Now Playing: “Dream a Little Dream of Me” (Yes, I sang it last night. All heart, zero shame.)
Reporting live from the bunker where the Busted Poetry Vending Machine sits flickering, refusing to dispense anything but metaphorical lint and fragments of verse. Word Raccoon’s tried shaking it, threatening it with a ballpoint pen, and bribing it with barbecue chips. Still, it sputters. Still, we write. (Hey, someone’s got to poem. If not you, me. We can’t just say the machine is out of order, no more poetry. That’s not how this goes. Want me to stop writing these posts? Then write a damn poem!! And give me the proofs.)
The real reason I’m writing is: My website? Mid-makeover. Mid-meltdown. Mid-takeover by a certain trash panda. You might see rogue formatting or a raccoon in a tutu where the menu used to be. Don’t panic. I’m choosing chaos to make things prettier. Hopefully within the next week or two, all will be polished—or at least mildly coherent. I’m having header issues over here and deciding on a new…everything. Every time I’ve got it figured out, I…don’t.
Meanwhile, poetry refuses to stop – I’m thinking I am getting your share from the pipeline. It’s pouring out. Storm-drenched. Jagged. A little hungry. A little flirty, and I’m here for it.
I wrote about spiders today (one lived, one didn’t—guilt remains). Maybe yesterday I wrote the sandwich sharing poem, called Squirreling, or was it the escape room one with alligators in which I name the things my anxiety has made my husband promise not to do although I don’t think any sane human would do any of them, and another poem called dangerous flirtations with intelligent men (that can’t be a title, can it, Word Raccoon?)
There was opera and arias in one with a punny name though I am still pun resistant. One called Ambition Meets Midwest, although I’m toying with calling it Ambition VS. Midwest. I believe Target was referenced in it. Probably corn casserole. Definitely sugar cream pie, anyway.
I wrote of parade floats passing one another and tried to make it sound sad. Of Silvia Plath. Of cabbages and kings.
Also, my husband shared a thrifted Jackie Gleason album with me and you guessed it – poem. Feminist. Pissed at the title: Songs to Make Her Change Her Mind. Say WHAT?
So yes, I sang “Dream a Little Dream” last night, Mama Cass style. Word Raccoon clapped. Probably sarcastically. But I choose to believe it was sincere.
Now, Beatles gifts and more distributed, I (Word Raccoon is decidedly NOT WELCOME) am going to take the birthday boy out for breakfast. In which I will get my pancakes. (Win/win?)
Don’t tell him, but I wrote a damn poem this morning before he woke up. And I have a couple more lines for the notebook to drill at later.
Did I mention I’m on my third chapbook, Character Witness: (subtitle something about the Word Raccoon.) Hey, my brand of poetry blends the ridiculous and truth. Sorry if it’s not all Song ofMyself. Though dammit, what poetry isn’t? And I remember back in the day in class saying that title was masturbatory. (Am I wrong? And if memory serves, it’s so in multiple ways.)
I might sound as if I’m taking this all lightly, poetry, but that’s anything but the truth. I’m on fire, I’m seeing the world and translating it. I’m humming, and it feels great. Except when it doesn’t. Sometimes embracing this means looking deeply at things that still sting, at longing deeper than the grand canyon. (Hey, that’s a cliché, Word Racoon. Dive deeper.) Deeper than the Mariana Trench? Is that better, Word Mom?
Oh god. Is Word Raccoon answering in my blog post? She really is taking over the blog, isn’t she? May she be merciful and semi discreet.
Before I started choosing poems for submission the other day, I was concerned my poetry might be too fluffy. Ha! I started re-reading it. It. Is. Not. Fluffy. It is SHARP and pointed and full of truth and longing and those moments that might mean nothing to anyone else but that were landmark moments and things I’ve noticed that I just think ought to be. By someone.
I’m on the porch. I’m writing. I’m saving sandwiches and poems and sandwiches in poems. And, until you show up and take your best pen back, your poetry. (Psst…I’m not giving it back. But I’ll share.)
Now Playing: Virginia Woolf by Robyn Hitchcock (I heard him do it live. Snaps.)
I wrote Looking for Virginia back in 2007 for a creative writing class. For a long time, I wasn’t sure what I’d made, only that it felt sharp and strange and necessary. No one saw it for years. Then, in 2017, I spotted the perfect home for it in Woolfzine, and I finally sent it out. They took it.
I remember writing it in one sitting, like I was being dictated to by some half-drunk literary ghost in a velvet coat. I still don’t know exactly what to call its form; it’s been accused of being everything from a poem to flash fiction to incantation. But when Word Raccoon insisted it deserved a second life, I listened. I’m still a little indignant I didn’t realize it had so much to say until later.
It was tempting to revise it, to hone it with my current skill level (which I hope is more nuanced now), but it’s such a perfect snapshot of who I was then that I just couldn’t touch it.
Virginia is one of the literary ghosts I will always be haunted by. I’m sorry neither Virginia nor Woolfzine survived.
Announcement, because I know some of you will notice: I usually refer to writers by their last names, regardless of gender, but I’ve written so much about Virginia Woolf that I feel I’ve earned the intimacy. So “Virginia” she remains.
Note of (maybe) interest. Last night the print of Vanessa Bell’s painting of her sister Virginia knitting fell off the stairwell wall. I don’t know if it was in protest of this post I was planning, or a reminder that I needed to get to it. Or maybe it was because, being out of picture wire, I decided zip ties were the next best thing. Which, obviously…(BTW, I mention knitting in my piece below. It’s a whole Virginia thing.)
Also, I just re-read Lady Lazarus recently and caught an unintended nod to Plath buried in here. It startled me, how unconscious influence loops back. Like Woolf, she’s in the air I breathe.
And, a more obvious nod goes the partial Emily Dickinson line. I probably didn’t even have to mention it to you word fiends, you would have ferreted it. Wait, Word Raccoon is tugging at me: raccooned it out.
Meanwhile, it’s all birthday central over here, my husband’s is tomorrow, and Word Raccoon has been asked to either hang some streamers or, for God’s sake, go sleep in the corner. I’ve also been refreshing Amazon like a Victorian heroine staring down the lane for a late telegram, hoping that last gift arrives in time.
Thanks for reading.
Looking for Virginia
“What are you looking for?”
I tip the bookshelf, leaking words onto the puddle of papers, papers, papers that are all that hold me in this house. Answers, answers he will never understand tinge my tongue. “Virginia.”
Now he will dig and delve into the hallowed dalloways of my mind and. He cannot. He crabs my hands with his frigid old man no sympathy hands, hairs on their sides like my stepbrother’s. Stepbrothers. Men with minds to hurt and hands to halt the galloping growth of might haves.
“Leonard, don’t touch me.” The icicle of me uvulas in the word winds. Doctors voodoo a nothing for me.
They loose the mother inside me, the sanity scrap bag; knitting a shawl of should haves I cover the mirror of beauty which is reality but not truth, opened the door that ate my muse.
Mrs. Ramsey will not take it— she dies for beauty. Scarcely is she adjusted— Leonard…did I write that? No?
Words, my waifish children, load empty hobo sacks onto heavy burdened backs and don’t wave. I sing them a lullaby of the crawdad, cavefish, cravefish. Gravefish.
I wanted something once, didn’t I, Leonard? Leonard?
I suck the soul from my sister and knit it to my own, but it always goes home, unknotted by her own lazy susan heart that twirls in the direction of the man with the predilection for a standing erection.
I children my pockets with stones, write my memories goodbye and— Leonard? Leonard?
I’ve been perfectly pretentious and submitting my rear off. Word Raccoon has been cracking the whip while I do her grunt work: organizing the precious word-hoard. And TBH? I HATE admin work.
So I slinked over to Submittable, and what do I find? A whole flurry of deadlines closing on the 15th, with more lurking at the end of the month. Seriously? It’s like all the literary journals conspired to throw a rager and forgot to invite me until five minutes before the house lights come on.
(You still got time, poet babes! Don’t be a scaredy-cat. Toss your brilliance into the ring. Or your gloriously weird drafts. Same diff.)
Why Submit? (Even If You Feel a Little Gross About It)
Here’s the thing—I still feel like a bit of a hypocrite when I submit poems.
I love to preach the gospel of writing for the joy of it, making for the sake of making, fame is a trap, burn it all down, etc. And yet… here I am, ironing the metaphorical napkin under a semi-revised latte so it looks pretty.
Also? I’m new to poetry. Like, new-new. I’ve been writing fiction and essays for years, but poems still feel like private doodles I accidentally left on a café table. So when I hit ‘submit’ on poetry, part of me feels like I’m thinking too highly of myself. Like I’m strutting into a ballroom in pajamas saying, “I belong here.”
But I also know this:
Deadlines keep me writing. Even raccoons need a reason to stop editing the same line for the 47th time.
Rejection builds grit. Not the fun kind with butter. But still—it thickens your skin like proper poetry armor.
You discover new lit mags. Like the one where I found the poem Paper Boat — a lovely, strange little piece that reminded me why I love this game.
It reminds you that you’re in the game. Not just writing poems to fold into paper airplanes. You’re playing. Risking. Belonging.
I might be afraid of heights, but sugar, I will PLUNGE out of a literary window starkers.
So yeah, maybe I’m a little emotionally allergic to the idea of self-promotion—but I still did the thing. Hit ‘submit’. Whispered a little blessing over my word-babies and let them go.
The Love Poem Dilemma
Here’s the thing: there’s a contest that wants love poems. And I’m tempted. But Word Raccoon is in charge of the writing, and if you’ve noticed, she doesn’t do love well. She views it as an inconvenience. She doesn’t like the time and attention it takes from her art. She hates feeling dependent on it, would just as soon stomp on a love interest’s foot as kiss him, some days. She’s all “come here but go away.”
The “love” poems are jagged and not sure anyone would classify hers as romantic. Then again, she sees it all and still loves it, so there’s that?
(For the record, I, on the other hand, have been married for over 30 years now. I think it stuck. I don’t think Word Raccoon will ever marry, bless her. She has no idea what she’s missing.)
Still, jagged or not, I’ve been submitting like mad.
Chapbook Tease: Waxing the Parasitical Muse
Yep, I submitted not only my first collection Look, I Built a Cathedral but also the second Waxing the Parasitical Muse. I know it sounds like a joke title, but Word Raccoon insisted.
TOC for the chapbook-sized version:
I Love You, Butt! (From a Fat-Bottomed Woman)
Lady Lazarus Worries Me
Karen Russell Did It Best
Bite Marks?
Microwaving Sadness
Shagging Helen of Troy
Snack Time for Bougies
This One’s for the Girls
Kitchen Marital Aids
Obligatory Cherry Flip
5 Stars, Would Devastate Again
intellectual domme energy
Get Down, Make Freud
“Excusivity”
Making Fancy Outta Spam
Unleashed Pettiness
Kill a Poem with a Stick of Butter
Comfort Eagle (yes, it’s about my grandson, and yes, it wrecks me every time I see it)
What I’ve Learned (So Far) from Submitting Poems
I’m still figuring out what belongs in a stanza, and my line breaks have been arbitrary until I tried reading one aloud and thought, “Oh. That’s…not easy.”
I’m still unsure if anyone wants to hear what I have to say, but I’ve also learned that doesn’t matter.
If I give you something to read, it’s because I think you might need it. Or because I’m trying to say something I don’t know how else to communicate.
Okay, sometimes I want a pat on the head. I’m only human, rumor has it.
What You Need (to Submit, More or Less)
A few poems you’re not ashamed of (today).
A short bio (2–4 sentences, first and third person versions).
A cover letter. Keep it brief, and please don’t be an anonymous dick. Learn something about the journal.
A clean file of your poems (.doc, .docx, or PDF). One poem per page is ideal.
A Submittable account (free).
$3–5 for submission fees (some offer hardship waivers or tip jars).
A little bravery (and maybe a snack).
Final Thoughts
Anyone else out there submitting? What kind of glorious or gloriously terrible chaos are you dealing with?
Are you doing it because you believe in your work? Because you want a deadline? Because you’re trying to prove something to yourself?
I’ll be over here, sipping lukewarm tea, wondering if I should have revised that last stanza one more time.
(I shouldn’t. I should hit ‘submit’ and get on with it.)
And wrangling WR’s “love” poems into shape. Four of them?? Jesus. Maybe I’m not made for this. Unless I am.
Now Playing: Music from Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge!
I’ve found a recipe that works for me, though it’s not supper—sorry to subvert your expectations so early in. It’s about writing. What else? LOL.
Act I: The Writing Recipe
Start working on a poem, song lyrics, a short story—whatever—when your heart is good and aching (you don’t have to work that up; it’s always simmering in the background).
You can both accept and grieve at the same time. You can say “I’m fine” and still hold fire in your palm, because both are true.
Do it at night, when you’re meant to be sleeping. Wake up early as balls—really, Word Raccoon? —and work some more.
Squeeze more time out of the tube by thinking about the piece while you go about your business.
Every image from childhood, every inequity you never questioned before, every societal ail— is fair fodder for poetry. Wring it all, babe. Just don’t name names.
Act II: Pop Culture, Pressure, and Jim Jones
Does the horror of Jim Jones live in your imagination from that miniseries you once saw? Write him into a song—repentant, stuck bartending for eternity. (Actually, maybe that one should be a poem.)
Anything is material. I’ve learned to string Truth so thin it’s floss. It cuts the pain for the receiver.
Truth. Beauty. Freedom. Love. The bohemian’s cry. The four horsemen of what mattered. Who knew I’d become just as enamored of those things?
Makes me feel deep and superficial all at once. Which… fair. (You really ought to watch Moulin Rouge!)
The current poem I’m working on is tentatively titled Once You Pop. It’s about pop culture—can you tell? That’s 100% why I’m writing this so early while it buzzes through my brain.
Act III: A Message from Word Raccoon
Anyway, Word Raccoon has a message for you today:
You don’t have to be extraordinary, or uber talented, wealthy, or beautiful to be worthy of being seen or heard. Because those who are asking you to be usually aren’t either. Which is why they’re demanding it of you. Pr*cks.
But also: If you are those things, you are not more worthy of being seen or heard than those who are not.
That may seem like bottom-shelf thoughts—accessible to any wandering toddler— but until you get past those, you’re not going to be able to hear the muse (whatever that is for you) very well anyway. So best to get them out of the way.
Society makes this nasty net of expectations. Damned if you do. As much so if you don’t. I’ve been just as caught in the trap as anyone.
But the universe hands me a lifeline just when I need it, it seems. Or maybe I’m just good at seeing truth when I need it most.
Act IV: Becoming Myself (with Celia Foote, No Less)
I was in a book discussion once, complaining about how Celia Foote’s husband in The Help didn’t help his kooky wife fit in with the other women so she’d be more comfortable.
And the discussion leader said: Maybe he liked that his wife was different from everyone else. Maybe he didn’t want her to change.
That stopped me cold. I took a step closer to myself that day.
It would be a few more years before I discovered poetry and Word Raccoon. (Well. You were here for that.)
Act V: Conformity Wears Many Costumes
Maybe you don’t see the connection between self-acceptance and pop culture. Maybe I’m not making the case strongly enough.
But here’s what I’m trying to say:
Being steeped in pop culture—or rejecting it entirely— can both become ways to mask the same thing.
The pressure. The expectation. Conform (either way) or perish.
Or just a way to showcase elitism: “Oh, I don’t have to stoop to pop culture.” (You know I love you, but I just can’t. Oy with the Poodles, but not as cute.)
Let’s not, and say we did.
Final Act: Kurt, Dresses, and Drafts at 4 AM
And lest you say I’m too old to be concerned about such things, I dare you to look in the mirror, Sweetie.
We’re here for such a short time, really, kiddies.
As Kurt Vonnegut said,
“G-D it, babies, you’ve got to be kind!”
Why do I love that man so much? I mean, he was pretty much allergic to adding rounded female characters to his novels, and yet… Maybe it’s the Indiana connection— John Green lives here, too. (Still waiting on that call, Johnny G!)
Or maybe fairness makes me say he had some profound, poignant, and entertaining things to say. And just because he was a man of his time doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate those things while wishing for more from him. (BTW, had lunch with a friend today and we talked about Vonnegut and these very issues and more.)
Also: Word Raccoon demanded I wear a dress and hat today— I had jeans and my new Mother’s Day shirt laid out, but WR won. And it was fun to wear them after all.
I have no idea where this all came from, except it’s 4:30 in the morning and my mind was full and now it’s not.
Epilogue: Tea, Drum Solo, and Four Drafts
How about we ask Word Raccoon for a drum solo?
Or maybe just have a nice herbal cup of tea so we can drift off to sleep until the alarm blows.
Come What May.
P.S. I wrote four poems today (drafts, obv.), worked on my novel, and wrote this. I’m still organizing my poems, and just moving them around shows me areas that need improving. I had no clue poetry could make me so happy.
I forgot how much I love this one. The video’s a soft homage to Jules et Jim—Truffaut’s bittersweet tale of art and longing. I couldn’t skip it!
Poetry and I Might Be at a Crossroads
After a wild, exhilarating couple of weeks, poetry and I are… reassessing. It’s been dreamy—intense even. Poems scribbled at midnight, two a.m., whenever, titles arriving during errands, metaphors sneaking in like stray cats. (Also, yes, I know that’s a simile. Let me have this one. The raccoon was typing.)
But now? Things are getting serious. And serious means messy.
The poems are everywhere. Notes app. Email drafts. Random files with names like “ThisOneMaybe_FINALfinal.” Now I have to decide—do I share them? Keep them private? Do I send them out or let them keep whispering just to me?
(I know sharing via publishing isn’t the same as selling out, but it feels like it. That’s always been a big snag for me in the creative process. Writing is sacred to me.)
Of course, the Word Raccoon is staying. She’s chaos, sparkle, and caffeine—my not-so-unofficial creative director.
But Sunday? Something strange happened that makes me wonder about me and poetry.
I was sitting on the porch, novel file newly open, sunlight landing just right, new pompom earrings practically applauding the weather.
And I felt it.
A sudden surge—something fast, familiar, and just a little electric. The muse, maybe. Or a memory. Something poetic speeding past.
Whatever it was, it gave me the push I needed and made me pedal back into the novel—but I brought poetry’s rhythm with me. That’s allowed, right? It feels right. And there’s also some righteous anger at my novel because where the hell has it been, eating asada fries on the stoop?
Poetry, however? Even if you did start out as an invitation to the Waffle House, a friendly round of fisticuffs between poets just to get writing, this is a home for wayward and unwanted talent. I’ve fixed you a bed on the porch. I’m not even going to put up a flyer for your return. You live here now.
Some of your siblings are already here wearing pink sunglasses and eating barbecue chips. As one does. As one does. Perhaps they’re riding vespas you know where, too.
Working title for my next collection: Waxing the Parasitical Muse. Which is… a lot. Maybe it fits? At any rate, it’s pure raccoon.
I’m off to flip a coin: poem or novel today? IDK…poetry’s fun, but a lot of maintenance. But I could be convinced.
Adventures in Rejection, Rhythm, and Hairy Candy Bars
Now Playing: “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree – KT Tunstall (For anyone who’s ever rage-Googled drum kits, written poems mid-lasagna, or accidentally gotten rejected for something they didn’t submit.)
I don’t know how to tell you this, but the Word Raccoon wants drums.
Not metaphorical drums. Not “drumming up excitement” or “marching to the beat of her own literary cadence” drums. No, she wants actual drums.
Not just any drums, either. Not electronic ones, thank you very much, despite her husband’s perfectly rational offer. No, no. The Word Raccoon wants Pearl drums or the like. Real ones. Loud ones. Ones you can beat and thrash, presumably in a garage while wearing fingerless gloves and processing poetry rejections through percussion.
And here’s the thing: she’s never wanted drums before. Never once gazed longingly at a drum kit or air-drummed while stuck in traffic. But today? She wants them like her next breath.
This is, frankly, an escalation.
So I did the reasonable thing and told myself: Let’s breathe. Let’s just get the guitar out. Restring it. See if we even remember how to play an E minor.
Which, let’s be honest, if you can’t remember E minor—the saddest, easiest chord known to humankind—you may have forgotten everything. Like… which end of the guitar goes up? Where’s the music supposed to come out? Do I strum it, or offer it a poem and see what happens?
The Word Raccoon, meanwhile, is not interested in E minor. She is sketching out blueprints for a drum heist. She’s found a local musician on FB Marketplace who might have what she needs (“Lightly used kit, needs love and fingerless gloves”) and is calculating whether she can fit the entire set in the back of the Town and Country if she folds down the rear seats. (She’s sure she could.)
She does not want electronic drums. She does not want your quiet, convenient, compromise. The Word Raccoon wants thunder. She wants cymbals that crash like a nervous breakdown. She wants to rage in 4/4 time along with Nirvana and STP until the neighbors file a complaint.
We do not question the Raccoon when she gets like this. We hide the credit cards, unplug the Wi-Fi, and remind her that she still claps on the ones and threes at concerts. (That’s a lie, Word Raccoon has more rhythm than I do, and I don’t do that.) But she is undeterred. She’s already packed snacks for the road trip.
And yes, before anyone panics, the Raccoon has been gently reminded that I have an autoimmune disease that affects my joints. That maybe drumming for hours like an angsty teen in a garage band isn’t exactly in my ergonomic best interest. She considered this. She nodded solemnly. Then she started Googling “best drum aids for people with arthritis.”
And maybe that’s the point: I like to paint with my fingers, too. Often with a brush, sure—but often I need to touch the thing I’m making. To smear color around until it means something. Maybe this sudden longing to drum is part of that same impulse. To hit something, yes—but also to feel it hit back. To make a sound. To make something with my hands. Which is ironic, because technically, isn’t writing making something with my hands?
Anyway, speaking of rhythm and rejection…
I got my first poetry rejection! Which would be perfectly ordinary—except for one thing: I never actually submitted the poem.
Apparently, I began a submission on Submittable, the place where all things submission live nowadays, then must’ve hit the literary equivalent of “snooze” because I forgot to finish. Didn’t attach anything. Didn’t click send. But that didn’t stop the editors. No ma’am. They looked at my blank file and said, “Yeah… not for us.”
And I kinda love that?
I feel like I should be offended. Or at least mildly perturbed. But honestly, I’m impressed. They rejected the vibe of my submission. The aura. The faint poetic whiff of something I didn’t even send. Iconic. Maybe it’s a warning about me and my poetry. Maybe I just won’t listen.
Anyway. The Word Raccoon is still refreshing Reverb listings. I’m going to tune my guitar and see what happens. Oh wait, I don’t even know how to change guitar strings. (Ok, I do, but also, I don’t, as in, I’ve watched it many a time but I never have.) But I know a guy…
In the meantime, here’s a poem. It has vending machines. It has Eden. It has… hair. You’ve been warned. (Google it if you want – the subject is a real thing. Gasp.)
And that turn at the end—I promise it makes sense in my head, and it led to another poem.
(I’m gonna do it, so this is really a moot point to make—but still…)
But I’m wondering: should I invert the two things in that last stanza?
How do you write poetry in isolation and not wonder how to do it? If you’re doing it right.
I mean, I have poet friends. I could ask them.
But wouldn’t that break the spell?
And also, it occurs to me—I tend to like doing things without an objectively “correct” result.
Maybe being a creative just means I’m an incompetent who doesn’t want to be judged in other lines of work. Nah, that can’t be it because I do other lines of work. (Insert multiple cry-laughing faces here, reader friend!)
Or maybe I just have a “don’t tell me what to do” streak a mile wide. Eh. It’s genetic.
Heck, we were watching TV yesterday and I wrote a poem based on a line I heard. Could—could this be a disease, y’all?
If so, I don’t want to be cured.
(Can you tell I’m 42% through John Green’s Everything Is Tuberculosis? I saw yesterday that he’s giving a talk in Indy, and my first thought was: no. But also yes. But also it’s a school night. But I’m not in school. But also no. But… maybe?
My husband—saint that he is—offered to take me. Said he’d use a vacation day. We’ll see. The Word Raccoon is still deliberating.)
With no further ado, this furry fellow:
Eden Meets the Vending Machine
And now I live in the world where there are hairy candy bars.
I can’t unsee that.
Here. You peek, won’t you?
Apparently it’s like cotton candy or some sh*t— but that’s not what it looks like to me.
Might’ve actually cured me of my chocolate addiction.
Why do we not Equate Frankenstein’s monster with Eden.
Am I right?
P.S. Yesterday was Mother’s Day (today in blogland), and let me tell you—my husband’s lasagna and cherry cheesecake were transcendent. Like, write-a-sonnet-about-them good. Wicked played on the screen, the Word Raccoon took a nap, and somehow, I still got some writing in. A day with joy, sugar, and sentences? That’s pretty much the dream.
“The odd thing about this form of communication is that you’re more likely to talk about nothing than something.” — You’ve Got Mail
If I were being courted in the age of email, I imagine it would feel a bit like You’ve Got Mail. A slow unfolding. A thoughtful volley. A chance to be fun on the page before ever needing to speak. I’m not saying that’s what’s happening. I’m saying that’s what I would have liked. That’s what I still admire, passion on the page.
And yes, of course I use email—who doesn’t? But this is something else. This is about meaning, about memory, about the kind of messages that make you feel seen. The kind you print and keep. The kind that don’t just say what time the meeting is.
If you’ve never been a fan of email, it’s hard to explain the exquisite thrill of seeing a message just for you. Mail. A message meant for you, arriving not in a flurry of pings or group texts, but in a pause. A beat. A breath.
In the movie You’ve Got Mail, Kathleen Kelly and Joe Fox fall in love one email at a time, their exchanges thoughtful, charming, and reflective in a way real-time conversation rarely allows. The internet was still quaint then, still dreamy.
It’s good to know screenwriter and author Nora Ephron wasn’t just worried about her neck. That came later, I think. I’m worried about not just romantic emails, but meaningful emails—ones that say more than the choice at the bottom of your screen like “Sounds like a plan” or “All good,” whatever they say nowadays.
It’s probably not fashionable for a woman my age with an MFA to admit this, but I still love You’ve Got Mail. Unironically. Repeatedly. Especially when I’m sick.
First of all, Meg Ryan. Second, Meg Ryan. And third, America’s current leading zaddy, Tom Hanks. (You’ve seen that picture of him with the beard and glasses, right?)
As I write this, I’m literally listening to the film’s soundtrack, and I hadn’t realized how much of the movie it expresses. It’s perfect. I’m listening to Harry Nilsson’s Remember right now. Oh, if you know the film, you know where we’re at in it, and your heart hurts for this young woman knowing she has to shut the shop. Ouch.
No movie captures the ache of slow-blooming connection quite like You’ve Got Mail. The way Meg Ryan sits at her computer, waiting for a message from someone who sees her, makes me a little jealous, if I’m honest. That ping wasn’t just a notification. It was permission to hope. (If what you get isn’t an unexpected nasty gram. Those are the worst! Honestly, I’m not over some of the worst of those I’ve received. But onward, Word Raccoon—my slightly feral writing self who scavenges language for warmth in the dark.)
Ephron, master of the romantic concept, knew exactly what she was doing. The romance wasn’t just in the email itself—it was also in the waiting, the words, the delayed reveal. We often show more of ourselves on the page than we ever manage face-to-face, which is how the romance between Ryan and Hanks’ characters bloomed.
And yes, I know You’ve Got Mail isn’t without its flaws. There’s a subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) thread of paternalism in how Tom Hanks’s character (Joe Fox, get it—fox? Layers.) maneuvers. Like when he decides singlehandedly that he will continue the “relationship” when he knows who Kathleen is and knows she doesn’t know who her secret correspondent is. Sure, it’s charming when he rhapsodizes that he had hoped it would be her, and that it is.
But when he tricks his way into her apartment after she tells him she doesn’t want to see him? When he sits on her bed, covers her lips with his finger? (Am I remembering that correctly?) I think that’s supposed to read as romantic, but I’m like, No sir. I don’t care how much I may like you—we are not building a future on your liberties. Back off and come see me when I’m not in bed with a cold. And I’ll decide whether or not you get to visit my apartment, ‘k?
And yet, I still return to this movie. Not because I want Joe Fox, but because who doesn’t want to be wooed with the written word? Not with his-and-her T-shirts that felt like I was being branded and misdirected poems (I’ve had all those – stories, I’ve got them), but with letters, digital or handwritten especially. With late-night emails written with care and wit or speed and spice. With someone who gives good email.
Because while I’ve grown more confident with age, it’s still hard for me to be charming in person. Too many gears to operate at one time, depending on who I’m trying to talk to. On the page, though—give me a screen and a little time to revise, and I can be devastatingly delightful. (Or so I’d like to think. Am I wrong? Oh, god.)
Now, most of our feelings are filtered through thumbs and predictive text. Or worse, we send an email hoping to connect—maybe a kind word, a thoughtful gesture, a little softness—and get a nasty gram in return. A sharp reply when we were trying to be warm. A passive-aggressive tone from someone we once looked up to. A deliberate misreading from someone who should know us better by now. Like getting punched mid-hug.
Sometimes it’s not even that. Sometimes it’s silence… I don’t understand why it’s so hard to just say what we mean. I recently texted a friend: “I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks. I miss you.” No angle. Just truth. It was received well. Ah.
Or to my new book friend: “I have no agenda, but just want to get to know you better.” That’s the way I want to speak. That’s the language I wish more people could hear without flinching.
Maybe it’s fear. Fear of vulnerability. Of being misunderstood. Of wanting too much. We’re so afraid of seeming needy or offering too much, we end up offering nothing.
But honestly—what life are you waiting for to be honest? This is all we get.
Joe Fox gets really honest once, in a sense. He walks into the coffee shop to meet his anonymous email pen pal, only to realize—with a shock—that it’s Kathleen. He hadn’t known until that moment. And because they’re not just secret correspondents but real-life business rivals (he’s already put her beloved children’s bookstore on the chopping block), he panics.
He knows he can’t reveal he’s the one she’s been writing to—not yet. She’s sitting there, waiting with a rose, hoping to meet someone kind and thoughtful. So instead, he pretends it’s a coincidence, sits down as himself, and tries to be charming. She shoots him down.
Back home, back in his secret correspondent role, after much hemming and hawing in an email, he backspaces like crazy and writes this one instead. Here, I think, Joe is at his best. Too often we accept the excuse (I was called out of town; my dog was sick) instead of pressing on it a little harder and asking for the simple truth. But although he knows he can’t explain properly, he does apologize—which goes a long way.
And if you haven’t watched You’ve Got Mail, do. Just be aware that it’s not just the tech that is outdated. Still, see if you can love your way around it. At the very least, listen to The Puppy Song. Am I right?
The song up now is Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and here’s the reveal. Joe calls for Brinkley, his dog, which is exactly what Kathleen needs to hear to know who he is—then, here Joe comes around the bend and into sight, and it is him. But also, there’s this look on her face. It’s not uncomplicated. I think she’s still not sure she can forgive him for killing her mother’s dream, running the bookshop out of business.
For a second, the viewer also wonders if she should. Obviously, younger, softer me was all, “Oh, forgive him—he can help you reopen the shop.” Now me says, “Hang on. The man ran you out of business without compunction, has lied to you for quite a while now, talked his way into your apartment. Let’s look at his family’s record: so many divorces. So many yachts, so little accountability. My friend, stop and think.”
But when they embrace, all of that goes out of my head, as it’s meant to do. God, I hope Joe doesn’t end up on one of those yachts. For what it would do to Kathleen, not him. Not that you asked, but that’s my take.
As Joe writes at the end of his apology: “Still here.” Being there would be the real apology.
P.S. If you’re still reading, a personal note: My loved one is doing somewhat better. Not out of the woods, may never be, but for now, better. Even though I still had to take melatonin last night, I did manage to get a solid six after writing only three poems and revising two after midnight, so that’s progress. I think poetry is my new best friend. I mean, IDK if it’s any good, but it’s good for me.
I’m working on a comic book. I can’t tell you what it’s about—yet. But I can tell you the idea first came to me a couple of years ago while my husband and I were having lunch at Cardoso, a now-defunct local place that served great chimichangas and even better ambiance for impulsive creative sparks. The idea made me laugh out loud—still does. It’s strange, satirical, and deeply on-brand for me.
I’ve invited my comic-loving husband to collaborate on it. He’s thrilled, of course. He’s also allowed to tell his best friend—the one who adores comics almost as much as he does—but that’s it. For now. Consider this a soft launch whispered into the void.
It’s going to be a limited 6-issue series, and I already have summaries and loose outlines for each one. Which means—yes—I’m learning a whole new kind of writing. Even more compact than poetry, in a way. You have to rely on images more than words. Thankfully, I’m a visual queen. (Cue dramatic raccoon lighting.)
A friend I told—someone who doesn’t even like comics—said she’d read it. That vote of confidence is tucked in my pocket like a magic token.
And btw, it has no superheroes or characters from classic literature in it.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to give my novel its due, but for some reason, it feels far away at the moment. Maybe it’s the heaviness in my heart—a loved one is sick, and the worry doesn’t lift easily. Sleep comes late, and when it does, it’s restless.
But creativity, oddly, isn’t.
I’ve been writing poems at all hours of the night, waking to scribble down lines before they vanish. I suspect it’s the Word Raccoon again, that strange, protective little creature who guards my mind and heart when the world is too much. It’s hoarding scraps and stanzas, and I’m letting it.
Right now, it feels like my soul is in kindergarten. There’s finger painting and snack time and naptime (if only). I’m trying to stay present inside the bright corners when they appear.
And here’s the other truth: I have all these lovely books around me—books I’ve been longing to read—but reading doesn’t quite appeal right now. I’m reading a little, here and there, but not taking much joy in it. It’s like my reader-self is resting, too. I’m letting the books just be near me, more like company than obligation. I know I’ll be back to them when the time is right.
Meanwhile, tonight (Friday, actually — probably not posting this until Saturday), we’re letting a local fundraising meal do the cooking and heading to a wine tasting afterward. I did a quick yoga workout, paid the bills, and ran the dishwasher. I’m trying to adult. And honestly? My writing goes better when the house is clean.
The comic is happening. The poems are happening. And even if the novel is napping under a story-time rug somewhere, I trust it’ll stir when it’s ready.
Soundtrack:Now Playing: “Art School Girl” – Stone Temple Pilots
There’s something both oddly sacred and super casual about the phrase “Let’s grab coffee soon and talk about your work.”
It floats around workshops, readings, literary events, DMs—spoken with the breezy warmth of “let’s catch up sometime” and the casual optimism of people who might mean it, at least in the moment.
And most of us—especially those of us who write—believe it.
We file it away. We wait. Not just for coffee, but for connection. For the quiet acknowledgment that our work matters to someone we respect.
Sometimes it happens.
And sometimes we grow older. We pass each other—again and again.
Still waiting.
I made a comic about it.
Not because I’m upset. Not even because I’m disappointed.
But because humor is one of my coping strategies, and it hurts a lot less if you make it art. And because you go on anyway, because if you wait around, you will just – well, read the comic.
And hey, writers—if you need a reader?
I’m here. And I will lovingly judge your work but never you. Because you are perfect! (Or close to it? I don’t know, who’s reading right now? I’m going to assume the best of you.)
Limited availability on the reading front, of course. Novel number three ain’t gonna write itself, duckies. But I can start a waiting list if need be. And that dozen or so of you (you know who you are) who are my inner writing circle, darlings, you will always go to the front of the line, I pinky swear.
Just yesterday, I had coffee with someone I met at a book discussion. She wasn’t a writer—just an extraordinary reader. Her book was full of flags, like each page had a conversation tucked inside it. I gave her my card because I couldn’t stop wondering what she hadn’t had time to say.
So we met. Before we even sat down, she looked at my earrings and asked if I’d bought them at the local thrift shop. I had. They’d belonged to her mother-in-law. We were both thrilled. And we talked. A reminder that connection doesn’t always come from where you expect it.
It was nice to go fortified into the next part of my day — visiting an ill relative that I’m full tilt worried for. After her care meeting, let’s just say I ate fries in my van listening to Rob Lowe and Kelsey Grammer talk about the afterlife. Later, I wrote a poem, but my chest still burns. And now I’m up at 4 a.m. writing this.
I’m not mentioning this for sympathy. I’m just writing this because remember what I wrote about grinding your pain into glitter? This is part of the process. This is the circle of life, and, as I said to my students last year when they wrote me beautiful notes upon the passing of my sister, grief is the cost of loving and that’s not too high a price.
Pardon me if I distract myself for now with music, musings, and the Word Raccoon. I need the distraction. I need the company.
I’m trying on the dress of poetry—the official writing outfit of emotions.
Yesterday I had lunch with my brother and our mutual friend, Amy. Amy and I have developed a post-lunch tradition: thrift shopping. Yesterday’s outing was, naturally, a delight to Word Raccoon.
The silver shoes (pictured below and on my feet today faster than Dorothy’s ruby slippers) were actually snagged on a second trip—because when I got home, Word Raccoon demanded I go back.
Context: Amy and I take turns paying at this thrift shop because it’s trapped in a time warp and only accepts cash or checks. Neither of us carries checks (ew), and remembering cash is a mythical feat, so we alternate footing the bill.
I tried to be modest with my haul since Amy was paying. She rolled her eyes at me the whole time because she said I could buy as much as I wanted. She’s about as sassy as Word Raccoon (which is to say: a lot and I love it). Honestly, with prices that low, I don’t even know why I bothered being frugal.
Since I live near the shop and she doesn’t, I limited my purchases. Still, Amy bought me some truly excellent things, and I TOTALLY appreciated it. But I drew the line at letting Word Raccoon make her pay for the shoes. That creature has no shame.
So I returned later in the day—and I’m so glad I did. Not only did I snag the shoes (AND LOVE THEM), but I also saw something I hadn’t noticed before: a clarinet.
Backstory: My husband used to have two clarinets—one inherited from his aunt, a decent student model, and one he found at auction, a fancy Selmer (I think?). When a student needed one, he gave away the nice one and kept the sentimental one. That sentimental one later died a tragic, moldy death in a damp basement. Cue the sad trombone.
So for years, no clarinet.
I keep an eye out for instruments—once found him a mandolin at a garage sale, and a few less-wise guitar purchases. But until yesterday, no clarinet sightings.
I called him immediately. We video chatted. I still wasn’t sure if I should pull the trigger. I asked him to just come to the store. (Also: I couldn’t buy both the clarinet and Word Raccoon’s shoes. Priorities.)
And yes, okay, I would’ve picked the clarinet over the shoes—but what if I lost the chance at the shoes? Word Raccoon is nothing if not persistent.
Reader, Barry came to the store. The clarinet was a go. When we got home, he cleaned it up and played it. And since it’s almost his birthday, I asked him for a list of clarinet accessories and ordered them. Boom. One surprise gift, courtesy of a shiny shoe mission.
Speaking of: the silver shoes? Still very loud. Still very tacky. I told Word Raccoon secondhand shoes are questionable. She told me I’m questionable. I laughed and bought them anyway. Plus a shiny(!) pink purse.
Charlotte Brontë said: “I would always rather be happy than dignified.” I’ve been dignified. It’s no fun. Also, no one who insists on being dignified is ever truly having fun. (That’s a blog post begging to happen, just not today.)
Oh, and take a look at the haul pic—you’ll see I found a John Green novel for a quarter! I haven’t read it yet, but I remember when it came out. He’s best known for fiction, but I love his nonfiction. I started reading Everything is Tuberculosis last night and wow, the man writes like he talks. I am here for it.
Anyway, I’ve been up and down all night writing poetry, and now I have a coffee date and my hair is… a situation. Gotta run.
Before I go—here’s a glimpse at titles from the poetry cycle I’m working on:
Comfort Eagle
Onto You
Bitch Eating Crackers
Famous Last Texts
Weird in the Family
Use a Boot
Golden Lasso Not Included
Barney Fife Does Not Live Here
Arm and Hummer
Incoming Outgoing
Oral Gratification and Other “Phallicies” (On Moving to Nashville)
Yes, I sent that last poem to my husband with the warning: NSFW. Honestly, maybe that should be the title of my newest collection. Or maybe… it should be my title.
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