Head Butted by Submission Season

Now Playing: Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey

Morning, Lovelies!

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.

Because We Can, Can, Can

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.

Pink Sunglasses, Poetry, and Other Strays

Now Playing: “Kiss Me” – Sixpence None the Richer

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.

The Word Raccoon Wants Drums

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.

You’ve Got — Nothing: The Disappearance of Meaningful Email

Now Playing: The You’ve Got Mail Soundtrack

“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.

Something’s Brewing (and It’s Not Just Tea)

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.

Waiting on Coffee: A Comic, Could be a Whole Series

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.

As I see it, I’m pre-grieving.

Came for the Shoes, Left with the Wood(wind)

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.

Word Raccoon, over and out.

Everything Is Tuberculosis (And Other Things I Fear, Too, But Call Me, John)

A totally nonscientific, fear-based trip through tuberculosis, as taken by one anxious, poem-hoarding Word Raccoon.

NOT LISTENING TO:
This playlist John Green posted once: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37i9dQZF1E4EHcWZKczEPM?si=KrVm99kNQwCXfakPA6EFFw

ALSO NOT LISTENING TO: The Mountain Goats – Sunset Tree

Now Playing: ~~Toys in the Attic, Aerosmith~~. (For now. Nope, can’t land on anything today. Oh well…)

I tried setting the vibe for this with John Green’s musical tastes, but I have a feeling I’m gonna have to find Drema Sass music and be happy. The word raccoon has dressed me today (my hubby’s castoff porkpie hat, a purple tee with some sort of an animal print at the bottom though I don’t DO animal print– there’s an explanation, but not now) anyhow, I don’t trust her to give me writing fluid, too.

Let’s start with a definition, shall we?

“The White Plague” was a 19th-century nickname for tuberculosis, called that because it spread like wildfire and left people looking ghostly and worn down.

I should probably confess I’ve got a bit of a literary crush on John Green.

Not just because he writes like the world is on fire and still somehow manages to sound like he’s offering you a cup of tea—but because he feels like one of us: anxious, trying to make a dent in the world with his writing. His new book, Everything Is Tuberculosis: The History and Persistence of Our Deadliest Infection, has been sitting on my metaphorical nightstand, quietly judging me. (It’s strictly literary, my crush, kinda like when I was a kid and was into Speedy Racer.)

I haven’t read it yet. I’m scared of what I might learn—about tuberculosis, yes, but also about how close fear and fascination can live in the same ribcage. I do watch his YouTube videos religiously, though. The way he tugs at that crest of hair when he’s nervous. The soft, fierce way he loves his brother Hank. And when Hank was diagnosed with cancer, I found myself worrying almost as much for John as I did for Hank. But they both made it.

So, because I apparently cope by writing poems and Googling Victorian death statistics, I wrote this poem:

Everything Is Tuberculosis (And Other Things I Fear, Too, But Call Me, John)

They are out there
training African rats to sniff out
land mines
and maybe, I hear, even
tuberculosis.

Someone get John Green
on the phone.
He says everything is tuberculosis—

like that guy in
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
who traces (spuriously)
every word back to Greek.

It must be exhausting
to someone with anxiety.

I get it.

You want to know what’s out there
but then, oh god, you know.
Which is only marginally better.
And is tuberculosis now something I
should be looking out for,
skulking on every street corner,
and, I don’t know, lurking on dollar bills?

Doesn’t matter how you really get it,
it’s dangerous for women writers
&
Their Characters.
I know you’ve read the classics.
Emily &
Anne &
Julia &
Elizabeth
God, I want to read your book, but can I bear it?

White plague
Everywhere.

Hey John,
maybe everything is
tuberculosis.
*Squeezes eyes shut*
Unless it’s not.
I never doubted you.
Just wanted to.

Real-Life Women Writers Felled by the White Plague (Only a Sampling)

Emily Brontë
Author of Wuthering Heights, she died at 30 from tuberculosis, refusing medical help until the very end. Because who needs doctors when you have moors and ghosts? Sad face.
Anne Brontë
The youngest Brontë, passed at 29 from TB. Her novel The Tenant of Wildfell Hall tackled alcoholism and women’s independence—scandalous at the time.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
A prolific poet, she battled chronic illness, likely tuberculosis, throughout her life, dying at 55. Yikes! Her love letters with Robert Browning are kinda hot.
Adelaide Anne Procter
A favorite poet of Queen Victoria, Procter died at 38 from TB. She was also an activist, because being a poet wasn’t tragic enough.
Julia C. Collins
Considered the first Black woman to publish a novel, she died of tuberculosis at 23, leaving her work The Curse of Caste unfinished. That’s going on my TBR if I can find a link.
Katherine Mansfield
Wrote luminous, aching modernist stories while slowly dying of TB. Her prose still aches. Woolf was said to be jealous of her writing, a bit. Scanning her short story titles again, I’m pretty sure we’re literary kin. It’s been too long.
Angelina Weld Grimké
Black poet, playwright, and educator—haunted by grief and the shadows of disease. Died at 74, after a life steeped in illness and brilliance. “A Mona Lisa” is one to read and re-read.

Literary and Stage Heroines Who Carried Handkerchiefs – A Quick Dip

Marguerite Gautier (La Dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas fils)
The OG tragic courtesan, Marguerite dies of tuberculosis, inspiring Verdi’s La Traviata. She practically set the standard for glamorous death by consumption.
Mildred (Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham)
Not saintly. Not tragic in a pretty way. Just sick, spiteful, and complex. TB doesn’t redeem her—it just gives her more time to wreck things. I love to hate her.
Fantine (Les Misérables by Victor Hugo)
After selling her hair, teeth, and dignity, Fantine succumbs to TB. Dang.
Mimi (La Bohème by Giacomo Puccini)
The quintessential bohemian waif with a handkerchief.
Beth March (Little Women by Louisa May Alcott)
Sweet, selfless Beth contracts scarlet fever, but many adaptations lean into the TB aesthetic—pale, gentle, and doomed. (So she’s a MAYBE. But still…)
Nancy (Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens)
While not explicitly stated, Nancy exhibits many symptoms of TB before meeting a violent end. Because Dickens liked to double down on the misery.
Violetta Valéry (La Traviata)
Sings her last aria with blood in her handkerchief. High society, high drama, and high mortality.

Who are these lists missing? Hit me up. Especially you, John. In the meantime, I’m thinking it’s time I return to my novel.

CLEAR BAG POLICY IN EFFECT

Here. Try this. It’ll hurt a little, but god, it’ll taste like something you almost remember.

Busking from the Busted Poetry Machine Bunker —”Over It” Edition: Cold, Whatever

Now Playing:
“Let’s Tattoo the Moon” – from the unreleased Post-Apocalyptic Seance Mixtape by DJ Word Raccoon

Even if he lands, we’ll just bleed together/ maybe we can sit in silence while we do / But you’ve gotta get the blood/ Before you can see the tattoo

REALLY PLAYING: THE CARPENTERS GOLD – GREATEST HITS

Welcome to my complicated, glitter-soaked sermon. Hand in your expectations at the door.

CLEAR BAG POLICY IN EFFECT
Guests may only bring bags that are clear plastic, vinyl, or PVC.
All bags (including brains) are subject to inspection. No exceptions.

Written Sunday:

Danger, Glitter, and the Absence of Tinder

I was in the mood
to do something dangerous,
until I realized—
I am the danger.

If you grind your pain to glitter,
you don’t need Tinder—
just a spotlight and a decent pen.

You don’t need messages from the void.
Heavens to Murgatroyd,
you don’t need
permission.

You don’t need submission

You don’t need an audience

just a megaphone
and a scream

to rub the thing raw.

Post Apocalyptic Seance Mixtape

So apparently I’m writing an album. I mean, writing an album sounds on-brand, and I think it’s a way to give me a break from poetry while still being poetry, if you see what I mean. I think it’s an exercise, just for fun, though actually, I have the first song complete with guitar chords.

*whispers* And I think I’m gonna pull my guitar out from under the bed.

Real talk: I’m thinking of overhauling the song, the lyrics, the tone. It’s trembling between innocence and experience. It could be all tattoo the moon with our love or with cigars and burn marks. (Metaphorically, obv.) Don’t stand behind me while I figure out which to choose.

The song has nice ankles and a handsome wrinkle or two. So much longing in it. Almost as if I’m a writer.

I must be feeling better because although nothing tastes good yet, I’m craving barbeque chicken and beer. I’d settle for crab rangoon.

Wanna see the track list so far? Maybe we can bust out the lyrics for one of the songs, too. Feel free to chime in. Raccoons aren’t afraid to share. BUT FYI, trademark notice on them all. (Winky face.)

POST-APOCALYPTIC SÉANCE MIXTAPE

(Limited release. Only available through haunted jukeboxes.)

Side A: Bunker Ballads (Song selection still in progress.)

Jim Jones Bartends at the End of the World After Party
You’re Only Alive When I’m Dead to the World

Side B:

Grocery Cart Gospel
Let’s Tattoo the Moon

Now for something really special (or not) from the bunker. (Actually, I am live reporting from a coffeehouse today. Bottoms up!)

Listen Up, Kid:

You can bleed beside someone in the garden or

you can bleed for yourself and write it down.

One of those might give you a song.

The other might just

take all the ones you haven’t written

yet.

Pause and say Selah!

(Prove me wrong. I’m waiting. I’ve got a hankering for a Waffle House omelet, M-Fer.)

Oh yes,

I was going to tell you about my Poetry on the Road writing session from Sunday.

It was rainy and gloomy, and I did the thing but I wasn’t feeling it. Bonus points for AIS time, am I right?

Turns out, I rescued two half-drowned poems and a song from the primordial stew. (See the first poem above. If you don’t remember it’s dangerous to conflate the author and her work, that’s on you. And I can’t make that disclaimer every time, so I ask you to please write it where you keep your passwords, please and thank you.)

I was writing the song and didn’t realize an undergrad was around the corner at a table. Oops. Should’ve asked him what he thought of it.

Today, I am revising my poems, weeding through random lines and asking if there’s something buried there, if I’m being repetitive now. If it’s time to go back to my novel.

If it isn’t too much to admit, I think I have a second collection. (I write short poems that press their luck and your pants at the same time, so…)

What I see at risk with this speed is I’m getting very world weary and am telling truth with a knife, not something most people would see as my brand.

It’s typically not. But also, I’m just really good usually at throwing glitter and leading a dance under the disco ball. Or is that a moon?

I think sometimes the dance is kinder. For all. And tons more fun. Sometimes.

Neither, however, is a lie.