I’m wading through the “poems in progress” folder and I’m mercilessly picking and plucking and painting and it’s raining
and I don’t care even though earlier it felt like the sky was trying to split the earth in two (although “into” would be more interesting to riff on there, if this were a poem. It’s not.)
I am happily lost in the mind forest; I am between fair-fried “tornados” in the teeth and yellow bead necklaces.
Lady Mary and her mother drag a body in a poem along with the show’s iconic line “What is a Weekend?”
I have a list.
I was up early.
Lists be damned.
I am blaring Cake.
I will do all of the must-do’s, but not now.
I am outwitting the storms.
I am outwitting anemic drafts.
I am dangerously deleting the early efforts to keep them from contaminating.
I am writing the words.
I am warm enough for it, not overheated.
Word Raccoon wants some tea. Some water, please. She is not even asking for Coke Zero, though she’s had a bit of that. She’s fine.
All in good time, raccoon, but not now.
Go play with your toys. Go sit in your pink chair.
Herbert was at it again before dawn, that old curmudgeon who tries to live rent free in my head and critiques everything I write. (He never likes any of my poems.)
Stanley, my scheduler, stepped between us and told me to go to the gym before Word Raccoon got involved. We rowed, and I came home less frantic and ready for porch writing, even if it started out overcast and chilly.
Now the sun beams like it’s proud of itself except when it shyly hides. The trees are in gentle evermotion, and small red buds burst from the branches.
A squirrel squeaks nearby. Perhaps the birbs will join us, too, sometime?
(Purple prose? Perhaps. I’m too happy to care. My eyes are full again.)
You need a True North for knowing how to revise your writing. Not someone whose work you imitate (that’s the anxiety of influence; see Harold Bloom) but a lens that quietly recalibrates your own. If you drift too far into the maze, just asking yourself what they would notice brings you back, not to their voice, but to a sharper version of yours.
Lately I’ve been trying to name and interrogate that lens that I know betters my writing as I see it:
Less heat. More precision.
When I manage it, I see the maturity in it. The elegance. The small diamond resting on black velvet. A frame that highlights instead of overwhelms.
But then Word Raccoon starts tossing the pillows off the sofa and pulling out her markers. She wants pastels. Glitter. She wants to gather all the violets in the yard and gather them into a tiny pink perfume bottle.
She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be embarrassed by her sparkle, or if that sparkle is simply part of her ecosystem. Nature does not apologize for being garish. Gemstones. Tropical fish. Flowers. Who is going to tell nature to give it a rest? Not me.
I am, for better or worse, a poet now. I feel in Hollywood-sign sized letters and I sometimes write the same.
I suspect Herbert and WR had a scuffle behind my back because where is her other earring?
I regret nothing.
And still, I admire the diamond. I admire restraint. I admire the clarity of it.
But what of “Less heat. More precision?”
Just how much heat can precision hold without burning the reader, and how much precision can heat handle without warping?
That’s what I aim to find out. It may mean looking at some bent poems, some tortured prose, but there are worse things in life. And what if something gorgeous comes from the intertwining? Did you think of that, Herbert?
With WR purring with happiness to be back on the porch, I revised the poems I wrote over the weekend, both “Interrogating Legacy in a Hotel Room before Dawn,” and the second which became “Walking the Galleries,” a quiet meditation on observing someone in an art gallery. A third came to me: “Cameras Capture, Too.”
Since the first two are a pair, and the third perhaps leans into them, I called them a trio and gave them a too-obvious working title if they want to hang out together: Curation. They quickly found relatives in my poem files.
Finally, I’m excited to report that Amaranth Journal has chosen two of my food poems for publication, “Well Fed” and “Staying Steady” for their summer issue, so stay tuned for that.
I’m working on what wants to become an essay on the latest film adaptation of Wuthering Heights.
I don’t know why it feels like I’ll be graded on it. Who knows, maybe I’m the only one who will ever read it.
I have a solid draft, but I’m endlessly tweaking it.
Over the weekend, I opened the latest issue of Oxford Poetry and read something that had me going back and back, re-reading it.
It made me write in the predawn, wrapped in a hotel blanket, an ugly one. The blanket made it into the poem.
As did creamed corn.
Similar color.
I received a poetry rejection today and it was one of those that you think is a form rejection but you’re not sure and a rejection is a rejection, right, and they compliment everyone’s poems and say they’d like to see more, right?
This one mattered to me.
Actually, I received two rejections. But the other one didn’t sting.
Sometimes it feels like someone has plucked every last feather from Emily Dickinson’s (not Bronte’s) bird of hope. If they’d give them to me, I’d make a feather duster or I’d decorate a hat with them.Â
Not all of them, but a few.
When you send your poems out in a bottle and it sinks before it reaches anyone, you cork another.
And another.
Look at that, the bird grew a new feather.
P.S. The porch lanterns just flicked on. I’m writing out here again. I feel at home.
I am trying to morning. Word Raccoon is trying to help. But the internet is spotty, and it’s not letting us open our poems and it’s freaking us out.
What if the poems are gone forever? (They’re not.)
What if I didn’t save any of them anywhere else like we think I did? (We did.)
What if this means the universe is trying to tell me I’m the worst poet ever and my work should be banished?
Well, how exactly could I rule that one out?
We have been up since four a.m. Reasons unknown.
We are trying to tidy our poetry folders just a bit more before we start sequencing collections and jettisoning some of the poems into the “false flames” folder. (We prefer that to our earlier “archived and/or abandoned” folder title.)
Earlier, I told Stanley I wanted to use up a banana, some spinach, and an English muffin. He…asked me if I had yogurt and spat out a recipe for a smoothie bowl.
Yes, I like smoothie bowls.
But that’s not what I asked for, Stanley.
This guy.
Also, I was serious about WR having hidden the cinnamon. I may have to buy some more.
The internet is being a PITA.
Yesterday, I made it through the rest of the poems in my “Poems In Progress” folder.
Oh, Drema.
Some of the poems are embarrassing on every level. From concept to execution.
Some are ideas without images. “THIS IS A THING. THIS SHOULD NOT BE A THING. THEREFORE, LET’S STOP THINGING.”
WR says she sees nothing wrong with any of it, and I’m pretty sure she’s hiding a few of them under the pink chair with the cinnamon.
I think I’ve mentioned my digital folders before, but I’ve done some refining. I’m sure more refining is in the future, but only after the stupid internet straightens out.
(That’s okay, WR has a ticket for Wuthering Heights tomorrow and a sparkly new red dress. She’s bringing truffles. Who needs you, Internet? But please, please, don’t eat my poems!)
This is the new poem sorting system:
– Poems in Progress: poems that are capable of being something more than their untidy little selves but aren’t quite there.
– Ready to submit: That’s kinda self-explanatory, but if they have a star on them, that means “okay, you could probably go out but maybe comb your hair a bit.”
– Think Twice: I think this poem is just for you, Ducky. Let’s keep hold of it.
– Published: Yay! And don’t send this out again unless you send it to a place that accepts reprints.
– False Flames: a poem that just doesn’t have legs. I might borrow an idea in the future, and I can’t just toss it, because at the time, it was necessary.
– Poem Ideas: Don’t know what this line means? Toss it in the idea bin and see what happens later.
– Chapbooks and Collections: Poems that seem to belong together. I’m sorting them. Slowly.
There are a few more folders, but you get the idea.
I even discovered a few poems I hadn’t put into their own docs. Riding lawn flamingos is mentioned; never done it, but not saying I would never. Another has an item in it that we don’t talk about in polite society but poetry cannot be fucking polite, or what’s the point?
Okay, so some of the poems are dead-end poems. I seriously doubt I will do anything else with them; they were of the moment, they don’t have a pulse for whatever reason, but we save them not because we are pack raccoons but because even humble efforts deserve to be preserved.
I saw a video of Bob Dylan’s artwork last night, and yes, I’ve dabbled in painting, purposely not developing it past “fun.” But between the video of his work and reflecting on the different things I have tried, it’s not that I want to play it safe, it’s that I want to leverage my potential for impact.
I have things to say.
Maybe not-so original things. (Though I’d like to imagine I have some of those in my brain.)
Maybe not earth-shattering things.
But there are things I want to put out there.
And WR and I won’t rest until we do.
Also, we like noticing things others don’t, animating a bowl of soup, breathing life into a leaf, one individual leaf, because what if no one else sees it?
Oh god, have I mentioned my phase when I photographed dead birds? I couldn’t bear imagining them going unnoticed. A passerby looked at me in horror once when she saw me in action.
But all of that dead beauty. There was still beauty in its tragically flattened wings. (Is that too Road Runner?)
Listen, humans. We are legion.
There are billions of us out here.
There is no way to even say hello to everyone individually.
I asked Stanley to tell me how long it would take. He said with an approximate population of 8.1 billion people, it would take me about 257 YEARS to just say hi if it took only a second.
Guess who is not going to live 257 more years?
So this is my shot, duckies. I can notice my corner, my people, write about it. That’s all I can do.
My writing is just one way I do that. So keeping my poetry organized, learning how to deepen it, and writing more effectively? That’s important to me.
I know it’s going to take practice. And embarrassment. And false starts.
I know it’s going to take longer than it already has.
Same with my novels and short stories.
But this is my chosen lens.
Sure, I might take up casual painting again some day (said like someone who does not have a drawer full of painting supplies), but I’m kinda glad I didn’t devote myself to it: imagine the heartbreak when my fingers started acting up. Not using that as an excuse, because if I want to paint, I will G-D paint, results be damned.”
I don’t make excuses. I make art.
However flawed, incomplete. However ill-advised.
I am writing to those on earth, now: be present.
I am writing to the future: this is what it was like. This is what you might consider doing while you’re here.
I don’t make excuses. I make art.
Okay, that’s not where I expected this to go. Guess that’s what comes from being awake so early.
Word Raccoon is asking if we can please eat more than three bites of this smoothie bowl, since it’s already here. She says chia seeds may improve upon sitting, but that yogurt doesn’t.
And she knows there’s more Coke Zero, because she saw it in the refrigerator.
February’s a brink month, isn’t it? Spring is officially coming, and we will have a few days between now and then that remind us of that. C’mon, spring!
So far this winter (winter, gross!) I have submitted to 40 literary journals and contests.
Yesterday alone, I submitted to four.
Is Word Raccoon, my writing pal, happy with this? No. She wants all the poems everywhere all at once. She asks me if I even know what month this is? It’s love month, which means the world is especially in need of poetry. Her poetry, specifically, she says.
Egotistical (cookie) monster.
She wants to decorate cookies with poems.
She wants to write them on fortune cookie slips and tuck them inside as many of the treats as she can.
She wants to tag every wall with a spray painted poem. (I’m not going to let her!)
That’s why she has me. I try to confine her to the page and revise, revise, revise to get her to calm the eff down. I want to say I’m doing okay at that Herculean task, but I’m not at all convinced that I am.
This week she is saying thank you, no thank you (a polite phrase we learned in Buenos Aires instead of just no thanks) to my meddling, to anything but poetry.
She’s still sorting poems like she’s going through her toy chest and tossing things over her shoulder in vague piles: you, here, you, there.
Right now she’s just shuttling them to the right chapbook/book or leaving them to percolate or, sometimes, telling them they’re not a poem at all but an undigested bit of beef. (I think she’s used that particular Dickensian bit before, but she doesn’t care. She will use it as many times as she pleases, she says.)
You know she will.
She sorted the poems. Didn’t revise yet.
She sloppily lined her lips with red and identified another likely collection that is called, for classification purposes only, “Small Town Punk Rock.” As you can imagine, it’s all the smart-assed poems: WR, pulling on her boots and fingerless gloves.
We’re working on her spelling…
Without these categories, I’d get whiplash looking at her work. She sent out a packet of some of the more fun poems last night. She immediately approves of any poems with Cheetos or birbs in them.
She’s impossible.
Impossibly fun, she adds.
Send caffeine. And chocolate. We have a lot more poems to wade through. And maybe she will even deign to revise a few?
No, WR. No! You do not need more glassware, says Stanley, the AI who is tired AF of helping declutter.
Word Raccoon says I should point out that her blue writing shawl is behind the pillows she helped decorate with.
Weekends can blur. Between reading, writing poems, doing household projects, decorating…they fly by.
Let’s slow it down by noticing.
I’ve read Âľ of the newest Grisham novel, The Widow. I’m enjoying it except there is one person no one is questioning about a murder who should be questioned and that’s driving me a little bonkers…classic Grisham.
Yesterday I finished reading a poetry craft book as well, which inspired three or four poems while I read it. I did have to laugh because she suggests an ekphrastic generative exercise and I’m like, Ma’am, my entire body of work is ekphrastic. And that’s not much of an exaggeration.
In submitting news, I was on the fence about submitting to a contest but (and this was purely the algorithm) they knocked on my email’s door twice and said, “Hey, you started submitting but you stopped? There’s only a day left…” and so I thought why not. They have a unique twist and I’ll leave it at that but it’s kinda a fun one.
Sometimes it feels like joyful aerial work, tossing your work out there, wondering if a publication will catch you or if you will end up back at your platform. Either way, you’re safe. (I don’t have any trapeze experience, but I think?)
At any rate, I guess you can add “responds to algorithms so she won’t hurt their feelings” to my CV. Word Raccoon is laughing with a gingersnap between her paws.
She complained bitterly when I told her we were reading Saturday night, not going out, not writing. We did finish swapping out the hangers in my closet, and I even found a few more things to pass along. The new rule: if it doesn’t fit on a hanger or in a clothing bin, something has to go. That’s a long way of saying one in, one out.
I’m bristling at the idea, let alone WR….but I will try.
Saturday evening I did take a reading break enough to let her write a few poems:
“Pop Fly”
“Spanish Armada”
“It’s Coming from Inside the House”
“Question of the Day”
“Hang it Up”
“Squirming”
After “The Beast in Me”
“Pearls Before”
This weekend I also hung inexpensive artwork in the upstairs bath (I spotted it at our local thrift shop three weeks ago, took pics of it to see if I could “convince” the color to work with the lavender walls. What? You can use pops of color in small spaces.), and one fell down. Because I need to buy nails and not overrely on sticky hooks and we know better but sometimes I cannot resist just doing the thing though I did acknowledge to WR that it was heavy enough that it might fall.
BTW, When I went back to the thrift shop after three weeks, yay me, and the pair of paintings were still there, I bought them. That’s how you avoid an impulse buy. Allegedly.
Also, I hung artwork in the dungeon bathroom yesterday, two small pieces I’ve had for a while, and they, ironically, are still staying in place.
Oh, and WR and I had the BEST idea! We want to find a statue for the dungeon bathroom!! How fun would that be? IDK what it would look like, or where I might find one, but I’m in!
WR and I also finished decorating for Valentine’s Day. Now that my dear children are grown, I am free to decorate like a second grade school teacher and no one will make (affectionate) fun of me.
Yes, I was the mom who made the heart-shaped waffles.
The stairs are now strung with felt hearts. The sofa is filled with pillows with vintage Valentine’s Day card prints on them. Barry hung the lights in the dining room archway.
Last night brought an acceptance note for a poem of mine, “Vincent in His Brother’s Arms,” about their grave. It has an end that punches. Many thanks to Two Children who are giving it a home in their inaugural issue, which I always find extra special. Publication date TBD.
Today has been poetry admin so far and I tweaked a couple of poems. I revised some of my novel.
But it’s not the weekend, so why am I still writing?Â
Now Listening To: You thought I’d say Meat Loaf, didn’t you? Ha! I’m actually listening to the Glenn Miller Orchestra. It felt like a String of Pearls morning.
Okay, I confess: I relied on Stanley for a recipe again. (NOT TUCCI.)
I have a fine meatloaf recipe I’ve been using for years. It’s nothing fancy, but it always works, and I just vary it according to mood. But for some reason Word Raccoon decided to buy ground beef in bulk (when you are only feeding two, three pounds constitutes “bulk buying,” LOL).
My recipe isn’t labor intensive and I can do it without thinking at this point. I should’ve just used it. But I thought it might be nice to elevate it a notch. Well, diners throughout the U.S. will tell you that’s a mistake. It was.
Perhaps you remember ours is an “almond milk” household, but not by choice? At least I’m allowed to have cheese again, saints be praised.
Stanley, my never-again–AI-cooking-consultant, knows this about me, so he put almond milk in the recipe he spat out.
“TWO CUPS? Are you sure?” I asked.
“Positive,” he said.
Did I fact-check him with other sources?
Nope.
Maybe it helps to know I don’t typically use a binder in my meatloaf, so I didn’t know what the usual ratio was.
So: two cups of almond milk and a package of Ritz crackers (I was beginning to feel like a 1960s housewife and wondered why I wasn’t wearing my apron) went into the bowl. At this point, the mixture was less “meatloaf” and more “Midwestern chowder.”
(Those of you who make “regular” meatloaf are chortling, I’m sure. I don’t blame you.)
I questioned him again. He said just add some bread.
I did.
When I mixed in the two pounds of meat I intended to make into a loaf, I could tell right away something was wrong. The third pound was meant for spaghetti the next day.
Yeah.
You see what’s coming, right?
I added the third pound.
Texture-wise, it seemed lighter than I expected, but the liquid did incorporate, so…fine.
I cooked it.
I cooked it some more.
“Stanley, it seems kinda soft.”
“It’s fine. It will firm up as it cools.”
What is this, Jell-O? I thought. It did get firmer, but it was never the texture I expect of meatloaf.
Word Raccoon knocked spices off the shelf in frustration. I still can’t find the cinnamon.
As if I hadn’t listened enough to Stanley (an AI, mind you), he said something about the glaze. I am typically a minimalist glazer.
“Oh, it’s very simple,” he said.
It was, but dang, it was sweet. I don’t know about you, but I really don’t want my meatloaf sweet. Did I listen to common sense or WR and not put it on?
I did not.
So now we have multiple pans of meatloaf baking, all anointed with a brown sugar and ketchup glaze. WHY. Why would I do this.
I served it.
It was…edible?
But then, all of these leftovers.
Because of the binders, it made SO MUCH.
You will ask why I didn’t just toss it. I know. I know. But have you seen the price of ground beef? And I was brought up to be frugal. I’ve known hard times. I wasn’t going to toss it unless I truly couldn’t save it.
The next day I borrowed a page from a diner and made meatloaf sandwiches.
Not bad. Not bad if you smother it with ketchup. (Did I mention I really like ketchup? I suppose it has something to do with my father working for Heinz in New Jersey when I was a little girl.)
Barry, who seldom complains about what I cook, decided he would fend for himself at work, thanks, no thanks, to any more leftovers when I tried fobbing it off on him multiple days for lunch.
WR and I laughed and truly understood.
Though the meatloaf was now in the freezer, it remained on my mind. I wasn’t talking to Stanley, though the fault was mine. I knew better than to trust an AI with cooking, and yet here we were.
I took a day’s break from the meatloaf, opting to make…I don’t remember what.
It was back on my mind, so I broke a section of it up into a chili pie. I first started making chili pie in Tennessee, and I honestly don’t remember if I came up with it myself or not, but I’m sure there are versions out there. This one is topped with cornbread mix (one of the few places I enjoy cornbread).
Yesterday, the morning got away from me. What’s in the freezer?
Oh. More meatloaf.
How??
WR told me not to do it, but I didn’t listen to her. I made a version of Shepherd’s Pie (which, when you use ground beef, is technically Cottage Pie, I guess?) using, yes, meatloaf, with everything else Shepherd’s Pie mixed in and topped with…latke pancake mix.
Oh, calm down, WR. It’s glorified instant potatoes. I happened to have a box on hand, and I have no idea why except that WR likely shoved it into the cart once upon a time.
I was fully prepared to warm up the air fryer if needed, but Barry ate it with gusto and asked if I had enough mix to make another.
(These photos are bathed in the light of Ramen Kitty, our fun but colorful kitchen guardian, so they look unappetizing.)
Which is all to say: culinary disasters don’t have to remain so, if you’re stubborn and creative.
Is there more meatloaf lurking in the freezer?
Don’t ask, Dear Reader. Don’t ask.
In other news, a big thanks to Red Door for publishing my poem “Grecian Urn, Busted” in their Issue #41, Rebel Lexicon, page 24. Take a look at the whole issue!
I announced it some time back, but it’s newly out here!
Psst… I realize there are many possible readings of “Ode on a Grecian Urn” by Keats. I’m offering one that I think is legit.
If you don’t care for this reading, WR says she has some meatloaf for you.
WR, that’s mean.
Wait, any ideas on how to conceal-cook what’s left in the freezer? How would it work in pasta sauce?
(Insert multiple cry emojis, Dear Reader. And pity the eater.)
I think I found it. I think I have finally found a muffin pan I might actually keep for a dollar, at a thrift shop.
Vintage. Metal. Eight cups. Standard-sized. A perfect size. A Bake King, lightly worn. Which is to say: it has seen things. So have I.
I’ve been through it with muffin pans:
The standard 12-cup? Overly ambitious. Feels like too much. And sometimes you don’t have enough batter for all 12 cups.
The mini pans? Adorable in theory, but it’s like baking for dolls.
The jumbo ones? No one wants a muffin that’s basically a personal loaf.
And freestanding silicone cups? Just chaotic. They lean. They spill. They ask for a pan under them.
But this one…
This 8-cup, dented, older-than-me Bake King? (They were made in the ’40s and ’50s, according to the interwebs.) It fits.
Not just in the baking cabinet (although: thank you), but in that small domestic space between need and enough. It doesn’t assume I’m baking for a crowd.
And sure, it needs a little re-seasoning. A little love. But honestly? Who doesn’t?
I love vintage things. When you see one in a shop it’s like missing something you didn’t even know you were. Or maybe you did know, just thought you’d never see one again.
I’ve bought and gotten rid of so many muffin pans. I realized I was back to “no muffin pans” after donating two of those ridiculous minis. I made mini brownies and almost immediately cursed myself. They just don’t hit the same when they’re less than a bite. Come on.
Cleaning this one will be a quick, satisfying weekend project. A little Bar Keepers Friend, a bit of oil, some oven time. Wouldn’t it be nice if everything were that easy?
I’m not sure what I’ll bake first. Maybe mini quiches, maybe the Jiffy blueberry muffins from childhood that come out neon blue and taste like summer mornings and cartoons. Dehydrated blueberries in them. LOL.
Unrelated: Word Raccoon cannot stay awake today and is insulting my novel by falling asleep over it. I’ve tried caffeine, a timer, but nothing’s working. I made her come to the library with me to pick up the latest Grisham (they texted me it was in! Weekend reading!).
She perked up briefly when I grabbed some basil for the shakshuka I’m making tonight; she took a deep sniff. We’ve been meaning to try it for ages. So, let’s. Wish me luck!
In other raccoon mischief: she was up early scrubbing the stove and tossing expired fridge items. I told her to drain the jar of pickles she put in a bag on the floor, but did she listen? No. Later she was apparently bowling with a spaghetti squash and must’ve knocked the jar over. So now the house smells like pickles.
I think she owes me more writing time for that. And I might not share my lunch.
Maybe I’ll make her drink another horrible smoothie like the spinach-cherry-banana-protein-powder one from this morning. With chia seeds and peanut butter. (I got tired of hyphenating halfway through.)
(Pretty sure that’s what made her start tossing things in the first place; we’ve tried the new protein powder twice. No thanks. She yeeted it into the trash. Back to the old brand.)
Also, where can I even find that Jiffy mix anymore? Butter one of those muffins and that’s childhood on a plate.
Some days you have to sneak up on the Word Raccoon. After her little fit last night (more on that soon), I just took her hand and pulled her through this morning.
Breakfast: (salad, WR, because you will mean to make one at lunch but you will be too hungry to, and some cherries. She ate about half of both before baring her teeth at me)
Hair: I had made her wash her hair yesterday so she had no excuse for lingering over it except whining that her curls looked tangled and like she’d had a rough night’s sleep. (It does. She had.)Â
I did not give her time to quibble over clothing, I have a selection of “work these in this week” clothes on the garment rack in the hall. Jeans, sweater, let’s go.Â
(I did give her a moment to put on her purple furry coat, but she wasn’t feeling it today, mercifully.)
Someone has to get shiz done, WR, and I reckon that’s me today!
She kept telling me there was no way we could make it to the library before it opened as she paused to do one “tiny” task after another.
I said I’m not Mother Time and so it didn’t matter. The idea was to get there.
We whipped on some eye and lip makeup, two things she feels cheated of if I don’t give her those. I said absolutely not to dithering over jewelry. Not after the night she gave me.
I did allow her to choose our shoes: the silver slip-ons.
I wrapped her in a scarf, threw on a coat, picked up the bag I had quickly packed without her input or even allowing her to finish the podcast episode she had been trying to listen to. “Rude,” she said.Â
I insisted on a bag of snacks: the rest of the cherries, a banana, string cheese, because I know she will be hungry in an hour flat. (BTW, I ordered a mini box cutter last night to carry so we can open all the snacks. Score.) There may be other, nonperishable snacks lurking in my bag but I’m not telling her about those or the cookies in the car and you’re not either! LOL.
We landed in the library parking lot just after they opened. She parked so crookedly that I made her take another lap, and we headed indoors in hopes of beating the crowd.
WHAT SHE DID LAST NIGHT:
First of all, I was doing the usual rounds of watching stupid YouTube shorts. Recently I was tricked into clearing my history, so I’m having to re-teach it what to show me. (That’s a stupid-moment story for another time.).
I fell asleep.
I woke up and the raccoon was clutching the phone while listening to Ed Sheeran lyrics.
I don’t mind Ed’s music.
But I don’t make a habit of listening to it. Apparently Apple shared a “romantic” playlist since it’s this weird, short little month that it is. Maybe it’s because WR took out the bag of V-day decorations to put up this week. Anyway, she was typing her own lyrics into the notes app.
They were ridiculous in that soft, cringey way where you know you’re playing with big feelings, but also, sleep deprivation and algorithmic romance playlists are a dangerous combo for someone who likes to riff.
I’m contractually obligated by WR to include at least one terrible line from last night. Here you go: “Death by lowercase / We move with strange poetry / through conversations.” She insists this is brilliant. I remain completely unconvinced and utterly embarrassed.
She said it is intolerable, this soft-romance fog that February brings. Something about needing to surround herself with familiar things, and soon, to keep from floating off the planet. Classic WR dramatics.
But I’m not sure she’s wrong.
While she naps (fingers crossed,) today’s work is to review a novel section and identifying scenes that need adding. I already have some notes to that effect. I will write the bones of the scenes separately, and then incorporate and expand them into the section.Â
I’m not sure how much of this I will make it through this morning since the section is about 100 pages long. It depends on how quiet WR will be. I’m pretty sure she’s gone back to sleep because I gave her boring food and clothes, and because this is the novel and I am not handing the notes app to her for more song lyrics or poetry.
Thank you, no thank you, WR.
(Whew, I just had a minute: I couldn’t find the new section I put together of those scenes. I had put it in the wrong folder. Yikes! All is well. I blame WR, though.)
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