grimaces,

seductive cinnamon followed by 

queasiness.

Like my month of writing.

Both have pulled out of town

leaving behind

oil slicks, empty cotton candy cones

and flattened grass.

God, I hope that’s not all

life is. 

P.S. It’s not.

P.P.S. Writing this when the day is mostly over, and I am happy to report that I completed that big nasty task AND the two hydras that did indeed sprout. I finished listening to the book while running errands. Finished reading that other book I was talking about, and submitted two packets of poetry. I spent a long time going through my “ready to submit” folder as well as my punk poems, and several of them raised their hands. But they’re so strangely made. WR says that is how she likes them sometimes. Sigh.

Also watched a bunch of very cool refill-the-well videos but more on that another time. The tale features skinny jeans and an unheeded watch! 

Drema 

Dear Reader,

Here are the official achievements of “All Novel, All August” (and a bit on Sept. 1).

I’ve tried not to add any spoilers which is kinda a pain and a bit dry, sorry. Give me a little more time and I can give you more of the flow of the story. Probably. Just not sure when the reveal should come. Word Raccoon says now, now now, but I try not to listen to her too much.

A tiny bit about the novel: it’s a literary mystery/campus novel. If you know how much I love Possession, you can probably see why this particular literary-mystery territory appeals to me. (WR and I LURVE that novel!)

Reaccessioned, my novel, is set on a small Ohio university campus, and the action begins when a time capsule is found during the clock tower’s demolition, potentially confirming one rumor and bringing to light secrets that have remained underground for over a hundred years.

The race is on to find the historical items hinted to exist that just might save this modest liberal arts institution from a very twenty-first-century identity crisis.

WR is howling because she wants to tell, tell, tell! But no, no, no! Not yet!

At any rate, though we could say more, we are still working on it. 

Here are the highlights, because the actual list is frankly way too long!

During All Novel, All August, I:

• Wrote and revised my way to 75,000 words. (Added 7K back after initially condensing it.)
• Completed substantial drafts of ALL of the novel’s major story threads.
• Assembled previously separate threads into one manuscript so I could finally read the book as a book rather than as several related stories. Whew!
• Completed a full read-through and generated a revision list that ballooned past 50 items. I later weeded out everything I had already solved, superseded, or decided the novel didn’t need. Then we did a happy dance.
• Wrote a significant amount of entirely new material, including scenes, letters, journal material, and connective tissue. (Covering WR’s mouth so she doesn’t give anything away just yet.)
• Accidentally wrote the ending of one major thread and didn’t realize it was the ending until I tried to continue and discovered there wasn’t a next thing. Fun and sad!
• Solved or substantially clarified who creates, possesses, preserves, hides, discovers, and eventually inherits various pieces of evidence. (That can be TRICKY!)
• Worked out or strengthened a complicated historical chronology spanning well over a century. (Yes, my head is spinning!)
• Solved several things that had felt like plot devices by discovering the emotional reasons the characters themselves would actually make those choices.
• Reworked a major historical relationship so that it became more complicated and less easily labeled, which turned out to be much more useful to the novel and feels fair.
• Figured out that I didn’t need to settle every historical ambiguity. In some places, the ambiguity is the point.
• Developed a system for tracking documented history, fictional invention, interpretive choices, and altered chronology so I can eventually write an accurate author’s note.
• Did a ridiculous amount of historical research into letters, biographies, contemporary accounts, clothing, travel, education, etc. that may occupy three words in the finished novel. And with all that, I will still probably make mistakes.
• Created timelines for important historical correspondence so my invented material doesn’t accidentally contradict surviving evidence.
• Started paying closer attention to the physical lives of documents, not merely what they say: how they’re folded, addressed, stored, moved, hidden, damaged, preserved, or mistaken for something unimportant. Fascinating and tactile. 
• Decided that a historical scene needs to change a relationship, understanding, decision, or possibility, not merely contain fascinating information. Dang it.
• Cut several research questions after realizing that I simply don’t need to know. I mean, I need to know because my curiosity is insatiable, but the novel doesn’t.
• Thought much more carefully about privacy after death, who has the right to tell another person’s story, and whether preserving something necessarily gives someone permission to disclose it.
• Became much more ruthless about leaving placeholders such as (CHECK THIS) and (NAME IT) rather than interrupting a live scene to spend 45 minutes determining which magazine arrived on Saturday 100 years ago.
• Learned that not knowing exactly where a scene belongs does not mean I shouldn’t write it.
• Began thinking about the eventual revision pass for physical embodiment, making sure characters exist as bodies in rooms. Alas, Rebecca still does not have a hair color assigned to her. I have no idea why not. 😂
• Resisted doing the final copyedit approximately nine thousand times because the book is not ready for a final copyedit so STOP IT! (WR was happy to stop that. It’s tedious.)
• Submitted work from the novel as the writing sample for a residency application. Tried not to panic.
• And, perhaps most importantly, moved from “I have novel pieces” much closer to “I have a novel that now needs revision.” While I don’t have in my head exactly how all of the remaining scenes will go, I know enough about the characters and the plot now that I am confident I can write them (even if I likely won’t know until the words are coming out what I am typing).

Soon WR and I are getting away for a few days. I think we deserve it, don’t you?

Then it’s on to September and do we have the ideas!

Drema 

Dear Reader,

Does a day even seem like a day if the sun plays keepaway?

Ah, but there are days that make their own sun with little unexpected rays of delight. Word Raccoon and I like those days very much. Thanks, Monday. 

Today, I did something dumb with my novel. I want to blame WR, but I can’t.

Last night, when I copied the James section for The Mount application, I copied it from an older version of my ms. Which is fine, because that section was essentially unchanged. I did make one change to it. No big deal.

But this morning, I was suddenly confused as to which version of the WIP was current.

One was an “exploratory” copy from when I was just putting the story threads together. Exploratory was a less scary title for it. But I had also created the same document without exploratory in the title, and apparently (Google version history to the rescue) that is the one I had actually been revising.

But for a few tense moments, I thought WR was going to clear a shelf of pinecones with one hand.

I have now made a folder inside my MS folder for older copies and banished said copies to it. I have written MASTER COPY on the main document, along with the date, which I will try to update daily.

Don’t get me wrong, my writing is pretty organized. This was an anomaly.

But a scary one.

I had a fun thing happen on the writing front after that, though.

You are not even ready for this:

I accidentally wrote the end of a thread.

Like, THE END, without knowing I was writing it.

It snuck up on me. I went to write what came next and realized: Wait.

That’s it.

There isn’t a next thing.

It’s a natural ending point, and it happened just where I thought it might, only I didn’t realize I was actually headed there today until I arrived.

I don’t know yet which thread will close the novel. I think I know. I have another one queued up to do it. But after writing this today, a quieter ending, I wonder.

Maybe this one is the end.

Either way, it’s an end.

Another thing about no sun is I just can’t tell what time it is. Not complaining. Deep writing days are like this.

Remember, one more novel writing day for now. (I know August is over tomorrow, but I’m making up for that day I took off for whatever reason; can’t remember now.)

I had a friend text me today and ask if I’m available for coffee this week.

Next week, I replied.

Life is returning. Whew.

Other things can get back on the list. (I do have a list. I’m just trying to refine it.) Let’s not even talk about the big box of building materials on the porch hogging one whole side of it, or its twin, which is coming Wednesday.

But also: pretty house projects are coming back online!

Yay!

To be clear, the novel isn’t finished, and I’m not giving up on it, either. I’m just slowing down and working on what is a much, much closer-to-finished version of it. Maybe tomorrow will be a “here’s what I’ve done this month” summarized. We’ll see. 

Drema

P.S. I took a minute to open a couple of packages that had been lingering on the porch and, to my surprise, one was my new medication! I thought it was coming today, not yesterday. Good thing I opened it! This med is titrated, and I’m glad it is, because it sounds like it can have some major side effects. I’m both nervous and excited. Maybe this is the missing piece to kicking major life rear!

Dear Reader,

Today was more of the same and yet different, too. Word Raccoon and I woke early to see what we could accomplish before a family brunch where WR discovered pineapple upside-down pancakes and was disappointed that she had ordered avocado toast! 

But now she knows where to get them when she has a hankering…

This morning we hashed out our thoughts on one of the novel characters. (I/we; WR seems to be taking credit for all of the work today. Whatever. I’m wearing her t-shirt so let’s call it even.) 

Then we read some source material. We thought some more. I mean thought and thought and thought. 

After brunch, I quieted WR with a Reese’s peanut butter pumpkin (yes, they’re already out and I have to have one each year). 

I wrote three important-to-the-novel letters and two scenes. Two of the letters startled me. I didn’t know what I would write. And the third I’m still on the fence about…I think it’s okay, but we’ll see.

Of course there was/is The Mount residency packet. It would be such an honor, and so cool, to be chosen. As I mentioned before, the application portal opens September 1, and I have everything prepped now, even down to my writing sample. I chose James pages from both the quiet beginning and a pivotal scene in the middle of the novel. I wrote my bio. I wrote my Statement of Purpose for the novel, which was clarifying to me and I wanted to share it immediately with anyone I thought might be interested in it but I told myself no, no. Show restraint, WR. (Dear Reader, she does not like to show restraint. But fret not. She can.)

In any case, the packet is ready to go as soon as the portal opens. Wish me luck? 

But wait, there’s more! WR, attempting to transition back to poetry in a couple of days (as well as Verticals, let us not forget, while finishing up our novel), submitted to two journals. One was another ekphrastic call, and yup, again, we have those poems! The second call was for poems of longing. I mean, have you seen Look, I Built a Cathedral? Rhetorical; of course you haven’t. It’s unpublished. But several (at least those not already published) fit the bill.

I don’t mean to be full of myself, but “Vanishing Act” really needs to find a home already. I think it’s naughty and funny and I’m just ready to share it!

Here’s hoping you had a restful and enjoyable weekend, Dear Reader. 

Drema 

Dear Reader,

Word Raccoon is not happy with me. I kicked her off the sun porch early this morning, before the sun was up. I knew what a day of research and reading I had ahead of me, and I wanted none of her shenanigans.

And lured by plenteous portions of her favorite beverage and snacks, she mostly stayed out of my way. But she must’ve been reading over my shoulder because she asked me to leave the keyboard a couple of times to rough out poems when I (we?) read particularly striking lines. 

Having had only one quick lunch/supper break, at five WR begged to go to the gym, to do ANYTHING ELSE besides sit.

I agreed, but only because I had a dilemma to take to the gym. Having just read some of the material I have been avoiding or only lightly reading for five years now (so my notes tell me), I had now made myself read, take notes, form opinions, and come to conclusions backed by evidence.

WR rolled her eyes and said sure, we want to do right by the material but WE ARE WRITING FICTION!  And guess what? We’re not even getting graded on it! 

That was beside the point because having come so close to feeling like “Ok, that’s it. Case closed,” I happened upon a source section I had previously ignored, thinking it unimportant.

Reader, it was not. 

Worse, it (redacted) the very (redacted) I had supposed, thus collapsing (or possibly collapsing) my thesis. 

There was another thorn I had forgotten about that came back to mind, so I took them both to the gym. Actually, as I was backing the vehicle out of the driveway to go to the gym a scene involving a woman I had thought of one way suggested itself to me that solved the issue.

Whew.

And, on the way home from the gym, a way to reconcile the other bit of information came to me, if, when I wrote down my final thoughts, that’s how I wanted to handle it.

I haven’t entirely decided, though I’m close.

Thankfully, I recall that I have a novel day that I need to make up in September for a day I ditched in Novel August.

I’m going to need it.

But I’ve done the necessary work now, and earlier a portion of one of the letters I need to write started coming to me out of nowhere so I have notes for it written down. Whew. That’s the most difficult work done. 

Still TONS of work ahead, but now I can proceed (almost) without roadblocks, once I decide once and for all my viewpoint. 

Today convinced me that the breadth of the book is just as ambitious as I thought it was, and that having gone from “I cannot possibly do this” yesterday to “Oh, wait, this is kind of fun,” I truly do think there is an end in sight.

Just no time soon. 

In the meantime, could someone come take this raccoon for a walk? She’s threatening to unplug my laptop. 

Drema 

Dear Reader,

Word Raccoon and I find ourselves in the unenviable position of having to choose a new place to write. Again.

Since they are shutting our usual café in about a month, for good this time, and it’s going up for sale, well, I’m thinking that’s no longer going to be an option for writing. 

(Actually, they are shutting it down and reopening it in a nearby town. No thank you; my writing does not want to commute any real distance most days.)

But I’m too tired to even make any decisions right now. Only three days of All Novel, All August to go. No time right now for mourning the same place for, how many times does this make now? Too many.

Today has been an unusual writing day. First of all, Zack texted just as I was getting ready to head to the gym and asked if I had time for coffee. 

Uh, obviously. 

But WR and I went to the gym first and met up with Zack after we cleaned up. He was there when we were told the news about the place getting ready to close. Sigh.

We sat and watched the traffic whiz by together. 

After he left, I remained and began working on what is probably the toughest part of my novel. Yes, an extremely rough draft exists, but some of the most difficult thinking lies ahead. I had to read some material I’ve been putting off because it’s too sacred and because I have to form an opinion on it and that will steer the rest of the novel. 

I only read a portion of it today, all that I could handle. Ok, so I only read part of the part while WR covered her eyes. 

It’s not only the most difficult part of the novel (can you believe I even have a novel without having completed this?), it’s the most tantalizing. Save the best for last and all that.

But it has taken hours to find and retrieve some documents. It’s part of the gig. If I’m going to create the letters and journal entries, I’ve got to not just read but study said materials. 

When can we get back to poetry? It was so fun looking over my poems last night. I’m tempted to tell Verticals to go pound sand and just spend a month on nothing but poems. 

Wait, WR, we did that last year. And we spent MONTHS, not a month. 

BTW, I gave one of yesterday’s poems (okay, I only wrote two!) a haircut and here it is. Something I heard someone say about the noon whistle and how far they could hear (yay, it’s back!) sparked this.

Floridian Declaration

Some poems’ feathers are hot pink,

a Floridian declaration,

bathtub gin

contained to 

a sink.

This one spreads its plumage,

as wide as your wingspan

and delights in being within 

earshot of 

the same noon whistle

as you.

My goal is to have a sturdy draft of Reaccessioned ready for beta readers by the end of the year, after the annual writing retreat. WR has dream beta readers on her wish list, if only…

Drema 

Dear Reader,

I staged a jail break on Stanley and his chore chart this afternoon, grabbed Word Raccoon, and opened the Notes app for some unscheduled poetry writing.

(But first I did my tasks for the day on my novel, so many nitpicky things like what’s the name of the river? and for the love, I still don’t know what color hair Rebecca has? No, I haven’t added that last one yet, but I have a live checklist with boxes to fill. They not only get filled, but the text gets crossed out, too, when you check them, so doubly validating, I guess.)

After an impudent bee decided to invade my cup while I was writing poetry at the cafe (empty or no, for shame!), I grabbed a blurry photo of it and wrote a poem.

Damned Bee in a Lidded Cup

I do not remember asking you to help yourself,
to slide inside the lip of my lid,
to invade my cup, however empty.

Did you ask permission to
drink the nothing that lingers?

Did you even think to ask if I
were finished?

And yet, hearing you rattle,
I take the lid off and
set you
free.

P.S. No bees were hurt in the writing of this poem. I grabbed a quick pic and, as the poem says, turned it loose. But tell me how it got in on its own but didn’t know how to get back out? Sigh.

And another poem came to me that, notebook or no, still needs work, so I will hold off on sharing it just now except its title: “Floridian Declaration.”

I also grabbed a quick photo of the latest anthology, which I received today and which includes two of my poems.

I feel as if I’ve seen that cover somewhere else, but where?

Where?

Oh wait, on their website, of course. (Photo above NOT from their website, LOL.)

Thank you again to Quillkeepers Press for including my work.

And thank you, dear reader, for reading.

Drema

P.S. I submitted a packet of poetry tonight for a call for ekphrastic poetry. My Google docs overfloweth. It turns out that was the first poetry I submitted in a month. Whoa. It was cool to spend time with those poems, see which ones were half baked, which ones were ready to be submitted.

I sent:

Fill the Hopper,Jackie Gleason Presents Music to Change Her Mind, At the Page Like Neruda, No Lying Still for Lilies, No One Mentioned What Became of the Rabbits (After Richard Hugo).

WR is grateful for the poetry. She says she thinks novel writing goes alongside nicely poetry.

Dear Reader,

What do you do when your Word Raccoon wakes you at 3:30 in the morning insisting on sorting the day like socks?

First of all, what in the unholy role reversal have you been doing lately, WR? I rely upon you to be the freewheeling one, remember?

Second of all, I think Stanley (my A.I. assistant) is behind all of this! He’s over there holding his bowler hat and twirling his bow tie and wondering if he can get me to actually empty the dishwasher.

Ungrateful Stanley! I started it, didn’t I?

He’s the one who reminded me that applications open for The Mount in five days and they only take the first 300 applications.

He’s the one who told me to yes, fold the laundry, but would I please, please put it away so it doesn’t become decorative?

When WR started asking for the gym this morning (That is a betrayal, you animal! You are supposed to complain about all of the unfun stuff.) and I told Stanley that it’s foggy out, both of them ganged up on me.

I countered by saying I can work out at home.

They agreed.

WHY IS WR STANDING ON STANLEY’S SHOULDER?

Here, WR, I have some poetry pellets over here…

I am drinking Cherry Coke Zero (don’t do it! It’s not the real thing), irritated that I cannot go back to sleep, and am also relieved that mostly when I dream I am lucid dreaming. This morning I had a true crime themed dream that went on and on until I realized I was dreaming and woke myself up. 

I dreamed lucidly, vividly, almost every night when my sister Tammy was in her final days. I don’t know what that was about.

Did I ever mention how much she loved purple?

Sorry, that’s what writing a post too early does to a person.

Anyway, I thought I had already decided what today was going to be.

I finished reading through the whole novel last night and came out of it with 58 action items, which is both useful and rude.

But I was NOT going to start fixing them today.

Today’s novel assignment was going to be simple: find my old action lists from earlier drafts, make sure there isn’t anything important stranded on them, transfer what I need, and move along.

No major revisions. No solving Rebecca. No suddenly deciding something fundamental about the novel before breakfast.

Holy hell, just writing this has shown me the pirouette that Rebecca’s thread needs. Please haul in a bucket of ambiguity, that ever-present devil, for my sandbox, WR.

Which irritates me because I thought I knew what I was doing there. LOL.

But damn it, I think this is better. Much. And probably fairer.

Now I know the changes I need to make. They aren’t extensive exactly, but they aren’t quick fixes either, and naturally other parts of the novel will have to bend around them because WHY WOULDN’T THEY?

Into the September pile they go.

So there we are.

I woke up at 3:30 trying to figure out Thursday and have somehow discovered September’s work instead.

WR looks pleased with herself.

Here, animal. Have another poetry pellet. If only. 

I kinda want to just open up my notes app and spend two hours writing poetry. 

WR just yawned. Of course she did.

Wishing you artistic revelations and good vibrations,

Drema