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.

Now Playing: Checkered Past

Word Raccoon was up before six. Was she writing? No…Was she reading? Wrong again. 

Silly raccoon ordered breakfast and went to fetch it. She had to brake for a squirrel, though she checked her rearview first to be sure it was safe. 

She also swerved to scribble a couple of ideas down to explore later in poems: writing casually about integument (let’s pair that with tattoos below, shall we?) and The Radcliffe School.  

“I am not about to kill a squirrel buddy. Not today,” she said. 

Reader, no animals or poets were hurt in the writing of this post.

I’m going to an outdoors fundraiser that is totally worthy and I’m glad to support it, but it’s going to be 90 degrees out.

Deploy neck fan posthaste, Word Raccoon! 

I hear they are gonna have a face painting booth AND a free books tent.

Guess which mind child of mine is deliriously happy about that? Hint? She’s got a long tail and a mask.

What’s not to love?

Will they have any of the novels by the wonderful women authors mentioned in Jane Austen’s Bookshelf by Rebecca Romney? 

This book!! Highly recommend! 

I am still listening to it, and TBH, I am bringing along my Airpods in hopes of listening to a bit before the band goes on.

I actually know of some of the forgotten women authors Rebecca talks about, so I want to buy a hard copy and a pen for those I haven’t. 

 (Not for nothing, but I ordered books by a couple of the authors she mentioned when I ran across mentions of them elsewhere.)

Alas, I did not read them and, facepalm, maybe even culled some of them from my collection in my “I want to read this but IDK if I ever will” purge of 2023. 

I’m hoping no one rolls their eyes if I ask to have my face painted.

Raccoon?

Dinosaur?

Squirrel?

*Spontaneous jig of joy by WR*

I kinda want to get my whole face painted.

Oh…what if I asked for a fake tattoo instead? Like, what if they would write words on me?

Can you imagine wearing words on your body like a song you’d hear the minute you wake up and open your eyes?

I wish they’d have really good temporary tattoos that you could change out every day. 

Interchangeable tattoo sleeves! Ooh…I might be onto something. 

Tattoos are meant to live forever on your body. And I get that with some, sure. 

But imagine lowering the commitment?

What if they found a way to coexist with your skin as is, just the spirit of a tattoo finding its way into your daily life?

Behold, (theoretically) tattoo sleeves! I know those exist, but with mine you’d custom write them every day according to mood. You could save them for other days, too.

Stay tuned for product development info and investment opportunities. Open to suggestions. 

Stay safe in this heat, road warriors. Word Raccoon recommends staying hydrated.

Now, if you find my wayward sunglasses, will you let me know?

Now Playing: Jane Austen’s Bookshelf (It’s on Libby, and I requested both it and the eBook, and this is what I ended up with. Not that I’m complaining about it.) I think we’re still on the introduction, and it’s one of those “Do I have any closets that need cleaning out for hours or should I go for a long walk? Because this, I want to keep listening to. Just give me an excuse.” It deals with the women writers who shaped Jane Austen and their erasure from remembered literature.

And this book is written by a book collector, which is a fascinating lens, though I’ve always resisted owning collectible books because I don’t want to be the guardian of something so fragile and I like to write in books and Word Raccoon does not need that temptation, no no. And because the written word is more sacred to me than its container. It’s an insult to the language to say otherwise.

Though of course I also get the aesthetics of a gorgeous book. As a matter of fact, I’ve been staring at a stunning set of books I received a couple of Christmases ago. But…If I read them, I’m gonna want to love them up with a pen. Let’s not even talk about the affectionate ruffling they’d receive from WR.

A friend, Rick Neumayer, sent me his new short story collection to comfort me after my mom’s passing, God bless him. Books don’t heal everything, but they certainly help. Especially his writing. I’ll post a review here in the coming weeks. He didn’t ask me to, but I want to. (And hey, I’ve linked his website. Buy any but preferably all of his books!)

I finally let Word Raccoon off the leash (not that she was ever really leashed, let’s be honest). I stopped trying to make my novel behave and gave her the wheel.

The result? The present-day timeline is now in first person, and I feel like someone’s taken the shrink wrap off my soul. There’s air getting in where it hadn’t before. There’s risk, sure, but also a thrill I haven’t felt about this thing in ages.

(I have not set myself an easy task with this novel, because, well, I’m me. I don’t always hit the mark, but I always have one in my sights. Let’s see what I can do with this.)

Word Raccoon is gleeful. She’s tearing through my scenes like a critter who’s just been handed the keys to the pantry. No more hiding behind polite third-person distance. No more trying to impress the imaginary Council of Serious Novelists. This is messier, wilder, and, for the first time in too long, fun.

I thought I was the one telling this story. Turns out, I’m just trying to keep up with my trash panda.

I wrote about 1500 words in my novel yesterday. Not bad considering I also wrote poems and a blog post. I’m feeling it in my hands but so what? We write on.

WR’s not wrong to get in there, head down, sawdust flying. With all of the sawing she’s doing, she’d better be wearing goggles.

She has turned up the temp on the very first page, which is…not what I expected.

The opposite of snowfall does not have to be a volcanic eruption, does it, Word Raccoon?

She’s glaring at me and laughing like she’s just had laughing gas. I AM NOT TELLING YOU ABOUT THE ONLY TIME I WAS GIVEN NITROUS OXIDE! TOO EMBARRASSING!

I’m not sure the trash panda understands just what kind of novel I intended to write. This is turning into a “book you don’t take home to mother,” when I meant for it to be all “Look at me, all able to write cool, refined language that doesn’t melt your face.”

I have a few lines that I’d like to crumple into poems tonight, but we’ll see. You know, those lines you capture because you’re like “oh my god, zing!”

One line is, are you ready for this, “Rusted Pot Smell.” Someone said that on a food video, and I’m like, “I wouldn’t have said that, but I know exactly what you mean by that.” And now I have to taste that line through my hands.

More lines I want to shape:

As if I didn’t already know

How many seconds old

You are. 

When those came into my head, I knew there was something tender behind them. Now I need to join them to more images, thoughts…something. But just those lines cause a little catch of my breath.

Looking over the poems I wrote, when, yesterday morning? The day before? ? They don’t have titles, but they are missiles. Dang, WR, you really need to bury those in the backyard before they detonate.

Although I must confess, she asked me the past tense of an impolite word.

Word Raccoon, stand in the corner and zip it.

We all know that’s not going to happen. (She put it in the poem anyway. I looked away.)

Anyway, there’s a line that I really, really like in one of the poems, but it’s an end-of-poem button, and it’s so good (unless it’s too harsh??) that I think I’d better sit on it for a bit.

Why is Word Raccoon suddenly craving a trip to an art museum? Oh…what couldn’t she do in Florence, in Rome? There’s a Kahlo exhibit of sorts at the Art Institute, Frida Kahlo’s Month in Paris: A Friendship with Mary Reynolds through July 13, 2025. Maybe there?

I’m afraid I’d have to blindfold WR if I took her there, now that she’s all aquiver, senses at the surface.

She’s quiet today. That’s because of a poem I wrote earlier – I wouldn’t let her anywhere near it and she’s pouting. I’ll try to write about that poem tomorrow, if I’m up to it. It was…intense.

Let’s put it this way: today I’ve been at the café writing since just before 9 this morning, and it’s now just past 2 pm and I have barely noticed time passing.

Like I said, intense.

I did submit four poems to journals today, mainly because I feel like I have this candy box full of assorted chocolates, and I want to share. Maybe one person won’t like an orange-filled center, but some of us do.

Now playing: Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson. Because sometimes you need music that whispers, even if every song sounds pretty much the same and his music is like a warm hoodie for your brain and if you need more of an explanation you just haven’t heard his music ever. And don’t fight me on this because you will not win. This is function over form.

And okay, yes, he does sneak in a “little lady” that makes Word Raccoon want to toss a mango at his head, but we forgive him. (Mostly.)

It’s one of those rain-washed days when the café porch plan gets traded for the shelter of my own little sunporch. And honestly? Not a bad swap. The rain is doing its thing, and I’m doing mine: sipping, writing, and watching the world blur at the edges and the traffic drift by as people look for garage sales. I had forgotten it was the weekend for those in our town. Thank you, no thank. I am not in the mood. Unless you see one with books of poetry?

Porch writing from home means getting to wear what I call my comfy cozies, although when I was going to put on a plain blue shirt, Word Raccoon crossed her arms until I chose the “pretty one” with flowers on it. She knows how picky I am about patterns, but I agree with her on this one.

Yesterday things that made Word Raccoon smile:

A hilarious Youtube short of John Green (he likes art too!) looking at paintings and asking an important question: “Have these artists ever seen a baby?”

I love that he dares question art. We can (should) do that, you know? BTW, the man is a supporter of modern art as well. He says it’s one of the best things about having some book money, and I appreciate that he tries to help newbie artists.

I know I’ve been mentioning him a lot lately, but hey, he keeps showing up in my feed. I appreciate that in an algorithm.

And here’s another fun rainy-day video for you of an art restorer, Julian Baumgartner out of Chicago trying to rescue a painting someone else “saved” by (ugh) mounting it onto foam board. Tear emoji, tear emoji…on repeat.

Do not sleep on his videos. Although TBH, he was making Word Raccoon very nervous with this particular restoration. He applied something to dissolve the foam board, and I was fast forwarding because Word Raccoon was on top of my head, digging her claws in, terrified the man was going to ruin this previously “restored” painting.

He didn’t. Whew.

Yesterday, after the tornado watch (Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve always secretly wished I could be swept up in a tornado that didn’t hurt anything or anyone. Just let me fly along with it for a bit. What? Am I the only one who watched Twister?) ruined my plans for writing elsewhere in the evening, I waited out the storm and came out here and wrote.

The porch lights had been fooled by the weather and were already lit in the later afternoon. In the alley, repairmen spoke back and forth in what I think was Polish. It was comforting.

Last night the poetry was a little better, more rounded, more topics than just a mood board.

• Dream State (I say houdini’ed in it and you tell me if I can get by with that.)
• Spontaneous Generation, Batman!
• It Lives Apart
• Ring after Ring (about a fallen tree)
• Atomic Bond
• You Smell like Yesterday (Not that there’s anything Wrong with That!)

The rain apparently brings out the poet in me, so here’s a little piece that arrived today direct from the produce department. This is what happens when you overbuy fruit. My poem’s freshly squeezed this morning, so be kind. It doesn’t even know what it means, but Word Raccoon is covering her eyes, so I’m concerned.

I also wrote another poem this morning that is untitled but is about the problem of sentimentality in art. Spoiler: sentimentality buries the truth and nuance.

And just now, one called “Playing Footsie with Boundaries.”

What To Do About The Mangoes

There you are,
Still in your produce bag
With your judgy green and
Red skin, indignant
That I dare leave you
To rot in your splotchy
Rind,
In your leaning-towards-spicy
Deliciousness, the juice inside

Begging for a bite to

Release it.

Well, if I have to bear it,
So do you.
Actually, I think it’s
On you.
After all, I’ve been
Ripe
For ages too.

But

I’m not bitter at our
Tropical dreams
Gone nowhere.

No worries at all.
We can just refill
The cart and

Reload the drawer.

You start.

You’ve got longer arms.

Ah, to sweet fruit restocking, friends, and to poetry-filled days. Although I’m thinking I’d prefer to write on my novel today. I just fell asleep over my keyboard. That’s not promising.

Now Playing: Don’t Stop Me Now, Queen

Go get ‘em, Freddie! Put that on repeat and your day will be made.

Y’all, I’ve felt rough the past few days, but today? Better.
Maybe it’s the caffeine, the breeze on the café porch, or the mercy of the rain finally moving on. (I love rain, just not when I’m trying to write outside.)

Maybe it’s that Freddie has my keyboard burning.

This morning started badly, one of those mornings where every small task felt enormous.
Unplugging my phone charger? Too much. (But I did it.) Picking up the cube after? Ugh. (But I did that, too.)

Mailing a birthday card felt impossible, even though I knew where everything was: the card, the labels, the address. The idea of locating stamps nearly did me in. Actually, I still haven’t. Guess I will have to stop by the post office later.

And getting dressed? T-shirt and shorts with a “I hate writing” scowl, or the fun outfit and WR’s earrings? Word Raccoon wasn’t having the scowl. I went with fun.

Wash my hair or let my curls get into a fistfight in a pile atop my head? The latter. Don’t look too hard at me.

I told myself it was “too late” to go to the café (it wasn’t). The rain was heavy (it passed). I didn’t know where my umbrella was (I found it).

And then I sat down, and WR said: You always have something to say. Write it.

But my “poetry power” has felt on dim the past few days, and I like feeling the fire when it’s so hot you’re like, I can’t possibly hold this and yet what if it goes away if I let go? So you close your eyes and let it burn, knowing the work is what matters, not the state of your hands.

Hands heal. Writing is forever. (Maybe that should be my first tattoo??)

I’ve been told I’m “high voltage.” I tried turning down my rheostat (is that what I mean?) but sorry, not sorry, that setting is now broken.

It’s just this temporary illness making things faint on the writing front, my body disagreeing with my mind. Guess which is going to win, guaranteed? (Don’t Stop Me Now…)

Hint: I’m writing. Now.

I started with a short review of a poetry chapbook I just finished by someone who went to the same grad school I did, though I don’t know her personally. She’s “extended” writing family:

“I recently finished Toothache in the Bone by Colleen S. Harris, and it deserves savoring. These poems explore illness and loss through striking, concrete images such as tattoos, medical needles, all physical experiences that stay with the reader. One line in particular, “Pain is a marriage / a commitment to death do us part,” lingered with me long after I put the book down.

I found myself pausing between sections to take in the weight of what she shares. The collection offers an unflinching look at the body under strain, and how the ordinary can help us grasp the unimaginable. I admire the skill and heart behind these poems.”

Not that I’m nudging you to buy it, to read it, or anything. (Nudge, nudge.)

I wrote a messy poem of my own, too, one that might become something later. I doubt it. It was written before I opened the portal today. Then again, it might have a seed? With a title like “Psychic Setlist,” it’s hard to say yet.

For now? I’m here. Writing. Not spiraling, as today could have easily turned into. That’s a minor miracle.

The ability to halt and reverse spirals? New superpower unlocked.

Thanks, Word Raccoon.

And Freddie, always, thank you. Mr. Mercury, danke, darling. It’s been a good day after all.