Word Raccoon and I are under the weather today. We want to write creatively, can’t. Want to read, can’t. Can’t find anything to watch that pleases us. We’ve tried. The two things that have piqued our interest are on streaming services we don’t currently have. We do not want to sign up for any more. 

I have interested WR in potentially flipping through the book American Writers at Home after I post this, a lovely coffee table book. (Do people still have coffee tables? I don’t think we have had one in about 25 years.)  There are many other art books she might enjoy festooning the sidetables. 

Anyway, I have not managed to get WR out of her pj’s yet today, but I am threatening to make her change and at least going to sit in the car in the parking lot of the gym to keep her streak going, even if she doesn’t feel like going inside. (The illness is light, we’ll be over it in a couple more days. In the meantime, we’re powering down all nonessential activities. And we’re eating soup and crackers on the porch.) 

We are hoping someone talks us out of going. We are not sure we should let them. 

Since it’s a mildly wretched day already, I might as well tell you the sad thing: one of the squirrels on our street met its fate, likely beneath the wheels of a car. I hadn’t named it, but I had called it “one of the young ones” in my head. I see its sibling?? outside right now, looking a bit lost. Maybe I’m just anthropomorphizing the poor thing, but I’m still sad about it. (WR is both sorry to hear it and thinks I’m making too big a deal about it.) 

And while I’m complaining, someone I know went to see Father John, I discovered on social media. I comfort myself in saying that not going paid for at least half of the cost of my new glasses. (Insurance only covers so much. Sigh.)

Enough, Drema. Not another word about FJM! WR is getting impatient with my whining, and I don’t blame her.

Here is my review that I wrote last week of Penny’s excellent, engrossing novel. Long story short: read the book! 

Doll Parts by Penny Zang. 

Doll Parts entranced me. It’s a tender, haunted story of friendship and fate, told in a captivating dual timeline. In college, Nikki plunges into the campus mystery of the Sylvia Club, a coterie of Sylvia Plath devotees shadowed by death. 

In the present, Nikki is gone, dead, or something more ambiguous, and her estranged friend Sadie, pregnant and restless, moves into Nikki’s house. There she finds research notes, cryptic signs, and a design that only someone who knew her to the marrow could set in motion.

Sidenote: Am I the only one who hunted online frantically wanting to buy the gold-plated jade turtle pendant by Avon after reading this? The novel is that vivid: objects feel alive, talismans of memory and desire.

What stayed with me most wasn’t the whodunit mechanics (though the campus mystery is worth the read and full of great music), but the intimate choreography between these two women. Nikki knows Sadie so well she can predict her next moves even after death. She counts on Sadie’s self-interest, even anticipates that Sadie will fall for her husband, and folds that knowledge into her plan. She trusts Sadie with her daughter. The result is both eerie and strangely loving, a testament to how complicated and yet enduring friendships can be.

Zang writes with an atmospheric grace: the book feels like a mixtape of grief and obsession, scored by a killer playlist and lit by the soft glow of half-remembered college nights. It’s dark academia with heart, a campus ghost story that lingers more in the psyche than in jump scares. (Though there are a few of those!) 

Prepare for the unexpected, and for the subversion of expectations at points, which just delays the sweet payoff. 

And the fashion!! The funky dresses, band t-shirts, hairstyles, accessories, and even specific outfits that do so much of the heavy lifting in revealing the characters. I adored it all. (I know I’m being vague here, but I want you to discover them for yourself.) 

The texture of Doll Parts, from its objects, music, and uncanny understanding of friendship, remains unforgettable. A campus mystery worth reading, and one that will have you scouring vintage sites for that turtle pendant. (I haven’t bought one, but it’s tempting.)

I know Zang didn’t write it just for me, but it hits all the sweet spots, so it kinda feels like it. 

It’s definitely worth a read. 

Now Playing: Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran (WR pressed “play” and it was on the playlist. I don’t judge her musical tastes, and vice versa. I hope.)

I was just getting ready for the day yesterday, hair damp and writing dreams intact, when I made the mistake of checking my phone. And there it was: the announcement. My favorite café, the beloved, occasionally quirky darling of my tea-seeking heart, is closed for renovations. 

Effective immediately. No timeline given. Just vague promises of something “fresh” and “new.”

Word Raccoon took to the fainting couch. I nearly joined her.

Supposedly they posted a notice the day before. 

Renovation? Resurrection? Rebranding? A rebuke to those of us who dare to love it? 

Let the record show that the last time you closed (and switched hands), I mourned. I parked my car outside the shuttered shop a couple of times just to tell the shop that it wasn’t the boss of me, that I would be just fine. 

I told myself it was nostalgia. I knew it was grief. (WR is holding my hand. She wishes she had been there.) 

(I might or might not have an audio clip of the shop a few hours before it closed, just the ambient sounds in the background to remind me of the years I spent writing there.)

Ask me how much writing I did in the months that it was closed with no promise of it reopening. How abandoned I felt. Without a writing home. 

No, don’t. 

It took someone asking me where I was writing to admit that I wasn’t. To do something about it. 

I will be fine now. It’s not that serious; I will just go to the other coffee shop in town until it reopens. 

Word Raccoon says not so fast about returning to it when it does reopen. She doesn’t know if she can trust the new/old shop now, if they can close without advance notice like that. 

WR, quit it! I’m not letting you become a hermit again. 

Anyway, that planned soup lunch with my friend? 

Rescheduled. 😣

That’s okay, because no one told me that SO MANY literary journals close to submissions at the end of September. And oh, yeah, into October. 

Loves, I have spent the past two days submitting poetry. That was not on the schedule. (Not complaining because it gave me the opportunity to revisit poems I haven’t looked at in a while. And I’m grateful to have the opportunity to do it, but I’m ready to be writing again.) 

Speaking of…this afternoon a poem idea raised its hand in the middle of all of that. “I…I have something to say.” 

I wanted to fob it off, but Word Raccoon closed the Submittable tab. (And Chillsubs. And Duosuma. And P & W…and…)

I knew the poem wasn’t going away, and I didn’t want it to, anyway. I chucked it under the chin and said, “What, love? I’m listening.”

I only made a quick sketch of it but y’all, I like this one a lot. I think WR does, too. Her eyes are blurred with happiness. Then again, she’s always half love drunk on poetry.

But I swear, I imagined there was only so much you could write about a topic. Guess not. I don’t know if that makes me infinitely creative (ha!) or just singleminded. 

It comes and goes in delightful waves, Babe, you know? 

And I’m not mad about it. 

When I stepped into the café this morning, the owner didn’t say hello. He didn’t say good to see you. He didn’t even do the nod-and-smile.

Nope.

He leaned over the counter, looked me dead in the eye, and said:

“Where the hell have you been?”

Word Raccoon, naturally, let out a delighted cackle. (She appreciates a good dramatic entrance.) I mean, you know you’ve been gone too long when your absence gets shouted across a cappuccino machine like a line from a Western.

Obviously, he was teasing. But it is nice to be missed. Especially by the people who serve you caffeine and let you haunt their Wi-Fi like a literary ghost.

I didn’t mean to stay away. Life got tangled. My brain got loud. I let the local cafes share custody of me. But this morning, the air was crisp in that way that makes your story whisper, Now. It’s the kind of day when your characters start tugging on your coat sleeves and saying fall is here, and we’ve been waiting.

So today was all novel, all day.

Maybe my novel has just been waiting for fall. I think novels might be like root vegetables in that they do better with a little cold in the ground. They need that pre-winter clarity. Fall isn’t just for sweaters and soup. It’s for getting serious about your writing.

It’s your mind going back to school. It’s your keyboard saying all the things, some which you wish you could take back, because WR has no filter. Don’t worry, I have duct tape for when it’s called for in public, though don’t tell her that. I won’t let her embarrass either of us, Babe. 

Also today: a man in his 80s, I’d guess, stopped on the sidewalk while I was sitting outside the café. This stranger asked if I owned the place, and when I said no, he stayed a while to tell me stories anyway, which was awesome.

He told me about the houses he’d fixed up in our town and sold before he and his wife moved, and the one he’s working on now in Pierceton, a former stagecoach stop with old beams he’s exposed like secrets. He told me about how the cemetery in that town came to be, the factory there that his wife’s family used to own during the Civil War, and the characters around town he remembered, some I remembered just as vividly. 

He even said rumor has it that there’s a body buried in his front yard from the late 1800’s, though he claims to have never gone looking for it.

“Better not go digging any flower beds,” I said. 

We laughed. 

When I shared a couple of frank opinions when he asked what I thought (I could tell he could handle it), he said “You’re on your way to becoming my favorite person,” which was hilarious. 

I told him he should write his stories down, and he said he already has, I’m happy to say. He asked if he was keeping me, but Word Raccoon was collecting his stories and details for background material. He said I could use any of them I want to. 

It was like running into a human version of the historical society newsletter. So fun! 

Anyway, the writing went well. Word Raccoon spilled some sentences but I cleaned them up. The characters showed up for roll call. A chapter opened its mouth. 

I did more massaging than writing new material today, but I’m staying in the flow, which is important. 

The novel felt alive again, and I’m reminded of what the man I met today said: “I love telling stories.” 

And you know what? So do I.

P.S. I highly recommend the Secret Life of Books Podcast episode I mentioned before on The Woman in White, (told you I’d finish listening to it) as well as the podcast’s interview with Jennifer Egan about the book. That Wilkie was something else! 

Prescript: I wrote the post below earlier today. I want to add some exciting news first that I was just emailed about. 

Many thanks to County Lines: A Literary Journal for accepting my poem “Knocking Stars Out of the Known Universe.” It will be published Dec. 8, 2025. I have been invited to read my poem at the launch party in North Carolina. Here’s hoping I make it there. Either way, it’s a lovely invitation, and I’m so pleased to have my work given a home. 

Now, WR has been pacing. 

She keeps checking the front stoop.

“I told you that it’s not coming until tomorrow.”

She’s looking for her new pink office chair. Pink! She was asked if she wanted to review it, and before I could tell her she has a perfectly comfy office chair, she said yes!

Mainly because it’s pink.

It does look cozy.

It’s supposed to have arms that fold down so you can let your pet jump up beside you. Oh, WR is thinking she can sit beside me when I write instead of on my shoulder. Got it.

Anyway, I assume it will be all assembly station over here tomorrow evening.

WR can’t wait to sit in it, especially if it spins.

She is now clamoring for breakfast.

We visited the orchard again this past week and bought apples for cooking. I’m going to make fried apples this morning, but I fear I will lose my Southern card because, sob, I’m not going to use butter. (I said I’d give this nondairy thing a good two months to see if it helps. WR is furious.)

I cannot resist sharing these apple photos. Sorry if it’s a lot. So much color and texture!

Now, do I go big and make a Southern breakfast and use the remaining time to write? (Creatives actually consider these things, don’t we? But don’t forget that cooking can be a creative act, loves.)

Specifically, do I make biscuits to make up for the fact that there won’t be any butter in the apples? And if I make biscuits, do I make fried potatoes, too? (I rarely make a “big breakfast.”) Sausage goes without saying. Or bacon.

Or do I use the time to write instead, here with Sam Cooke in my ears, me on the porch before the neighborhood wakes. 

No, I can’t make biscuits today. I was just picturing making them and all I can see is my dad rolling them out and cutting them out with a glass, dipping them in the melted lard and placing them in the pan side by side, like snug siblings after a bedtime story.

He was so happy when he was cooking, so proud to feed his family.

Add salt, Drema, sure, but not salt from tears. 

Ok, music off.

Those mini pumpkins pictured! I had to buy some of those, too. Although the proprietor asked why we weren’t getting fall things, too (besides the mini pumpkins) but the rule around here is no fall decorating until October, no Christmas decorations until late November. Around my birthday, but usually just past, preferably after Thanksgiving. Although I start listening to Christmas music on the sly in November.

Doesn’t mean I haven’t picked up a few fall decorations already.

I’m debating mums this year. TBH, they don’t have a great scent, they look like nature tossed in the leftovers from spring flowers and added corduroy to the mix. Color, sure, but even that is muted. 

(Well that’s more than I meant to say about mums. Mum’s the word. Oh god. Not a word pun. They’re the Keurig pod of language: single use, disposable. I’m not being fair about puns for personal reasons and I don’t care.)

On the writing front, I had another moment yesterday where I was like, how to poem?? Words are what? And I had to take a break.

WR danced for me, but I wasn’t having it. She pointed to the fact that my stressed hip seemed to be rebounding, which, yes, is cause to celebrate.

She reminded me that our cafe is going to start serving soup again on Oct. 1, and that we have lunch planned with a friend to celebrate that on Oct. 2! (It’s the little things.)

Then WR took our Kindle app and showed us what we are reading, as if that might be part of the problem.

“Drema. Oh, Drema. Why?” she said.

She pointed to a pop nonfic book whose entire message is in the title. Ok, there’s one tiny piece that isn’t. But if you put those two things together, book read.

I lowered my head. 

She shook hers. “We don’t need to figure anything out. We are a lighthouse, not a ship,” she said.

I wonder what she meant by that.

In any case, I understand what she’s saying about my reading. She means I need to read something real, something meaty. Preferably fiction. Something that gives me all the feels and thoughts and even fears and makes my whole self feel alive. That inspires me to write.

Someone once called me sensitive. I think I forgot to thank them for that. Labels are helpful when they explain you to yourself, especially when it names a quality others have maybe disliked about you.

Because God forbid we have a big feeling.

WR says sensitive is now her middle name, and she doesn’t hate it anymore. 

It’s almost 8 a.m. now, and am I really out here writing about apples and lighthouses and feelings and squirrels?

The squirrels have been thumping across the carport for some time. One is out front demolishing a baby sunflower stump she stole from the neighbors. 

There. Now I’ve written about squirrels. I swear they are endlessly entertaining and I could see myself writing a children’s book someday about them.

UPDATE: WR and I made fried apples out of the Melrose apples. They were so sweet they didn’t even need sugar. We also made fried potatoes and sausage patties: done and done. And just in time because Word Raccoon was feeling hangry and under caffeinated. 

WR stands upright. “You don’t want to encounter me when I’m like that, Babe. I’m more than half animal, and I might even turn my back on you at the water fountain in a futile attempt to shake loose the thing I’m not “supposed” to feel. But no matter how much I pretend differently, raccoons are gonna feel. I’m sensitive, remember?” 

Excuse us. I think it’s time for her nap. Or time for a snack. She’s delirious again, obviously. 

Now Playing: “I Can See Clearly Now,” Johnny Nash. (Too on the nose? 😂)

Ah, the yearly eye exam. Word Raccoon asked to come along. I knew she just wanted in on choosing frames, but figured she couldn’t do too much harm.

First of all, she had learned the day before at the gym that the gym owner’s wife worked at the eye center, so she was determined to make herself known.

She did.

The poor young woman seemed a bit overwhelmed at first. WR regaled her with stories about her gym antics. (We’ve known the gym owner for a few years now, but had been out of touch and didn’t realize he’d married until recently.)

Gradually she warmed up to WR, and soon we were talking about CrossFit and board games. (For the record, Word Raccoon does not enjoy board games but she can talk about them. Her brain and body won’t calm down long enough to play board games, but she is happy that others enjoy them.)

Then the doctor came in and mentioned my former optometrist who retired a couple of years ago.

We liked our former eye doctor. He told me he was retiring a couple of years ago. “We’ve been together a long time now, haven’t we?” he said. I first went to him when I was 19 or 20. He and his wife led a group at the university I was part of in the 90s, and the group even hosted a weekend camping trip. (Cabins, mercifully. WR and I do not camp in tents.)

He and I always talked about our travels. This new doctor (lovely man) told me my former doctor and his wife had just returned from Greece.

Word Raccoon looked pained at the sentimental turn, but even she nodded at the Greece detail.

But I’ve been to Greece! I want to know where they went! Athens, surely? Did they go to Crete, too? Fodele was gorgeous! I want to tell him about the lemon trees and the El Greco museum. 

Now we won’t know, unless I run into his wife at the café, which I do occasionally.

(Am I the only one who has a running mental list of all of the things you want to tell someone and all of the questions you’d like to ask, no matter how long it’s been?)

We also used to talk about running, back when I could run. (Guess who stressed her hip yesterday at the gym? Eh, ice and ibuprofen, and let’s hope I can jump back in the game. Too much too fast. My life’s story.)

He was a runner, too, and I think we were in a couple of the same races.

Often I was his first appointment of the day. (I like to get my appointments out of the way to free up bigger blocks of writing time.) I’d be waiting on the stoop at 7 a.m. for him to let me in.

The office doesn’t even open until 8 now.

My former doctor fitted me for my first contacts. He also told me, during the colored contact lens trend, that I didn’t need them. (Oh, the 90s.)

This new optometrist is a nice guy. We talked about music. Maybe that will be our thing.

Apparently my eyes have gotten better (it seems that happens sometimes?), so they’re actually struggling against my current prescription. Which might explain why I often don’t wear my glasses at home anymore.

Long story short, I need new glasses.

Here’s where WR comes in.

Even as we walked toward the frame display, she was muttering about what we’d consider:

This shape, color, no metal, stay within my insurance’s frame budget, fun…

The woman helping me told me to look around while she grabbed frames, too.

I paused to ask her what’s currently trending and made WR listen. She did, barely, then waved me away.

“I like what I like,” she said.

And then Word Raccoon said it:
“I want statement glasses.”

Oh. No.

This was why I didn’t want to bring her.

She tried on several pairs and couldn’t focus because she kept getting distracted by these pink wire-rimmed glasses.

“Try them on,” the clerk said.

They were adorable, so I did.

Nope.
They didn’t work at all.

Then WR picked up two pairs of Tommy Hilfiger frames (she wasn’t looking for any brand in particular) that were so fun.

One was a unique shape. One was a unique color. Both had wire frames.

“Can I get these frames in this color?” she asked.

I could!

I’m hoping they come in time for the author fair at my alma mater I was invited to attend. Fingers crossed!

After the appointment, I managed to get in some writing time before I needed to hop on a webinar. 

I wrote two poems, one based on a book I just finished reading, the second called “An Unfinished Job.” The first one I’m not sure is shareable. It questions everything. The way I do. Like, once things have changed in the world, why would you put them back the way they were if it doesn’t improve anything? (Neither is a political poem. I pinkie swear.)

I submitted a packet of poems yesterday too, but I didn’t follow directions because they didn’t have the portal set up properly so that I could. I guess I could’ve contacted them but I took a chance instead.

I probably take too many chances. But if you don’t take any, where does that leave you?  

My novel-in-progress also got a little love yesterday. 

I was awake and on the porch at 3 a.m. this morning writing. I was kinda glad it wasn’t light yet, because although I 100% support my neighbors’ right to erect their new fence, it cuts off part of my view and WR is pissed. 

Also, I can still see part of the window where their dog sits and watches me write, but now there’s a finial that reflects in the window and I keep thinking it’s my dog buddy, but no. 

So my new writing buddy is a finial? 😂

Word Raccoon says that’s fine with her. I think she was jealous of the dog anyway. 

Or maybe she just prefers her birb sightings. 

Word Raccoon insists that if we aren’t going to the Father John Misty show tonight, then we are going to write something. (She still can’t believe we’re not going. I really ought to toast some marshmallows or something for her, shouldn’t I?)

She’s been busy. She met with the gym owner yesterday, and was told he had a feeling she’s rebellious. You think?

Today, he continued the intake. I’m afraid WR was not well-behaved. At all. Maybe she wanted to prove him right.

First, she had to give her age. IN FRONT OF OTHERS! She was not happy.

Then came her height. She began pacing across the gym owner’s desk. I was worried. I should’ve been.

“Not going to ask my weight next, are you?” she asked, nostrils flared.

“No, no,” he said quickly, glancing at his sidekick.

“At least I won’t have to ask for the manager,” WR hissed under her breath, since both the owner and the manager were in the office, along with Barry.

But then she stepped onto the weird machine that supposedly measures everything inside of a person, and immediately noticed that it was MEASURING HER WEIGHT.

Friend, avert your eyes. Skip the next sentence if you don’t want to know just how naughty that animal was…

The raccoon pointed a certain two fingers at the gadget.

Thankfully, the room erupted in laughter. But when the bio age results were read, WR used language that (she thought) shocked Barry. He tapped her shoulder. He claims he was commiserating; WR interpreted it as light censorship. Though she contained her displeasure, she briefly contemplated not cooking dinner.

She pretended to believe him when he explained himself, but she still gave him the stink eye along with the corn on the cob. And she didn’t give him any Tajin for it. 

The gym owner said he was only giving me stats compared to others of my age and height in a “don’t shoot the messenger” way.

“That’s where you went wrong,” WR said. “We cannot be compared to others.”

Everyone laughed again, but we were not kidding.

Anyway. My writing imp insisted on writing this morning. Finally. I was beginning to wonder if she was on strike.

She wrote four poems (please, please know that these titles are rough drafts):

• Shroud to Shawl (too bald, accurate but needs finessing)
  
• On a Burning Bridge (again, too much)
  
• Pillar of Aughts (unnecessarily complicated title, but the poem itself is a scorcher; this one may be too sharp for this world. At least for now.)
  
• The Gift (too nondescript)
  
• Animal, Vegetable, ? (you see the problem)
  
• His Arms Are Universes (based on a family joke from years ago)

For once, the poems are better than the titles, which is a relief. Still rough, but not terrible.

Last night I was preparing to submit one of my favorite poems, and the first stanza, which had been nagging at me, became intolerable.

Mercifully, the fix slid right into my mind.

Then another poem I wanted to pair with it had weak ankles. I fixed those, too.

I think I’ve begun to understand something I didn’t before about poetry.

I can’t explain it better than that just now. But I’d like to try, if you ever want to discuss.

Word Raccoon is all Song of Solomon over here, a book of the Bible I used to skip. Who wants to be complimented on her goat hair?

But WR gets it now. Still overwrought from writing poetry and too much of everything, she gets what it means to have a heart half-stuck open all the time. 

You’d think WR would be embarrassed to write so freely. Her throat is aching with all she’d like to say.

But she won’t because she only thinks she controls my keyboard.

She certainly doesn’t control others and wouldn’t presume to try. 

Listen more, write less, WR. Maybe you’ll hear something worth hearing. 

What she’s hearing right now is an audiobook (still not a fan of that medium) and she’s sniffing a piece of driftwood. It’s silly, but she almost thinks she smells maple syrup. Impossible, right?

Word Raccoon considers her favorite maple tree and inhales deeply, but she’s too far from it to detect any scent at all. Tomorrow, WR. After your eye appointment. Now go to sleep. 

Word Raccoon is fussy bunny today. Around here that means nothing pleases me, I don’t want to do anything, and there is absolutely nothing I want.

It’ll pass. It always does.

First of all, I said I didn’t want to write a post today, WR! How dare you!

And then you made me too much peanut butter toast and a banana? No thanks. More Coke Zero, please.

I couldn’t even find my favorite pillow for my porch chair. As I swung Pity the Fool (my robe, keep up) over my shoulders, my neighbor roared off on a before-school motorbike ride with his daughter. Sir, that is too much too early. Can I open my eyes first?

Meanwhile, a squirrel hopped into the brush pile. I hope she’s not planning to bury a nut in there, because when the town finally gets its act together and carts it away, poof, it’s gonna be gone. Words of wisdom from Drema Drudge, squirrel consultant.

Another neighbor from down the block just picked a stick off the sidewalk on her walk, put it behind my tree, came back, picked it up again, and deposited it in the brush pile. WR rolled her eyes and muttered “of course.” I tried to shush her and tell her we do not call people prissy pants, even in our minds. 

WR insisted on getting a hairbrush and working the tangles out of my hair. Too bad it doesn’t work for my brain, LOL. 

So here I am, writing from home because why not? My only out-of-the-house appointment for the day is with the local gym owner. Odds are, I’m going to cancel. 

I’ve been half-listening to Middling, the podcast. I was going to tell you about another one on Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White on the Secret Life of Books podcast, but again, fussy bunny rules the day and she’s not even gonna finish listening today. Maybe I’ll get to that another day. Maybe. (Oh, bite me, you know you will listen, WR!)

And if I don’t time this porch sit just right, the neighborhood walking crew will march by soon. Lovely people, truly, but God help me, I don’t want to wave today. Would it be cowardly to rush inside when I see them coming? WR says no, cowards we are not.

The sun is shrugging, hiding under the clouds. If it doesn’t have to do its job, maybe I don’t either.

Back to the squirrel: I meant to submit my poem “Squirreling” to a journal. Which one? WR doesn’t remember. Typical.

She does remember that in it someone saves half a sandwich for someone else and tosses her chips to the squirrels. Which, do squirrels even eat chips? 

And we’re not saving sandwiches for no damn body. 

She also reminded me that cortisone shots apparently can make you weepy. That tracks. Because now I want to cry, and also, I want to be alone. 

(Don’t go down the rabbit hole that I just did to see if Garbo said I want to be alone or I want to be left alone. Apparently it’s the latter, and the interwebs make a big deal about the distinction, but hey, they both get you what you want so say whichever the hell you prefer.) 

Even the neighbor’s dog with its regal white ruff, my usual window pal, has disappeared. I suspect WR warned him off. 

I’m staring at my task list. Vitamin D day. Riveting. 

Probably going to totally ignore my to-do list beyond that. 

I downloaded a book a few days ago that I really want to read, but I’ve managed about two pages.

Someone strolled by in the most beautiful buttercup-colored sweater. I can’t wear that color, but oh, it looked so rich and satisfying, and I kept looking from it to my arms to see if I could convince that color to work for me. Maybe? I mean, wait, I don’t usually like looking at colors I can’t wear, so that probably means I could. I think so. (Ha, didn’t know I was giving out fashion tips over here, but that seems to be a rule that works for me.)

A neighbor’s normally verdant garden is, naturally, dying. It’s officially fall.The tomato vines are all brown underneath, though there are still green and red tomatoes the size of marbles and ping pong balls on some of the vines. 

The sunflowers are drooping and browning, too, though of course they remain upright better. A pity plants don’t die as beautifully as tree leaves.

The basil still looks lush. I want to say I can smell it from here, but at least I can imagine it. 

Their banana pepper plants wear peppers in every stage of ripeness: green, yellow, red. 

Also: there are still blossoms on the squash plant, though the rest of the plant has gone fatal yellow. One of the blooms looks like a hue a shade or two warmer than the buttercup sweater. (I can practically taste that color. So pretty!)

They’re creating so much visible, practical life. They’re growing soil miracles.

Maybe I’m selfish, just writing. I mean, does art feed anyone? 

I know, I know. Of course it does, in its way. In very important ways. 

When my father was ill, he still loved vegetable gardening. I want to tell you something so tender about it, but I can’t even get it out. 

My mother adored growing flowers. 

I do neither.

Aw, one of the squirrels is back, but he’s nosing around the neighbor’s driveway. What, do I have to put out more birdseed? You are welcome, but I refuse to lure you. 

I know this post is ungenerous, ridiculous, unnecessary. Funny and mean in equal measures, maybe, just like me, some days. 

My poetry has been called “a slap in a velvet glove.” Sorry/not sorry. Some days it is. Some days it’s a big ol’ hug. 

My page. My rules.

Someone cued the sun. Thank you. My mood immediately brightens with it. 

Nope, it’s gone again. 

Okay, now I think I might be able to write, regardless. 

Eh, we’ll see. 

Now Playing: Don’t Fade Out by Cut Worms

It is an odd feeling to go from TV-cannot-hold-my-attention all summer to watching all the things. I figured today would be like that, as a recovery day, and that’s exactly what it was. 

Though recover from what, I’d like to know. WR says telling us to take it easy today is asinine, and yet I noticed she didn’t complain about watching the rest of SEASON TWO!! of The Chicken Sisters!

(BTW, I didn’t time it right. Had I waited a few more days before beginning the trial, I could’ve finished the season. There’s only one to go, but my free trial ends Friday, just before they are due to put out the last one…)

The cortisone shot stung a little this morning, hurt a little, but now I’m fine. Almost fine. I will be fine. It takes a couple of days, apparently, for it to take full effect. Let’s go!

Anyway, WR began writing a poem this morning, “Strawberry Jam,” inspired by Chicken Sisters. It’s skeletal at the moment, but what of it exists makes my heart happy…it makes me want to handpick the fruit, heat it with lemon and sugar, and put it in those gorgeous quilted jars with the shiny bands for someone who would enjoy it. It wouldn’t be an effort. It would be a pleasure. 

(I made a strawberry drizzle for my mom’s angel food cake last year, and it was so easy. That’s next door to jam, isn’t it?)

As Word Raccoon was mulling strawberry jam and whether or not making it would suit her temperament, she said, “Funny, isn’t it, how some people seem to know who we are before we do? And how we start to see ourselves more clearly when they name something we didn’t think was worth noticing. And when they do, we say, ‘Oh, that old thing?’ But then we hold it up to the light after they leave and pay attention to the design we hadn’t seen before.” 

Sometimes it’s things we’ve buried because we weren’t “supposed” to enjoy those simple delights.

Asking a seeing heart to unsee is cruelty, I’ve come to believe, but only because I’ve also seen that sight treated as a gift.

Write on, WR! I want to know more, but please tell me you’re making biscuits, too, love. 

I’m back on my porch, writing, because the doctor didn’t say I couldn’t write. 

A writer friend sent me a card today. He couldn’t have known the timing would be perfect, but it was. His note? Precious. I love getting physical cards; almost no one sends snail mail anymore, and I truly appreciate it.

Okay, I did not give in and buy FJM tickets, but I did sign up to get a day-before notice IF there are any tickets left…

Now hear this! I just discovered that an artist named Cut Worms is opening for Our Father…laugh if you want, but I was not familiar with CW, and after listening to him, I’m sold! (King Tuff opened for Father John Misty when we heard him in Indy in 2018, and that was definitely a two-fer well worth it! I was already a fan of King Tuff.) 

Cut Worms kinda sounds like Brian Wilson/earnest 60’s songs the radio forgot. It’s like songs you almost know the lyrics too. I find it charming, and I always admire lyric-forward tunes. 

I think I’ve just made it more difficult to resist this show. 

A journal’s submission window was a few days from closing, I noticed last night, so I gathered a packet and was pleased with it, because these are not easy-to-place little oddballs. Alas, when I clicked to send I received notice that their cap had been met! 

Instead, I gathered another, different band of rascals and sent them out. 

Do most poets write all over the map? From lyrical to narrative to philosophical rants to spicy little ditties…I don’t force form. I don’t restrict my mind or hand. I am not trying to bend the muse. I am trying to appreciate it for what it is, to enjoy the presence. 

Now I’m stuck on this: finish “Strawberry Jam” or…

Oh no. I feel that kinda almost weepy feeling that says I need to write poetry. I knew better than to write about the muse. I alternate between missing it when it’s not here to writing as if I am possessed when I think of it….

WR says that’s ok…she can work with that. 

She also whispered something about how the right kind of gaze can make even an ordinary picture look book-jacket ready. But muses don’t have book jackets. Probably. Right?

In any case, it is not considered best practices to kiss the screen.

I’ve done it now. She’s tossing my AirPods case and anything else she can grab off my writing table, daring me to tell her what to and not to kiss.

Fine, WR, you take the wheel. You’re going to anyway.

P.S. She did and has now written “Second Drawer, Lefthand Side” and I can see a suite of themed poems coming up and honestly, I don’t think I’m up to it tonight. (Monday.) We’ll see. 

Now Playing: She Loves Me (by Stephen Duffy); Some Kind of Wonderful Soundtrack 

Are social outings as draining as I think they are? Word Raccoon woke early this morning, eager to go downstairs and…she didn’t know what. Write? Read? Plot the day? 

She read for a few minutes, fell asleep again, considered chores and writing, and I think she maybe wrote a draft of a poem. Let me check.

Wait, wait, she wrote two poems. One of them will likely never see the light of day, it’s that…bad not’s the word, it’s embarrassing. 

The second is called “Sea Glass,” and I could see it getting a fair shake once I take the time to smooth its edges. 

BTW, I don’t often mention the canned poetry rejections I get. I get those, too, but I ignore those. Some are funny, some are needlessly dry. Some are borderline insulting, even when you can tell they’re a form rejection, which I really don’t get. Why wouldn’t you be kind and supportive even if you were rejecting someone’s writing? 

Not that I care. I don’t want my poetry in the wrong home, so them saying no is a favor to us both. But y’all. Be kind because some younger writers don’t have the elephant hide I do when it comes to my writing. 

Anywho, yesterday WR added onto her full calendar an unexpected dinner with my brother, making for a fun but overly full day. (When my brother texts and tells you he’s cooking at yet another fundraiser for the day and he forgot to tell you, you go. Boy can cook! WR swooned over the rhubarb and cherry pie. And where else are you getting Southern-style green beans in Indiana? C’mon…I know it sounds silly, but I really do like green beans that much.) 

As a result of yesterday’s busyness, I haven’t been able to get WR to do anything all day.

Sure, she made breakfast and went to the gym. Good for her. But from there it was:

• Planning her own info empire, stay tuned. (IDK what she thinks she’s up to…)
• She bought a digital tool and has yet to see it delivered. She’s hoping the weekend is keeping it away and will write and demand it if she hasn’t seen it within 24 hours. (She’s ordered from this company before, and she has no clue why this wasn’t automagically delivered. Hmmm…)
• She made tomato sandwiches with the last of the summer tomatoes and ate the remainder by themselves, trying not to weep. 
• She watched a long TV show and tried not to fall asleep. 
• Oh yes, she also watched an episode of Chicken Sisters. She has a (very) loose tie to the show: it’s a series that is based on the book of the same name. A woman who taught me book marketing had worked with the author on marketing another book, I believe. And I think the author’s podcast is where I first heard of that same woman in book marketing. Very loose tie, but of course I was interested. I started watching it on Prime (it’s a cute Southern soap opera-type show involving women with competing restaurants with famous fried chicken), and then Prime yanked it away and made me sign up for a trial week of Hallmark to see it. 

If you know me you know I am kinda allergic to the Hallmark channel except I did watch Angela Kinsey’s Christmas movie because she’s a sweetheart and I love The Office. Go ahead, dare call me basic. I will give you twenty-five reasons I’m not. Or I’ll write you into a poem. 

No shade to the Hallmark fans, either. It’s just usually a little too sweet-tea-for-breakfast for me. But Angela Kinsey? I’d watch her narrate a tax seminar.

(Ask me how I ended up asking to go hear/see Kendra Adachi for my birthday last year because of The Office Ladies podcast…and sweet Kendra caught us slipping out without doing the meet and greet and insisted on thanking us for coming.

I admire that woman and her podcast, but because I had only known of her for a few months I didn’t feel I should stand in the line and get my picture taken with her when we went to hear her speak. I felt like a fraud-fan. Which is silly, I know, but she was a dear heart anyways when she said goodbye.)

Oh, the connection to The Office Ladies? Jenna Fischer loves Kendra’s The Lazy Genius podcast and it is now under TOL’s umbrella. Kendra is the bestest. She’s perfect for Word Raccoons who have high aspirations but struggle to stick to a plan when the creativity says “I do not for one minute believe anyone will say, Oh, I remember how crisply folded her towels were, and we do not care for the high regard of someone who would only remember that anyway.” 

Don’t tell Kendra, though, but her Change Your Life Chicken recipe did not. I followed her directions (almost) completely. I couldn’t bear to keep the temp that high, and I think that’s why my version was only meh. Did I do something wrong? Probably. I’m sure it’s operator error. I might need a do-over.

Also: Jenna Fischer is currently in a play in Chicago. And there’s that art exhibit that closes the same day as her play closes. You can see where this is going…or, that is, where Word Raccoon and I want to go. 

No, no, WR. You must save your pennies! You didn’t even buy tickets to see FJM this coming week, you good gorl. (Oh, but I am so tempted to buy them last minute!! How can I pass up the Father! Do they discount last minute ticket purchases?) 

This post was written on Sunday, will show up for you on Monday, when I’m getting my nice long cortisone shot and dozing the rest of the day, supposedly. 

They say it takes a couple of days to feel the full effect? Please, please let this be a magic shot. 

If not, we’ll go from there. But I am so ready to live my best life. 

WR says I really ought to go wash my hair, that starting a best life means best hair. 

Gorl, would’ve made sense to have washed it earlier and dried it on the porch, but no, you couldn’t get yourself together.

You know when young women used to use “I have to wash my hair” as an excuse for not going on a date? Now that my hair’s this long again, I get it. (And I just had it trimmed!) 

If WR is saying I should, I suppose I should. 

Maybe I can convince the raccoon to write tomorrow or even this evening rather than watch more Chicken Sisters. But it’s got Lea Thompson in it, y’all, and Wendie Malick. You know how I feel about the movie Some Kind of Wonderful. That kissing scene!! That song!! 

Would it be self-indulgent if I post a link to that scene? No? Great! Let’s do!

And Wendy is fabulous in everything, even if she wasn’t in SKOW. She’s spunk personified.

Shush, WR, I’ll go wash the hair. But if I do, I’m not making supper. You can eat cereal for all I care, WR. 

So I did a thing: I recorded one of my poems.

You may have read “Fight Me in the Waffle House Parking Lot” before, but now you can hear it, quirks and all. I’m experimenting with sharing audio versions of my work, because sometimes the voice adds a little something the page can’t carry alone.

(Also, do I pronounce “roof” weirdly? I think maybe?)

Thank you to the Daily Drunk for first publishing this.

This was recorded in a single take, imperfections included, with a loud truck and Word Raccoon peeking around the corner and making dramatic gestures. (She wants a recording booth. I told her we’ll see.) 

Imperfection is better than not doing the thing.

If you’d like to give it a listen, it’s now live.

I am happy to say I edited this to include some fabulous publication news!! My poem “Mutual Mass” has been chosen for publication by The Dewdrop, a journal that is the perfect home for this little spiritual verse.

I was stunned by the gorgeous things the editor had to say about it, and I hope when it comes out on October 26 you will like it, too.

It was written when I was exhausted and in the poetry cave, one late night or early morning or who knows which and it was me thinking about how tired a god we could imagine must be and what she might want.

Well, let’s save the rest for publication, shall we? Let’s just say this is one of my Look, I Built a Cathedral Poems and I’m thrilled it’s found a home. I can only hope it also finds its perfect reader. Asked/answered. That’s the cycle, don’t they say?

The picture is a little sweet photo holder found yesterday at our local cafe. They had a booth featuring the artwork of artists with IDD, and I was so happy to support them.

Also: WR saw a classic Mustang at the car show and cheered. I told her to get her sticky paws away from it, but she slid inside before I could stop her. Okay, not really, but she would’ve liked to have. She had her eye on one that needed fixing up when she was first in college, but…