Now Playing: Latch (Acoustic version) — Sam Smith

Word Raccoon and I struck a deal today: if she would quit messing around and get ready for the café, I would let her choose our earrings. (As if I had a choice.)

She whined that it was too early, and that she had written on the porch until the lights went on. Past it, even. Wasn’t I happy the novel was getting its due?

Of course, silly raccoon, but also: goals.

Word Raccoon stumbled across this poem in my files and demanded I share it today.

Poetry was with me in Rome then, though neither of us knew it. Images don’t just disappear over the years; they metabolize into Wordsworth’s “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.”

I wouldn’t say WR is tranquil right now, but is she ever?  

You Know, You’ve Been to Rome

There you were

In the Pantheon

Floating down

Through the oculus

As I sat

In the pew

Being shushed

By the guard

In his useless, unholy

timed efforts

To hush the enthusiasm

Of the pilgrims

ruining my

rumination.

My eyes sought

What yours would’ve:

Both sight and sound.

Rich reds, mysteries

The drone of dozens

Wheeling round and

round.

The intrusive squeaks

of reverse anachronistic sneakers

You would’ve hated that.

The drains in the floor

not doing their job.

I was flooded with longing.

Raphael’s crypt there,

His spirit here, like yours.

Painting the walls

Of my soul.

I’ll see that they

Reserve a nook for you

Like I do.

Purple Prose Alert!!

Anyway, WR told me to tell you she re-read that dramatic scene between Rebecca and Bart I posted the other day and is hooting at how melodramatic it is. She says I should share a real scene instead of that nightmare.

If readers care about us, they’ll appreciate the vulnerability of an early revision or experiment (and that was both…I hadn’t tried that scene in third yet, which is what the rest of Rebecca’s section is in, let alone first. And that Delphi image/vision was a new idea. So chill, WR. Artists have to have room to make false starts or they can’t create. )

If readers don’t care, well, they probably won’t ever like our writing, and it doesn’t really matter. Either way, no one ever died of firsthand (or secondhand) embarrassment.

But if you insist, WR, here’s a more polished scene from another timeline in my novel, (because she will not let it go). James is one of my favorite characters. He becomes the first president of a university in Ohio in the 1930’s.

James’s Scene

James and his father sat on either side of the fireplace in the family’s rented-into-perpetuity farmhouse in Ohio. That is, as long as someone farmed the land, the family was allowed to stay in the house that felt as if it were theirs.

The fireplace was built of bricks formed onsite nearly a hundred years before by James’s grandfather, Harold Whitacre, who had also rented the land and built the farmhouse that would remain theirs only for the duration of their lease.

Today, the fire spread itself in the grate like a sleeping cat, and James found his eyelids shuttering where he sat beside his father in an oak rocking chair whose bottom his grandfather had caned to celebrate James’s birth nearly eighteen years before.

His father gently inserted a walnut into a wooden nutcracker and squeezed it with one hand, making a cracking sound, causing James’s eyes to open. His father placed the nutcracker on the wide-beamed mantle, then picked with one hand at the nut in the other, handing his son half of the meat before placing the rest in his own mouth and tossing the empty shell into the fire.

It occurred to James that so many things humans did to merely survive were violent, even when it didn’t involve living creatures.

James slowed his chair until it stopped rocking.

“Your mother keeps speaking of the young women at church who stare at you during the service. I can’t say I’ve noticed you returning their attention, but she thought it time I speak with you. James, if a man wants to take a wife, not that every man has to, and certainly not as young as you are, but if he does, he has to have some employment.

Now, while you’ve always been as helpful as can be around here, I reckon you don’t have much more natural ability at this than I do, though I can see that you love it. There’s always college for a smart boy like you.”

His father sipped from his mug long past there possibly being anything in it. The pause felt like an embrace to the teen.

“Yes sir. I was thinking that I might enter the academy.”

“Your mother and I thought you might. Everyone knows about your devotion to the church; even when you’re sick you never miss a service. You know more Bible verses, I believe, than our minister does, though you mustn’t tell him I said so. I’m sure our denomination would help sponsor your education. It will require some years of training to become a minister, of course. No one will fault you for that. And then after, it will take more time to settle into a congregation. No, son, there’s no rush at all to start a family. God has made us all different. Some of us he wants to devote more to the things of the church than to our personal lives. If you decide that’s who you are, I want you to know that we will accept that.”

James hung his head. It was true he’d kept his eyes off the young women seated on the opposite side of the church. From early on, his attention had been elsewhere: front and center, staring at the fair-haired minister with the light eyes, the man’s mouth with permanent white around it as if he wore a perpetual milk mustache, a smile that insisted on a return one.

A Word Raccoon’s Morning

Word Raccoon feels better now, because she’s proud of that section. (But is it a bit long?)

Let me tell you the rest of how our morning went.

This morning, she said she would sure be able to write better if I attempted space buns for real. I did a decent (okay, not so much) job but I at least know how to do it now except in my version, a half-inch strand was still hanging down in back, one side was thicker than the other, and let’s not even talk about the part.

Needless to say, I took them down.

I’m going to give it another go over the holiday weekend. (And hey, I’m supposed to be test driving some red, white, and blue nails to review, so why not? The last time I tried a set of nails we went out with friends that evening, and it was not fun with chopsticks for me.)

And don’t get me started on the eyelashes I tried the next week. Not. For. Me.

Anyway, WR chose jigsaw piece earrings this morning, and I pushed her into my van before she could stall again.

Before that, she put on both my flowered kimono and a flowered scarf. One coral based, one pink. Which would work, but it was too much. She glared at me as if daring me to complain, but I played innocent and caught her head turned and pulled the scarf off. She didn’t notice.

Obviously she has never heard of Coco Chanel’s rule about taking off one accessory before leaving the house. (I’m not into fashion rules but some days it just makes sense.)

So, to recap: space buns and possibly 4th of July themed fingernails coming this weekend (God, will I be able to type?), and don’t I have a patriotic duster somewhere? Hahaha…that may be a bit much.

Word Raccoon lowers her sunglasses. “Exactly,” she whispers. “I AM a bit much. You got a problem with that?”

Hmmm…and she tried to blame that purple prose on me. Who believes that for one minute?  

This morning I have spent time doing the bane of my existence: busy work. Administrative shit. You know, wrangling the poems—because apparently they can’t wrangle themselves.

Word Raccoon is not happy. We wrote a poem this morning, and she says writing about a clock’s tongue is way too engrossing to now be dealing with digital folders.

I remind her we have lunch plans with three friends in a bit and we must stay up a level anyway. Don’t you remember how that woman stared at us earlier when we were writing a poem? We must’ve looked a hot mess.

---

Why Organizing Poetry Matters

Here’s the issue with my darling poems: with over 200 of them (micro and otherwise) and apparently no end in sight, I HAVE to be able to know where they are.

Submission tracker? Check. I’ve had that for a while now, since I used a version of it when I was submitting short stories.

A certain someone asked me yesterday if I have an alphabetized masterlist of my poems. Actually, I do. At least up until last week. Word Raccoon wanted to stick her tongue out at him but she knew he meant well. What does he take us for, a rank amateur?

---

The Struggle is Real

A couple of days ago, I was submitting to a themed call for pop culture poems and AFTER I had submitted my packet, I remembered one that would have been perfect—EXCEPT I HAD FORGOTTEN IT EXISTED.

The struggle is real. I also ran across a poem with three different titles. SMH. I need to be able to figure out which I’m keeping and which I’m 86’ing.

---

My Messy Old Process

Here’s what I used to do (homebrewed in the worst of ways):

1. Create a poem in my notes app (the thumbs want what the thumbs want).
   
2. When a poem seems to have a spark, email it to myself.
   
3. From there, paste it into a Word doc so I could revise and submit.
   

Kinda messy, am I right?

---

My New (Slightly Less Messy) System

This is what I’m hoping to do from now on:

• Steps one and two, same.
  
• Step three: Transfer the unrevised poem to Google Docs and place it in the In Progress folder.
• Step four: When it’s finished, put it in the “ready to submit” folder and any drafts of it go into “archive.” At least that’s the plan. Sigh. Word Raccoon DOES NOT like structure! She says that while Ralph Waldo Emerson (why does he get three names?) is not wrong when he says “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” that it would be more right if he said rigidity is the hobgoblin of little minds. She prickles at bean counters, at…breathe, raccoon.
• Psst…when she understands the value in it, she can be made to do what needs doing. And keeping track of these poems makes sense. So don’t worry too much about us — we’ve got this. (Maybe?)
  Chaos is a great muse, but sometimes she needs a leash. Not literally. Ugh.

---

My Geeky Folder Breakdown

Oh, you want the geeky folder breakdown, do you?
(Caveat: this is just what I am currently trying. This could well change next week.)

IF I SHARE THESE FOLDER TITLES YOU HAVE TO NOT THINK I’M BEING GRANDIOSE, OK? OK??

• 📁 Chapbooks & Collections
  
• 📁 Archived and Abandoned
  
• 📁 Featured on My Blog (limits submission possibilities after, but sometimes I can’t help myself)
  
• 📁 In Progress
  
• 📁 Prompts & Fragments
  
• 📁 Published
  
• 📁 Ready to Submit
  
• 📁 Submission Materials & Templates
  
• 📁 Submitted
  
• 📁 To Organize (That one’s gonna get cluttered, but at least it’s a “Hey, stick it here until you’re feeling ambitious.”)
  

How did they do it before computers? I would have lost my will to write.

---

My Masterlist Labels

As to my masterlist, these labels seem most useful to me:

• Poem
  
• Status
  
• Link to File
  
• First Line
  
• Theme
  
• Submitted
  
• Published
  
• Archived
  
• Notes
  

---

The Ongoing Battle with Word Raccoon

Word Raccoon wants to strike a deal: she says she will write the poems if I will do the admin.

Thank you but no thank you. We will write them together, you little tyrant!

I’ve taken to a second evening session of writing most nights, just me and my lovely sun porch. It’s not as productive a time, because I’m usually tired, but it keeps me in the stream and keeps me from watching too much TV, which not only enervates but also irritates me.

I’m not out here looking to win a couch potato award. I value my time more than that. (Not saying some shows aren’t totally worth watching—and yes, when I can’t sleep I go hard on those YouTube shorts.)

Let’s Help Each Other

If you have other tips to organize poetry, please LMK. If you want to borrow these, please. Creatives should be helping one another. The less of this we have to figure out, the more time we have to create something beautiful.

Don’t you think we need more of that, especially right now?

Word Raccoon has other things she wants to say but wait a breath, girl. This is enough.

Eff Yeah!

Mic drop from a mile up!
Not sure I need to say more. (But of course I will.)

Word Raccoon went nuts for this video. She won’t stop playing it! John Green (and video guy) for joint Hoosier Poet of the Year!

Green is a guy (no offense) who has left cool so far in the rearview mirror that he embodies it.

He’s not afraid to be hip while also admitting he’s just not. Except, paradoxically, he is.

He takes a random video of a dude who is self-confessedly 6 am drinking personified, and John cools his words by blowing meter over it, giving it meaning it might not otherwise have had.

Wordsworth would approve of using meter to mediate between emotion and language. Though some of us like it boiling, Wordy.

Word Raccoon and I want to meet John at a party. I’d say he reminded me of someone, he’d ask who, I wouldn’t tell him. Then we’d start nibbling at the fringe of a topic, both from opposite ends because that’s where our knowledge would begin.

We’d be geeking out about something random like the way car washes are not the same as they were when we were growing up and we’d never run out of things to say because we’re tuned to the same channel if not frequency and our spouses would come and pull us in opposite directions when it was time to go because someone would be about to do a keg stand and they would be over it.

Even though Word Raccoon and I would definitely at least want to watch and maybe could be persuaded to try with enough help.

And yeah, I’d also wish Hank were there too because (sorry, John) I suspect he’s just a shade more fun than his brother and Hank and I would be doing RumChata shots at the makeshift basement bar and then I’d come back over and talk to you, John, until the music got too loud and Word Raccoon and muh gorls started dancing and called for me.

Before someone called us out for doing RumChata shots because they weren’t “potent” enough, but Hank and I would just laugh because come on, how potent would they need to be if we were to stay standing?

Then we might shrug and say who said we had to stay standing, anyway?

We’d toss back a couple more.

Hank would definitely dance with me if I asked. He just wouldn’t be the one I really wanted to dance with. (Sorry, Hank. You get it, right? But your novels? Your banter? Chef’s kiss.)

There are rituals that cannot be ignored.

I’d feel bad for you, John, but you know you are just gonna eat the stale pretzels and slowly drink a flat beer once I leave your side, right? I’d rescue you, but you wouldn’t let me as you composed your next book in dribbles from the foam left in the bottom of your glass and god, can I be at least a flicker in one?

You know I would be the best part. The fun. It’s not every day the cruise director notices every time you move your hands and can describe it for the ages with more truth than even you’d recognize.

Hey, honestly I’d probably rather be talking with you than dancing, but do you even know how to Hustle?

The only thing worse than watching someone not obviously enjoy himself is knowing how much G-D fun he could have if only he would.


Gotta say, dancing is great for releasing anxiety, my mutually anxious friend. 10/10.

Unlike our Indy 500 friend, I wouldn’t start drinking at 6 am!

Does our boy recognize poetry when he hears it or what, Word Raccoon?! Let’s watch it again!

Even if you never leave the sanctuary of stale pretzels formerly known as a wooden salad bowl, we’ve got to dance for someone.

You know it’s all for you.

Is it the weekend yet?

P.S. This is a prose poem and I have no personal knowledge of whether or not John Green or Hank Green actually drink, though the Internet has opinions. I have never met either of the brothers in real life, though I do live in Indiana. I have never had to be carried out of a party and seldom have more than a couple of drinks at a time myself anymore, so there’s that, too. Disclaimers take all the fun out of creative writing, don’t they?

Yesterday, while I was blissfully devouring my home fries dripping with Heinz ketchup, my husband decided to stage a pop quiz. “Which way is north right now?” he asked, leaning across the table like he was hosting Jeopardy: Marital Edition.

Reader, I nearly choked on a potato.

Let’s set the record straight: I can get where I’m going. I don’t wander aimlessly. I use landmarks, I follow GPS, and I arrive right on time. Early, usually. But if you ask me, at any random moment, to point to north, south, east, or west? My brain shuts down faster than a dial-up modem.

I don’t get lost usually. I just can’t match the words “north,” “south,” “east,” or “west” to the real-life street in front of me. I know what they mean on a map, but my brain refuses to overlay them on reality, like there’s a layer of static between my eyes and the compass rose.

This led to my husband’s recent brunchtime sport: asking me to identify cardinal directions. After his latest pop quiz, I told him fair’s fair, that if he was going to test me on that, I was going to quiz him on something I find second nature. He smirked and said, “Bring it.”

But, dear reader, I couldn’t think of anything comparable. What could I ask him that would scramble his brain the way directions do mine? Matching colors to the right shade names? Picking out a Brontë sister from a lineup? (If we had a photo, that would help. As it is, aren’t we just kinda guessing who is whom in those awful paintings we do have?)

The most infuriating part of this for me is that it feels like there’s an assumption among the public that men are supposed to be better at directions than women. And when I flounder at a question like “which way is east?” I feel like I’m reinforcing some old stereotype I desperately want to shatter.

Like the time one of my husband’s fellow band members was passing a cigar around and teasingly asked me if I wanted it, because since I was a woman, of course I wouldn’t, I suppose. I don’t smoke and had never tried a cigar in my life, but I grabbed it and even attempted a smoke ring.

Apparently I was so convincing that he asked me another time if I wanted to “Go burn one” with him. “I don’t smoke,” I said. He was speechless. Kinda the way my husband was when he saw me with the cigar.

Hey, I was representing. And it smelled nice, anyway; I like a good pipe tobacco scent, too.

But here’s what I told my husband at brunch yesterday, and what I know with every fiber of my being: I can’t learn directions. I have tried, and I am convinced that my brain simply wasn’t built to translate cardinal directions. And that’s okay. I’m still perfectly able to get where I need to go.

Like I said, landmarks and GPS. Done and done.

Before you ask, yes, Word Raccoon was present during brunch, and she made plenty of sassy remarks and was gasp laughing at herself when she actually did try to guess and gave apparently very inaccurate responses for hilarious reasons.

Breakfast Handled: Vague Recipes Edition

Word Raccoon decided to make overnight oats for breakfast for today and tomorrow. IDK why that seemed so important to her, but fine. She said you might like the “recipe” if you don’t have it.

(This is a selection from our Vague Recipes collection. What’s next, WR, How to make ice cubes three ways? Sigh.)

Overnight oats practically make themselves and hey, if you’re like me and your mornings way too often start off with frantic pep talks to your writing raccoon, urging her off the ceiling fan and into street clothes as many days as I do and you feel like a 12-year-old if you eat cereal too many days in a row, this is a good alternative.

Sometimes she insists I tell her if anyone interesting is going to be there first before she puts on shoes and I tell her that everyone is interesting in their own way and that she’s narrow minded if she thinks otherwise and also, though Wordsworth uses the word interesting, we do not.

Here, WR, are better words. And please get in your time machine and bring them to our buddy Wordsworth! Intriguing, articulate, sensitive, complex, magnetic, clever, gentle, haunted, disarming, restless. All better choices! (No, we are not going to list negative adjectives. Anyone could be cranky before they’ve had their coffee.)

At any rate, overnight oats are easy, endlessly customizable, and make you feel like the kind of person who actually has their shit together for those days when you don’t want to outsource breakfast.

You can pretty much put whatever you like in overnight oats. Craving blueberries? Throw them in. Got leftover apple slices? Dice them up. A swirl of almond butter, a handful of chocolate chips…go nuts.

You can add the toppings at night or in the morning. Obv. If you add them at night, they will be softer in the morning. That’s not really a good thing, is it?

If you haven’t tried chia seeds in your oats, when they meet liquid, they swell up and turn your oats extra creamy and they add fiber, protein, and healthy fat. So go ahead, try them. But bury them in flavor because otherwise…

As far as your oats go, any container with a lid will work. I confess, I have a cool container with a built-in spoon. Choose the whimsical option whenever possible, I say. A tiny spoon is always whimsical. (Whimsy is having a moment, or so says Gretchen Rubin!)

But if you want to feel resourceful and sustainable, save your Tostitos salsa jars and repurpose them for your overnight oats. Bonus: if you ever get tired of washing them, you can recycle or toss them guilt-free.

 Basic Overnight Oats Recipe

• ½ cup rolled oats
• ½ cup milk (I use almond milk)
• ½ cup Greek yogurt
• 1 tbsp chia seeds (optional, but I recommend it because it’s good for you)
• Sweetener if you like (honey, stevia)
• Fruit, nuts, or spices as desired

Combine everything in your jar, stir well, refrigerate overnight or at least 4 hours, and enjoy!

Anyway, WR is over here with a pen in her mouth. I guess that’s my cue.

Now Playing: These Arms of Mine by Otis Redding. Ah, Otis! All the Otis!

She’s on a break, Neal. She needs a break. (Quote from Dirty Dancing. The song above was used in the movie, too.)

Yesterday morning, Word Raccoon was fully in charge, sticking up her middle finger at the world. She was over it, although she never quite said what she was over.

She turned off her alarm and just got up whenever she pleased, drank straight from the shower head, decided caffeine could wait, and refused to wash her hair. Which, to be fair, didn’t really need it.

She swapped the pants I laid out for shorts under a dress, skipped jewelry except her favorite Van Gogh-inspired earrings, and only wanted to read outdoors in the searing sun.

I was down for that.

Breakfast? Not interested. Not even when I ordered her favorite smoothie bowl. She barely touched her iced coffee, even though she declared it fine.

After she’d read a couple of stories, I checked in with her to see if she wanted to maybe, you know, write? Or submit poetry? Deadlines, you know.

She snapped at me that we’d write when she was good and ready.

I nodded at her and pulled up Submittable and just glanced at it.

“What are you looking at?” she asked over my shoulder.

“Oh, nothing. Just, you know, these opportunities that will be closed in a couple of days. NBD.”

“No big deal? No big deal? What do you mean? Once they’re closed, they’re closed. You mean you’re not even going to consider sending work to them?”

I tried not to smile that WR had fallen right into my trap.

I slammed the lid on my computer.

“It’s okay. I know you’re tired. I know you want a break, and no one would blame you. You’ve been a freight train bearing down on life for months. You have earned a day off. No biggie.”

She grabbed my coffee and drank it down, crumpled the now-empty plastic vessel, and threw it on the ground. (Which I immediately made her retrieve, because I revere the earth and she knows it.)

We put together packets. We wrote cover letters. We tweaked our bio. We submitted.

(You know, that term is unfortunate. WR and I do not like it. We do not submit, we do not give in. We yield. Because we see the sense in it, or because we want to. We have agency, dammit!)

But no, no, the rest of my life I will be “submitting” my work because that’s the term my damned career, my passion, my art, insists upon. I know it doesn’t mean that in that case, but come on, you have to think about it every time you hit that “submit” button.

Or maybe I’m the only one with such keen rebellion vibes.

Maybe I should propose alternate terms when it comes to “submitting” your work.

Offer? Share? Toss? Throw? Lob? Pass? Abandon??

Anyway, we submitted some poems, and by the time we got home, she even deigned to allow me (because WR does not do chores) to do laundry, empty and load the dishwasher, and prep supper.

I even cleaned the microwave with the Angry Mama gadget. If you don’t have one, you should, because it’s ridiculously satisfying. Fill it with vinegar and water, microwave for 5–7 minutes, and gunk wipes right off. There you go: as a guy in Barcelona once said to me, Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing, baby. My friend who was with me and I couldn’t quit laughing about it and said it the rest of the trip. I think he was complimenting me. Laugh/cry emoji.

And yes, WR even went to the gym, but only after I promised and threatened and checked the forecast and told her we wouldn’t have to over the weekend because they’re not open. (I don’t have to tell you what beverage I offered her, which she greedily drank after. Sorry, WR, but you’re not getting any today.)

While all this melodrama unfolded, I listened to episodes of the Secret Life of Books podcast, which I highly recommend it. I had already listened to their “No Breakfast with Jane Austen,” which was EXCELLENT, and today, episodes about Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Bishop. The podcast’s episode titles alone are worth the click, but I learned things about both poets I never knew. (More on both of them later, at some point, I’m sure.)

When the hunger finally came calling (the heat!), I made a pasta salad. The kind featured in every 1980s women’s magazine, a cold dish meant to wait patiently in the fridge, getting better, not worse, for the waiting.

Here’s how I do it (or really, how I don’t do it, because this recipe is all about not measuring and using whatever you want. Geesh, am I also rebellious about recipes? Maybe so. Now that doesn’t always pay off.):

• Cook whatever short pasta you have (rotini if you want to go full vintage). Drain, rinse with cold water.
• Toss in veggies: cherry tomatoes cut in half, sliced cucumbers, maybe some red onion slices (soaked in ice water for 10 minutes to tame that bite).
• Add cheese: shredded, cubed, whatever’s in the fridge.
• Fry up some bacon, crumble it in. (Just a hint: If you don’t do this, it will likely not count as a meal to those of the male persuasion. Not trying to be all stereotypical, but name the bacon before you say what dinner will be.)
• Boil some eggs, slice, and add them if you like eggs.
• Pour on your favorite dressing: Italian is classic and bottled is fine, duckies. In fact, if you want full nostalgia, go with Wishbone. I prefer Ken’s, usually. Or my own. Don’t ask the recipe because I eyeball it and I really have tried to break it down for a friend but IDK how to…
• Mix it all up, cover it, and chill in the fridge. Make enough for leftovers, because the heat isn’t going anywhere.

I’m adding this recipe because creatives have to eat, and sometimes we forget that we don’t have to make a big deal about it. Eat, eat!

I did convince WR to write a few poems before she went to bed, but they are just flashes. And gosh, I hope I didn’t give the impression when I spoke about how many poems I have stockpiled that I think quantity is quality.

My guess is that many of these are just echoes of the main ones I will write, like, decades of emotion spilling out in any way it can, waiting to be shuttled to the appropriate category: You, novel. You, poem. You, essay. You know. As one does.

Or how this one does.

And I wish there were a strand you could put poems through where it would say “good” or “bad,” like a holiday bulb. I’m applying the principles of prose revision and my gut. When it comes to fiction, if nothing “snags” me when I read a page, if it flows in a way that doesn’t make me pause, I know I’ve done all I can. With my poetry, I’m being more careful.

I’m guessing I’m revising my poetry too lightly because:

1. It’s too emotional and it doesn’t seem right to hit that with a heavy hand.
2. I fear I have no clue what I’m doing, and just because maybe I like a poem doesn’t mean it’s not clumsy or opaque or, biblically speaking, “Of private interpretation.” Which is to say, writing in tongues. See, that’s in my lexicon, and I know both its origin and its meaning TO ME, but not everyone would, and I don’t want to have to write notes on my poem and…and…

Okay, loveys, this is all a lot, so here’s the TL;DR:

We’re letting it flow, we’re adjusting to taste, we are reading other poets and essays about poetry, we are submitting to get feedback (even silence is feedback), and we are not letting ppl read it until we are more certain of what we’re doing, not out of embarrassment (though that too), but because we know voice is everything, and we do not want even a well-meaning person touching our voice until we know ours solidly. That we insist on.

Without voice, what’s the point?

It’s a beautiful day, go chase your voice or, if you have it already, use it!

Now Playing: The Argument I Had with Myself About Accidentally Writing a Song

The rain has passed. It’s cooled enough that I’m back on the porch, writing. My street is quiet except for the sound of children a street over, and the sound of birds wondering if it’s time for me to wind down.

I keep slapping this poem I’m working on with my metaphorical slipper, because it is trying way too hard to be a Broadway song, and listen, Word Raccoon is not out here writing musicals.

We have not been hired to write the book to a musical.
There is no return on that investment. (And I don’t just mean money.)
We are not Disney.
We are not even Off-Off-Off-Off-Off Broadway.
We are… me. In workout pants. On my porch. With my notes app.

Do I even know how to write a musical? What am I going to do, put it in a drawer next to the other songs I literally dream up?

I write novels. And poetry. (Fine. A lot of poetry these days.) Those are respectable genres.

Yes, I veer. Yes, I ramble.
But I know my lane!

…And then, of course, the damn thing sings back now (oh yes, I’m hearing the lyrics AND the music. Because of course I am:

You’re the key to my / Locked drawer

I mean…stawp!! It even (Word Raccon is clapping but I have my hand over my eyes) uses Puccini in the lyrics!

I’m more than a little embarrassed, but I promise if you heard the whole thing you’d see it’s a little stronger than that line above.

And it rhymes, too. Naturally. Which means now it HAS to be a song. And now it tells me it’s only the first song of something bigger. Dammit.

So, I guess I’m writing a song now.
Maybe a demo. (I’ve recorded snippets of it into my voice app.)
Maybe a whole musical.

Word Raccoon, what have you done?

Don’t mind her, she’s in the corner sucking down Coke Zero and giggling.

TBH, we are BOTH really enjoying the song, wondering what the story might be if it did turn into a musical. (It might be tragedy. We hates tragedies. Except Hamlet, and we only like it because it’s so witty and angsty. And because we know it so well.)

The house was filled with the sound of Barry playing bass tonight. He will be filling in for a band he sometimes subs for this Saturday night in Ohio. I have an appointment with my writing; I might just try the night vibe at that newer coffeehouse uptown.

Related:

I had a Zoom call today with a first cousin twice removed on my maternal side, a total delight. He’s writing a book about the Rife/Ryfe/Riffe family (we contain multitudes and I’m barely exaggerating), and this was our first time talking. I didn’t know he existed until he reached out. I’m so glad he did.

That’s the side of the family I don’t know at all because my grandfather and his daughter, my grandmother’s sister, died tragically in a car accident that my grandmother and her mother survived. My great-grandmother was remarried by the time I was born, so I bonded with my grandpa Adkins.

To me, he was my grandfather. He always carried Horehound candy in his pocket, and I ate it though I hated it. He called me “Honey” and had me sit beside him while he watched his “shows.” I watched him instead because he was such a character. He had thick white hair that stood on end. He rolled his cigarettes, generously moistening them with his tongue so they would stay closed. He was stooped from the mine he had worked in. He never raised his voice. He always wore clean white tees. He never went to church with grandma, and I never asked why not. So yeah…he was my grandpa, though not by blood.

But it’s exciting to learn new things about people who share your DNA, too.

I didn’t expect to feel such a strong connection to my newfound cousin, but I did. I’m genuinely excited for what he is working on, and was thrilled to learn details to a side of the family I’ve never thought to research.

UNRELATED:

So John Green made a video I couldn’t wait to share. I was convinced it was new. I nearly alerted the group chat. (If only I had group chat interested in John Green. Anyone want to sign up? Anyone?)

I watched it. I laughed.

And then I realized…

It’s from two years ago.

Which honestly sounds perfectly Word Raccoon.

Still interested? Here ya go. (Watch to the end. As one commentor said, I’m pretty sure John was about to run tell his and Hank’s mom on Hank. And maybe he did.)

I was also late to the party for this little ditty, which made me rethink broccoli casseroles and laugh snort in bed. That’s some big-time internet drama!

While I did indeed write a very rough draft of the song I mentioned above, I also wrote a couple of short poems today and revised a couple more. Even the one I thought I couldn’t bear to revise, I managed to.

I thrust three poems out into the cruel world to see what their fate might be. It’s better to take a chance, duckies.

The birbs are telling me it’s time to wrap it up. It’s Thursday here, though you won’t read this until Friday at the earliest, sweeties. Thank you for stopping by.

And if you’re in Indiana, don’t forget the tomatoes are ripe! Ready your toasters and make some tomato sandwiches while you can. Psst…mayo is the only way to go.

🎧 Now Playing: “Work Bitch” by Britney Spears

Since mid-April, I’ve written over 200 poems. I know, right? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?

I’m not saying they’re all A+. Some are skeletal. Some are decent. A few make Word Raccoon buzz so much she can’t sleep. Which is to say, she slides them under her pillow. I had no idea what would happen when I tried this scary thing: writing poems fast, in public, with the door open and the light on. First to encourage others, then myself.

I never knew how much it would mean to me.

I mean sure, I know writing. But writing poetry vs. prose, for me, feels like going from short-order cook to master chef. Same kitchen. Whole different dance.

Poetry has allowed me to grieve. Tell the truth. Be my true self (mostly) unapologetically. It allows me to try to put words to those gorgeous tiny moments that are too easy to miss and those huge feelings you think might drown you but if you can tame them with a pen, maybe not.

It’s allowing yourself to be really seen.  

Even the raccoon doesn’t always like being seen, but she will allow it, for the art. For the heart.

BTW, she has me dressed like I’m fully on vacation today. The shirts are cruise wear bright and flowery, though you will never catch me on a cruise. (Too boring, too restrictive. If I wanna leave I’m gonna leave but if you’re on a cruise?? They’re fine for others.) I have in her blessed earrings, denim shorts, sandals…

This color combo is definitely treading into “Can I convince them?” territory that I always say of dubious combinations. If my eye doesn’t flinch too much, we’re good. (Color is super important to me. Obviously.)

Anyway…

Yesterday afternoon, before the gym, Word Raccoon began her protest:

“We don’t even know the gym’s summer hours.”
“What if there’s a conference?”
“It’s too hot.”
“I might melt.”

“The parking is so far away.”
“Also, we could… write about going to the gym instead of going.”

I looked up the hours.
I bribed her with the promise of a Coke Zero after.

I plugged my ears when she kept whining.

“Just do this one thing,” I told myself while she had me by the ankle, begging me not to put on my Sketchers, to not put my AirPods in my pocket. To please, god, look at the temperature out before I went.

“I’ll work out at home,” she promised.

“We get distracted, and you know it.”

“You did some yoga this morning.”

That was not enough. Besides, a part of me wanted, needed, that movement. I was feeling restless after writing.

She’s supposed to be weaning off Coke Zero, as you know. She doesn’t know that. But I think she might be on to me because she demanded a Dirty Diet Coke for breakfast this morning. Like, that’s so much worse, WR, and she said she’d just refuse to write until she had it. And I’m not complaining at her ambition.

She has two poems she’s ready to drop kick into the world and ask, “Is this anything?” because she thinks maybe yes.

One of them was that hot potato poem from the other day, the one I wouldn’t let her touch. I’m not even going to re-read it before I send it out. It probably needs work, but I just need to give it away, fast. (I actually submitted it somewhere day of, but you know it sometimes takes months to hear back. Which is fine as long as I’m no longer responsible for that spell.)

WR says to tell you about the poem Upon Re-Reading Crush, which is probably way too stodgy a title for a poem that uses a Crush-like word in it. (Please remove glasses before reading.) She says it’s time, get it out, get it out, see where it lands.

I picture journals and mags as being like people’s homes and sometimes you’re more comfortable in one and sometimes another. Not every place is the right home for your work.

But that’s okay because it’s not about publication per se, it’s about sharing pieces of yourself. It’s a conversation, it’s saying, “You, too?”

It’s telling a stranger in another country what you can’t tell your best friend.

It’s letting yourself be seen and known in all your strangeness, all your glory. The things that obsess you. The things that thrill you. The things that gut you. Not for pity, not for sympathy, but just to hear, “Yes.”

I feel like everything that needs to be heard will find a home.

(Feel free to skip this part if church stuff isn’t your jam. For me, it’s part of the origin story, all messy and meaningful, like most things are.)

I don’t know how many churches still do this, but when I was a kid, after the sermon the preacher would give an “altar call.”

He’d tell everyone to close their eyes and, “With every eye closed and every head bowed,” he’d say, “Now slip up your hand if you want to say yes to Jesus.”

On the one hand, what a generous offer. But to my little anxious heart, my chest thumped wildly when he said it, and I always asked myself if I’d done anything that week to need to raise my hand. Had I disqualified myself without knowing it?

The anxiety was real.

The song the choir sang was inevitably Do Not Pass Me By, as the preacher opened the altar for people to come pray.

I never took him up on the invitation. I’d settled that in Sunday school, and that was that.
Except for my fears.

Still, I loved the phrase “I see that hand,” and sometimes I was tempted to raise mine just to hear him say that about me.

(Actually, I’m pretty sure he had seen me because I was the one dragging my bible up front after church asking questions. I hope I imagined that eye roll on occasion, but I wouldn’t really blame him. I was asking both existential questions and biblical history not realizing that maybe he just wanted to go home and eat his dinner.)

That seems like an aside and maybe it’s just the Dirty Diet Coke talking, but here we are.

Back to yesterday afternoon, WR!

We got to the gym. We sat in the car.
And then she whispered something:

“I’m embarrassed.”

She didn’t mean just today.

Because here’s the reality: we’ve had physical limitations. We’ve had to stop running, sometimes not able to walk long distances even. We’ve done physical therapy for months and been told to go slow.

We’ve dealt with flare-ups, bad days, and a body that doesn’t always cooperate. There are only so many cardio machines we can use right now. One helps one area but aggravates another. And all of it depends on the day.

Fun.

Yesterday, Word Raccoon was so overwhelmed she wanted to go for a run, just to sweat out the icks. But she couldn’t and she was so frustrated.

No one knows yet how much we can come back from this, but at least it’s not life threatening. But here’s what I do know:
You have to try.
You have to tell people who criticize you to go pound sand—especially the part of your own brain that says you shouldn’t be seen trying.

You can’t win that logic circuit: you shouldn’t be at the gym because you’re not in shape but if you’re not in shape you should be at the gym.

Am I right?

And don’t get me started on how many well-meaning men have come over in the past and told me what I need to do, that I “try so hard,” and I do and if only I would do this and eat that.

Don’t they realize that what they’re saying is, “You’re trying so hard, but I don’t see a difference.” And “You’re not okay how you are.”

Excuse me?

NO ONE ASKED YOU TO TRACK THE SIZE OF MY ASS, HERBERT!

Sigh.

Up until now, I have been polite, kind, thanked them even. Even to the guy in China who told me I was doing triceps kickbacks wrong. In China! They follow me everywhere.

I have a feeling Word Raccoon will tell them to mind their business.

Instead, you have to remember how much you like the sounds of the gym, the whir of machines, the clink of weights. You like saying hello to people who are there for the same reason you are: to see what they can still do. To carry their art with strength. To be as healthy as they can—so they can keep creating. That’s what’s important. This is the container for everything else, everything important to you.

Trying to care for it means being vulnerable.
It means admitting when you can’t.
And, harder sometimes, admitting when you don’t want to. When you’re just being lazy.

Then there’s this: I’m not a cute gym rat. My face looks like I’ve been sleeping on the Sun when I work out no matter what shape I’m in. I’ve had comments.

But yesterday, I showed up. We got on the recumbent bike. We moved our body.
And we didn’t die.

And yes, I gave her a Coke Zero after; it was earned. If she’s brave enough to repeat herself today, I’ll give her one then, too.

Do Not Pass Me By.

Word Raccoon has been submitting poetry in this heat, no less. Big cheers to her!

She submitted to, I think, three journals, and that after she woke me at like 1:30 am and said we needed to talk.

I followed her downstairs where she insisted on Coke Zero at that ungodly hour and I told her she might have a problem.

She could not have cared less and said we were going to write.

We tried a blog post.

Nothing.

We tried the novel and hated it.

I gave her a line that had come to mind and let her at it.

She wrote a jagged poem with a hatchet last line as (nearly always,) she does, and then I went in with a paintbrush and softened it with one more line. (The poem below is not it.)

Then we went back to the novel. It was…not as bad as I remembered.

(There is a guy here on the café porch doing video calls and he has a British accent and the guy he’s talking to does as well and loves, no matter how charming you sound, I guess the raccoon and I will have to resort to AirPods this early. Good news is, as humid as it is, I’m betting he’s going to give up and go indoors first.)

I’ve been writing so many songs in my sleep, and I wake up and ask what I’m supposed to do with them and usually they’re snippets but I’ve done that much of my life but more now and once I was traveling by myself and came up with what was essentially a musical and I still remember a little bit of it but I have no clue what to do with these bits and pieces.

Or, well, any of it.

Also, today that raccoon and I wrote a birthday letter to put into a birthday card for a very special birthday friend whose birthday is coming up way too soon and WR had better toss it in the mail tomorrow! It is a joy to write to my dearest writing friend. It has been too long since I have seen her.

Speaking of cards, I really like cards. Even more than gifts. My family once gave me a card birthday, and I was delighted. For an…uhm…landmark birthday, I said no gifts, just cards, and I got some treasures, some homemade, labored over with love. Those I love most, but I appreciate them all, even postcards. Or photos turned into postcards.

WR says I’m boring her and likely you.

Maybe she’s right. But what does she know, dragging me out of bed like that when I thought we had my sleep schedule all figured out? She’s too groggy to know what’s good for her.

One of the poems I submitted today is “Self-Rising,” featuring Martha White flour and resultant biscuits. And jam. Or is it jelly?

Quick, which do you think I prefer? It won’t make sense unless you read it, but that’s pivotal to the poem.

Finished listening to Jane Austen’s Bookshelf during my early morning travels. The hard copy came in yesterday and yes, I still highly recommend it!

It has literary gossip, sex, intrigue, inside scoop on the erasure of women writers from literature, lit crit, men we hate, men we admire, literary luminaries, info on the rare book trade, and more.

And there’s no sense reading it unless you have either your local library catalog pulled up to request books, Project Gutenberg (they have books you can send to Kindle, you know, and always for free), or Amazon. You will come away with a list of books to read.

This makes me wish I had a little bookshop that sold paintings and had a room in the back for readings and exhibits. I would be so picky about the books allowed in there, though. Not the genres so much as no dusty musty books or yellowed ugly worthless ones. (If they weren’t worthless that would be something else. But you know which ones I’m talking about.) And you already know my opinion on caretaking valuable copies. That’s not for me.

Some books arrive like people you thought you’d lost and then, impossibly, find again on the shelf you hadn’t dared check.

It’s just a half dream. But a fun one.

What about owning a bookstall on the Seine in Paris? They have books and postcards, of course. (And more.)

Word Raccoon is no longer bored. She is taking notes and has now picked up a dry erase marker. A purple one. She’s sketching a bookshop with a coffeehouse attached, stained glass windows but not so dark you can’t see the light, a covered porch for writing, naturally, and a big Japanese maple out front.

There should be a performance pavilion outdoors for concerts and Shakespeare in the summer.

And behind it all, woods with a gentle trail for taking poems in progress and tangled novels for walks.

It should be open seven days a week and its hours should be from 6 am-2 am. Just in case.

Or, better yet, it should just have the key left in the door.

If you’ve seen my street, you know this scene I’m writing about:

Ring After Ring

Across the street a tree that fell last spring

Has lain, unaided, helpless, splayed

For all to see, its roots ashamed.

Unable to hold itself upright any longer,

Battled by winds until age, heartache, and breeze

Blew in its face.

On Father’s Day, the owner (former owner?)

Of the tree took a chainsaw and cut

Ring after ring, sections smaller, but still too

Heavy for one man.

Now, though, I see pieces of

These blessed things.

I know soon they will complete the work,

Haul it all away or

Someone will claim it for firewood and

To ash will go

All that beautiful longing.

Ok, I know the poem isn’t finished but I also don’t know what it needs exactly, but there it is.

What I won’t talk about today:

• The fact that this post was written both last evening and this morning.
• That Word Raccoon asked for space buns, and I tried this morning but IDK how and gave up, this after telling her she is too damn old for them, though if I could’ve managed them, I would’ve. I wanted to wave a twenty around the café and ask someone to do them for me. (They can’t be that hard, but my hair was dripping, and Mother Time that I can be some days, I was like hurry up!)
• That WR picked out my clothes last night and changed her mind about the shorts this morning.  (She actually wanted me to bring another outfit along in case she changes her mind, but I draw the line at a COSTUME CHANGE at the café. This is not community theater, Word Raccoon!
• That WR got miffed at a well-meaning guy at the café yesterday who told me to go indoors where the air was. He wasn’t suggesting, he was telling me. I smiled sweetly and said I might in an hour or so, but that I was perfectly fine where I was. He doesn’t know WR and I have built up resistance.
• That she has forgotten, once again, to bring along a high-protein snack — as much as she likes sweets, they feel gross in her and we have seen a falling off of the grief cookie binges at last. This morning, she shoved all the sugary cereals atop the fridge around until she found nice, simple, Kashi to which she added blueberries and walnuts. (Wait, I just went in and checked and though they don’t have any of their snack boxes, they’re making one “for you.” Yay!)
• That though WR slept in her yoga clothes, she side-eyed hard when I cued up the session. I bribed her with Coke Zero and she relented. (Shhh…don’t tell her but the step-down plan has begun. I figure in, oh…a couple of months she’ll be off the stuff. Don’t feel too sorry for her – remember I’m buying her Coke Zero earrings she can wear, and she can still have the stuff on special occasions.

And now it’s time to figure out what we are writing today, loves. But first I think I might have to eavesdrop a bit more on this guy…he’s talking to athletes about guys on national teams who are “top players”, and he is asking them recommend others to him that they know?

Hmm…I wasn’t listening enough to even know what sport.

Maybe a short story is writing itself over here. Maybe so. Wouldn’t be the first time.

What do you write about when you’ve spent all day with Wordsworth in a warm café and your brain is fried and you’re not ready to share your thoughts on his work?

His words are heady; they are muddled by the heat, and you want to taste them line by line, but your fevered notes drop off as the temperature rises.

You still write notes, questioning him on paper, confronting him, swooning, getting irritated with a line, then he writes a sentence and you’re like, oh, here we are back at the top of the admiration wheel.

More on that another time.

Word Raccoon and I are off on an early morning adventure, so we thought we’d schedule this for your reading pleasure. Do not fear, we will be back at the page and trying to brave the heat with the rest of you mere mortals within hours. You won’t even notice we’re gone.

WR is chattering, saying you will so miss us.

We offer, instead of wit, this poem inspired by a photo of Steve Martin and Gilda Radner recently shared on Facebook.  

I knew I would write about Steve when I saw the photo, because of the way he holds her, but that doesn’t take away from my admiration for Gilda. What a loss. And that red leopard dress she wears in the photo! (Google it, Ducky.)

Upon Seeing a Photo of Gilda and Steve

Seeing Steve Martin back in the day

Cradling Gilda Radner like he knew

Exactly what he held

And didn’t want to let it go.

Hell, they weren’t even lovers

But someone who holds you like that

Knows what he has in his arms.

And it says everything about him.

Now Playing: “Brave” by Sara Bareilles. Because my heart apparently doesn’t think I’m brave enough and dear god, what would it have me do next? I cannot write any braver. I’m about to roll up my scroll and go home.

Saturday’s fundraiser left both me and Word Raccoon, my writing sidekick, with burnt noses and sun-drunk hearts. After I dabbed Noxzema on her tender pink snout, she curled up and drifted off, as if the day’s sweetness had worn her out completely.

She found the table of vintage children’s books that were free for the taking, the organizers desperate for someone to love them. The covers were worn soft, the pages smelled faintly of attic dust and long-forgotten bedtime stories. She wanted to bring them all home. To build card houses, to paper the walls with their covers, to string them along the fence like flags. I let her fill one small box, and now we’re savoring them, one by one and NO, WR, WE WILL NOT BE DECORATING OUTDOORS IN A WAY THAT CAN BE SEEN FROM SPACE. (At least not this week.)

Blueberries for Sal pulled at something deep.
The black-and-white illustrations, the old canning jars with rubber gaskets, the wood stove that must have been impossible to regulate. It made me think of my grandmother’s kitchen in my mother’s childhood. Of blackberry picking with my dad. Of heat shimmering on the pavement, loose dogs barking at our heels, the too-rich potted meat sandwiches I didn’t appreciate then.

Wordsworth said: “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.”
Maybe nostalgia is poetry’s quieter cousin, the kind that stands at the edge of memory, teetering between truth and sentiment.

Today, I’m just here, noticing, writing in a coffeeshop that is 79 degrees inside, and I’d rather write here because of all the light. Actually, it makes me feel like I’m in Europe where air conditioning is not guaranteed in coffeeshops.

I’m letting the burnt noses, the books, the memories, the small glances that catch in the corner of my eye fill me up. It’s not about retreating, if I can help it. It’s about staying present, even when it’s tender, even if some days I’d rather just toss rocks into a pond.