Now Playing: something low and ominous, probably with a cello that knows too much.
At approximately 2:12 PM, the poem, “Christmas Feels Like You,” was last seen intact.
Witnesses report it was doing well. Not perfect, but breathing. A little wordy, perhaps. A touch indulgent in the second stanza. Title feeling a touch ornamental on its head, but stable.
Hopeful, even.
At 2:14 PM, the editor/poet (dba Drema Drudge) entered the scene.
She carried scissors.
She said things like “just a quick trim,” “let’s beta test a new title,” and “we’re only tightening the ends.”
The poem did not resist.
Oh, reader, it trusted her.
At 2:19 PM, Word Raccoon was spotted nearby.
No one knows who let her in.
Security footage shows her rifling through metaphors, stuffing half-rhymes into her cheeks, muttering something about “streamlining the narrative” while actively making it worse.
At 2:23 PM, the first cuts were made: Snip, snip to “My mind adds synapses and synopses.”
No one objected to that cut.
A line here. A phrase there.
The title hit the floor, splitting the kitchen linoleum. Said title was quickly replaced with “No Crib for a Bed,” which WR, perched on a nearby light fixture, was no more pleased with.
An entire image was quietly escorted out the back door.
“It’s cleaner this way,” the editor said as she held the scissors aloft.
The already slim poem began to lose what little volume remained.
At 2:27 PM, things escalated.
Word Raccoon seized the scissors.
Witnesses describe the scene as “aggressive shaping.”
Chunks removed without consultation. Syntax rearranged mid-breath. One particularly good line about hay… gone.
“No one even knows what it said anymore,” reported a witness, visibly shaken.
At 2:31 PM, the poem attempted to speak.
It managed only fragments.
A clause. A whisper of what used to be a metaphor. The ghost of a rhythm.
At 2:35 PM, the poem was pronounced unpublishable.
Cause of unusability: over-editing.
Contributing factors include:
Unsupervised trimming
Editorial overconfidence
Raccoon interference
Authorities would like to remind the writing public that revision, while necessary, should be handled with care.
Step away from the scissors periodically. Check for a pulse. If the poem begins to look “neater” but feel emptier, you may already be too late.
Word Raccoon remains at large.
She was last seen dragging a stanza into the woods, insisting it “needed one more pass.” If seen, consider her armed and dangerous, but only to poetry.
King Tuff has a new album coming out. Is that a “Bad Thing?”
I swear, that video is so campy.
But “How I Love,” there’s the porch song for me.
I only found out about his new album last night, which feels exactly right, like hearing music through a wall and realizing it’s been playing for a while without you. I haven’t really kept up with him since I saw him live with Father John Misty in 2018.
I remember enjoying him then. Not politely. Actually enjoying him.
Apparently, this new album was written to be fun to perform live. That’s so cool. There’s something honest about writing toward the body and interaction instead of the chart. Toward movement, noise, presence, and connection.
I’ve been trying to rediscover him a little today. I made a playlist. I’m also listening to Smalltown Stardust, which I think I kinda love.
Meanwhile, yesterday, I started editing another chapbook. This time seriously. Inconveniently Alive. It certainly is. Alive.
I wrote most of it back in the winter, during one morning/afternoon when Word Raccoon was shouting at me for trying to cork her, but now I’m looking at it with a different kind of attention. Less like “what is this?” and more like “what is this asking to be?”
It’s always strange, that shift. The work doesn’t change, exactly. The gaze does.
Word Raccoon, however, has other ideas.
She is currently demanding music to feast upon instead of food, which I am, for reasons unclear even to me, obliging. The problem is that she is not just listening to music. She is making it. Or she was yesterday.
Songs. Plural. Rapid-fire.
And while this is, objectively, delightful and slightly alarming, it is not my preference at the moment. I would like to stay with the poems. I would like to finish something instead of opening another door.
But she has opinions. Strong ones. And apparently a setlist. I swear if I end up onstage with a bass in a tutu and combat boots, we all know who to blame…the problem is, this round of “songs” aren’t good. Like, at all. I was able to distract her yesterday with Portlandia, a show I just couldn’t get into back in the day. But for submitting poetry? The perfect background companion.
So far today I’ve lured her away from the lyrics with avocado toast and a banana. I allowed her to put the “songs” into Google docs in the song lyrics folder, because she would pout otherwise, but honey child raccoon of mine, if those ever end up onstage, it will be because the world ran out of songs.
How likely does that seem?
Yesterday was a day of submissions. Both poetry and chapbooks. Real ones. Not the kind where you hover and think about it and close the tab and promise yourself you’ll come back later.
We even sent a packet to a Notable Place. The kind that makes you pause and think, maybe not yet, maybe not this time.
And then we thought: why not?
I remember a poet we knew who said that once, just like that. Why not? As if bravery could be that simple. As if the worst that could happen was already happening anyway, which is to say, nothing.
It stuck with me. I admired the hell out of that.
So yesterday, Word Raccoon and I gave it a try.
No fanfare. No declarations. Just the quiet click of sending a packet that felt like it could take its shoes off there.
Today feels a little different because of it. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But something has shifted.
Maybe it’s the music coming back around. Maybe it’s the chapbook insisting on its turn. Maybe it’s the memory of someone saying why not and meaning it.
Or maybe it’s just this: being, once again, inconveniently alive. Not inconveniently for me.
But you knew that.
(Should really not have used a colon there today; upon reflection, I’m pretty sure I used up my month’s allotment on yesterday’s post. 😂)
(Re: Handlebars lyrics: I can tie a knot in a cherry stem. But I learned in the most innocent way ever: my son told me he could and I was like, do I want to know how you know, and then he challenged me to try, so I did.)
It’s not difficult. But it’s not a party trick I’m going to be trotting out any time soon, either.
Wednesday Was
When part of you says “Any more deadlines?” and another part yells “I don’t care; my eyes are exhausted.”
When you’ve managed to submit to four places and make a pork loin in the Crockpot with baked potatoes and green beans on the side and call it good.
When you tidied your chapbook and sent it out to four places, and even managed to, you hope, nail the dedication that you wouldn’t have written yet, but a place asked for it and you thought, yes, yes, that needs doing.
It’s not as easy as it sounds, writing one, at least not for me. A Japanese maple made its way into this one.
When restlessness rattles in you like sere leaves during a wind advisory, and you feel like you have to create something bigger than it.
The kitchen is tidy. Household fed.
Word Raccoon is hiding out, playing dead, saying she is DONE for the day.
Nothing on Netflix, Hulu, or Disney. Forget about Paramount or Prime. YouTube is only good for music videos right now.
You’ve had chocolate, water, and Coke Zero.
You get that itch that says you’ve got to write something besides another cover letter.
But what? What is this restlessness, and why are you now listening to The Killers? You started the morning with music, and now you’re maybe ending with it and hey, listen, maybe you should wake WR and see if she’s up to a poem.
“Didn’t we start one about Josh Tillman earlier?” WR asks sleepily from the chair with Book Goblin and the enormous pink heart-shaped pillow she’s cuddling up to. “Here’s a line you wrote earlier, build on it.”
Ah, yes: “You can talk while the wind is blowing and still be heard.” What are we going to do with that line, Word Raccoon?
What I keep coming back to is this: FJM doesn’t owe us anything, whichever persona he chooses. Maybe Josh became Father John Misty to escape himself. Maybe he thinks we only want the struggle. But I’d listen to the joy, too. I’d be glad to hear him bloom. Maybe he already has.
(Why am I playing The Killers if I’m writing about FJM?)
Someone of my acquaintance went to hear a concert of his a while back and said, when I saw her next, he is SEXY?
The man drips blood when he sings, and all you can see is his sex appeal? Ma’am. Ma’am.
Word Raccoon gave her a look that could’ve boiled her iced coffee.
To be fair, the woman tried to clarify and qualify her remark, but WR had already heard her and wasn’t having it.
Go on, Josh. Be Father John Misty. Be Josh, if you prefer. Be yourself, dude.
I’ll gnaw on my line while WR naps. I need to.
I can see my muse’s reaction now: “Oh, so close.” Or, “Ew. What?” Sigh.
That’s the damndest thing about muses: they provide the voltage, not the material.
I feel like I need to label these “midnight missives.”
You can talk while the wind is blowing and still be heard.
Wait, I was supposed to stop the post there, but I’m not going to, not even though I need to charge my laptop battery. This is my Rooftop Concert and let them come drag me away from it, LOL.
What happens to ambition when the day refuses to behave? I am not the first woman to ask this.
There is a pork loin from the latest grocery order in the fridge, waiting to be transformed into, ultimately, stew for the Word Raccoon et al.
There are competitions and poetry journals with countdown timers ticking so loudly they might as well be gongs.
And my husband is home sick.
On Monday, I asked Barry if he was feeling okay. He said he was. He is not the kind to not admit being sick. I mentioned my specific observations anyway and offered Zicam, just in case.
He said he was fine.
Monday evening, he was still “fine.” (We are not being mean, WR. We are gently mocking the nature of men. Some men. This particular man.)
Word Raccoon whispered that he was not fine and we both knew it. We assumed he’d know it soon enough.
Tuesday afternoon, after a meeting, we arrived home and he asked if we’d read his text.
Text? Even WR knows to keep her phone off during a meeting.
The text had asked if we would go pick up an olive burger so I wouldn’t have to cook.
Mmm hmmm.
That was a declaration of illness.
“Do you want a milkshake, too?” I asked.
“Salted caramel,” he said, head down.
I bought him a large.
He’s off work today, resting.
Which is to say: WR and I are off schedule.
In this house, when one of us is sick, there are rules. They are as follows.
Nothing annoying should be done. No loud housecleaning, no vacuuming, no clattering of dishes that suggests effort or productivity. Large meals are discouraged, especially those involving multiple pans and ambition.
Meal requests from the sick party shall be provided within reason and will likely involve fast food or something very specific that cannot be substituted with anything already in the freezer. Nothing in the freezer will do.
If one in the household prefers tater tots and the other mashed potatoes, the sicker party (when both are sick; please god, don’t let me get sick, LOL) wins. Yes, both items could be acquired. But they are not to be. No one knows why. Them’s the rules.
Uncooked meat can and should, in theory, go in the freezer to take it out of the possibilities category. Except if the freezer is full. Which it is right now.
Routine, in general, is suspended. Work should be postponed, when possible. Gym trips are shortened or strategically timed during showers or shows you have no interest in watching.
You will watch the shows anyway.
You will sit beside him while he watches YouTube videos you would not choose on your own. He will ask if you know who the obscure music producer is. You will say no. He will explain. You will nod. You will not retain this information, and he does not expect you to.
Morning alarms are turned off. Everyone “gets” to sleep in. You are not mad about this, although you are a person with goals.
You will be accused of not knowing how to take a day off. But why would you take a day off when you love everything writing related?
Word Raccoon is confused about what to do today. So far, she has been quiet. I’ve asked her to stand by, not down.
Barry didn’t ask to be sick. And if he’s sick, odds are I will be in a couple of days, though I just took zinc, so here’s hoping.
WR and I do have options.
While WR is contractually obligated to remain in the same room as these shows and videos, she can sneak her laptop in. Submitting poetry is the easiest work on days like this. Once begun, it becomes almost mechanical.
She can outlast the sick one. Stay up during naps. Stay up late with caffeine. Keep submitting.
Once submitting begins, it is difficult to pivot back to writing. But sometimes lines arrive anyway. She writes them down quickly and returns to the task at hand.
On days like this, she makes a short list: what absolutely needs to happen?
Do that.
Let the rest wait.
The pork loin will keep. Or it won’t. (WR is pointing at the slow cooker. She might be onto something.)
I’m in a quandary. Word Raccoon asks why I’m “in” a quandary and if she joins me, should she pack sunscreen? Is it like a black hole? If so, she says we really ought to consult Hank Green for the best way out.
“It’s an idiom, WR.”
“You’re an idiom.”
Stop it, WR, I didn’t say idiot…anyway, I am debating a real dilemma: Anne Lamott’s (co-written with her husband, Neal Allen) latest book on writing, Good Writing: 36 Ways to Improve Your Sentences, is out today.
I cannot wait to read it!
Here’s the issue: it is being released in ALL FORMATS right away.
That’s right, you can get it in hardback (to be expected), paperback (already??), on Kindle (naturally), and audio?
And Anne’s the narrator. (Turns out, one of them. Her husband is the other.)
Price points and strengths and weaknesses of each (because obviously it’s not if we buy it, WR, but which format):
Does it come w/ a dust jacket? WR sees those as straitjackets and tosses them immediately
Paperback
$29
Casual intellectual with opinions
Does not require a crane to lift
Somehow MORE expensive??
Existential pricing crisis, WR refuses to pay more for this version.
Audiobook (Add-on)
+$9
“Let Anne Lamott talk to me while I live my life”
Narrated by the authors (!!), multitask-friendly
You can’t underline brilliance mid-laundry
🎧 Sample only featured Neal Allen… who, respectfully, is not Anne, but WR and I will try to remain open-minded.
Here’s where things take a pricing turn.
If I buy the Kindle version, I will cross the threshold for a $3 Kindle reward, though I cannot use it for this purchase.
If I buy the hardcover alone, I will not. (You get fewer points for anything that is not the Kindle edition.) I will also be eligible for a $5 off $25 coupon, but nay on the Kindle.
I will get points, yes. But not the reward. Not the satisfying little “you did it” moment.
Which means the Kindle purchase is not just a purchase. It is a completion.
And then, if I buy and love the book on Kindle (of course I will!), I could buy a physical copy later. (That $5 off is available for the next two days, if I listen/read that fast. I know it’s a lotta $, but books, especially books on writing, need to be part of the writing budget if at all possible. Borrow your novels from the library; buy the writing books.)
Word Raccoon would like it noted that this is all very simple.
“Get audiobook,” she says, already halfway out the door with my phone. “Hands busy. Brain open. Maximum intake.”
I point out that one cannot annotate an audiobook.
She pauses.
Considers.
“Fine,” she says. “Then we get both. One for thinking, one for absorbing. This is called strategy.”
She is now wearing my reading glasses.
I no longer know who is in charge.
Yes I do. Her. Always her.
Psst…we bought the Kindle version and added the audiobook, which we RARELY do. We are listening now, and it’s wonderful. Neal turns out to be very listenable, and I admire how he thinks about writing. And Anne has also entered the chat at this point, so that’s always cool. Very.
WR, however, says she prefers the cover’s “36 Ways to Improve Your Writing” to the online book description that calls them rules.
She won’t accept writing rules from anyone. “Not even from Queen Anne and her consort,” WR says.
WR, that’s rude! Neal Allen seems perfectly lovely and has quite the publishing record of his own. A defense of a favorite does not need to include a takedown of someone else, you cheeky monkey. Er…raccoon. Sorry, Mr. Allen.
Actually, he’s listed first on the cover, I just noticed, so we may have this backwards, Ms. Word Raccoon. Go to your corner.
Moving on…now I have that $3 Kindle Reward, and I’m gonna need to find another book to order. Wink.
In other writing news, WR and I are pleased.
First of all, there’s now a publication date for our poem, “Vincent in His Brother’s Arms”: March 28. Link to come.
Secondly, we received a “Your collection made it to the last round” email. About Cathedral. Last round! It wasn’t chosen, but hey, we’ll take it. What an honor. We’re calling it an opening gambit on the path to publication. (The revised version is tight, according to WR, meant the way the kids say it.)
Then, most excitedly, a poetry acceptance last night. “Lady Lazarus Worries Me” has found the perfect home with Merion West. I’m so pleased for that beloved-by-me poem. And the editor was truly kind in his praise. I’m so grateful.
I remember writing the slightly dangerous, very opinionated, accusatory poem on the porch of a favorite café, its awning sheltering me from sunstroke. WR was newly born, side-eyeing every poet, trying to figure out who she was. She read Plath and asked how anyone missed it when it was staring at us all.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day. That was my parents’ anniversary, though they didn’t realize what day it was when they married, or so my mother said. I always think of them on this and most days.
Keep reading…this image will be explained. Then again, it’s adorable, so it doesn’t really need to be. 🙂
Saturday night Word Raccoon and I stayed up way late submitting our Look I Built a Cathedral collection to a few places that were closing to submissions ASAP.
But WR and I made the mistake of looking at the book first. Like, the whole thing.
We glanced back through our “Ready to Submit” folder and realized there were several poems there that belonged in the collection.
Naturally, we spent the next few HOURS subbing poems in and out like a coach does players.
WR insisted on adding in “Rumours,” the one about Stevie Nicks and George Harrison. I told WR I did not see how that one fit. She said it was a hinge, and that I didn’t need to see, I just needed to feel.
I was tempted to call her unhinged and take it out, but she was right.
I’m reminded I don’t need to understand everything to trust it.
There were newer versions of some of the poems to swap out.
There were stronger versions.
There were poems that repeated themselves.
There were poems in the collection that weren’t much more than a vibe, too.
I cannot describe the soul searching involved in sorting these. Not easy. But also, kinda fun. It would have been more fun if I’d had someone by my side with a better eye than mine.
WR says her, that’s HER, but we all know she gets overwrought sometimes.
Dang it, I just remember a poem with a donut in it that I think was inadvertently left out. How did that happen? WR loves the food poems.
Oh well. I’m much happier with this version. It feels full grown now.
While we were hunting for deadlines we might have missed, and also, since we were finishing up a series on Netflix, (No, it wasn’t Bridgerton. We’ve tried. We also gave up on Emily in Paris some time ago. Pretty dresses and puff pastry are fine, but…), we discovered a more than helpful free spreadsheet with both poetry reading periods AND a tracker courtesy of Emily Stoddard’s Substack.
It’s great.
She says to share, please share, and apparently she is facing some health challenges, so if you’re able to buy her book of poetry, please consider it.
Also, what’s up with me and spreadsheets?
WR is giggling and saying next I will be creating a spreadsheet of the feelings:
– Emotion type
– Number/types of feelings cycled through in the past hour
– Intensity (11?)
– What was worn in protest of a feeling/what wasn’t worn in protest/what was worn because of a feeling
– Trigger
– Coping Mechanism (If it’s not chocolate, it’s wrong.)
– How long until WR and I are laughing at one another and saying It’s not that serious, Sis!
– Resolutions made
– Resolutions broken
– Art created? Y or N? If no, go back to the laptop until you get a Y.
– How many fingers did WR attempt to put up that she really ought not have.
– What the hairstyles mean: (Hint: up vs. down = very different moods.)
Obviously each category would have subcategories which Word Raccoon really wants to delineate but I think we’re getting way far from the blogging shore.
Anyhoo, the spreadsheet will tip you off to even more opportunities to get ye olde poetry collections out into the world.
And hey, isn’t there reading to be done?
Here’s a sneak peek at the current table of contents for Look, I Built a Cathedral.
Like most buildings, the scaffolding may shift a little (or a lottle), but this is the structure as it stands today.
Dear Reader, you’ve seen some of these poems here. Others have been published and I’ve shared the link. One was nominated for a Pushcart.
Look, I Built a Cathedral
Table of Contents
On Reading Crush
Tilted Metaphors
The Last Arts Department Standing
Lens, Crafted
Congratulations on Your Assignment
Mutual Mass
The Gaze
Weird Eye Contact with the Soul
dangerous flirtation
Strawberry Jam
Planchette
All In
Salty
One Blackberry
It’s All the Same Damn You
Gone Gray
Blue Cardigan, Loose Buttons
Nearer Than Sorrow and Frost
Duet of One
Soul in the Key of G
Self-Rising
Valentine, If You’re Still Reading
I Stand to See the Trees
Vanishing Act
Conversation at the Edge of Indifference
Wonder Woman’s Donné
a betrayal of the universe
Something in the “Rumours”
Quietly Feral
Panic Breathing
You Know, You’ve Been to Rome
Face Down in the Ache
My Halo Cracked Last Spring
Squirreling
Cohabitating With My Past
Not Here to Help You Sleep Better
I Looked Out for You
The Gift
An Accidental Wedding Song for Misfits
When I Go
The Soft Apocalypse
Oh, you want a line from one of them? Greedy, greedy. But ok, fine.
I was reading an article recently on Modern Mrs. Darcy where one of the staff members mentioned that she tracks her reading in a spreadsheet.
Immediately my brain did the thing it always does when spreadsheets appear on the horizon.
Oh. Word Raccoon and I could do that.
Not because I don’t already track my books. I do. I use Goodreads like many readers do, and it works perfectly well for keeping a list of what I’ve read and what I want to read, but not much more. (Also: it’s way overdue for a facelift.)
But spreadsheets…
Spreadsheets are a different creature entirely. Word Raccoon is all about the spreadsheets!
Several people in the comments under that article mentioned pre-made reading spreadsheets. Someone recommended a free one from Book Riot. Others said there are elaborate ones you can buy on Etsy with charts and genre breakdowns and colorful dashboards.
All of which is lovely.
But here’s the thing.
Spreadsheets are actually very easy to make.
Even if you only have a perfectly average level of spreadsheet skill (which is where I would place myself), they’re wonderfully flexible. You can add columns. Delete columns. Drag them around. Reorder them when your brain decides a different structure makes more sense.
That flexibility is the real appeal to me.
Because once you start thinking about it, you realize you might want to track more than just books read.
You might want to note things like:
• where you heard about the book • why you picked it up • whether you finished it • what mood you were in when you started • whether it made you want to write • whether you’d read the author again
Suddenly the spreadsheet becomes less of a list and more of a little reading laboratory.
A peek inside Word Raccoon’s Infinite Reading Log.
Now, I realize this probably sounds very organized.
Which is ironic, because as a writer I am absolutely a pantser.
I don’t outline much. I discover things while writing. My notebooks tend to look like the aftermath of a minor literary tornado.
And yet I love spreadsheets.
A spreadsheet is just a quiet little grid where patterns begin to appear.
You might discover that every book you adore has a slightly strange narrator. Or that you keep reading winter novels. (Nope!) Or that every time you read a certain author you suddenly want to write for six hours. (Sometimes.)
Those kinds of patterns are revealing.
Naturally, Word Raccoon became extremely interested in this idea.
Which is how Word Raccoon’s Infinite Reading Log came into being.
It’s a simple spreadsheet that lets you track a bit more of the experience of reading, not just the title and author.
Things like:
📚 Title ✍️ Author 🗂 Genre 🗓 Date started and finished ⭐ Rating 💬 Would you recommend it
And Notes. Obviously.
For example, Word Raccoon might add:
🦝 “Suspicious number of soup scenes.” 🦝 “Why did no one warn me about chapter twelve and where is the chocolate?” 🦝 “Made me want to write immediately.” 🦝 “Word Raccoon believes this character should have made different choices.”
The beauty of spreadsheets, of course, is that you can add whatever columns you want. Or delete them, if they’re annoying.
Want to track seasonal reading moods? Go ahead.
Want a column titled “Why Would Anyone Recommend This”?
Perfectly reasonable.
WR recommends adding a column that says “Ate every page after reading.”
If you’d like to try it yourself, I made a starter version of Word Raccoon’s Infinite Reading Log that you’re welcome to copy and adapt. Consider it a flexible little tool for curious readers and mildly obsessive note-takers.
(Google will ask you to sign in so it can save a copy to your own Drive.)
Word Raccoon strongly encourages customization. Add the year to your copy. Move a column wherever you please. (WR changes her mind on where she wants things all the time.) Create a new sheet within it that is reading adjacent, like maybe “best snacks for reading” or music playlist suggestions.
Books may end.
But the reading list is infinite.
Careful: if you leave a spreadsheet open long enough, Word Raccoon will absolutely start adding columns. You’ll want to watch out for that.
🦝📚📊
P.S. I forgot to add Dear Hank & John to my favorite podcast list! On it they answer listener questions while providing updates on AFC Wimbledon (John) and Mars (Hank, obviously), plus fake sponsor bits that may be the best part of the show. Fun. Informative. Sometimes unexpectedly deep.
Let me say something that apparently needs saying. If a book bag does not have a zipper, a snap, or at the very least a scrap of Velcro, it is not a bag. It is material that wants to be a bag.
Carrying a “bag” without any closure is just daring gravity to ruin your day. (Ask me how I know.)
You sling it over your shoulder, lean down to pick something up, and suddenly half your life performs a swan dive onto the sidewalk. Journal. Pen. Lip balm. Receipts from 2022. All of it.
God forbid if you put it on the floor of a moving vehicle and the brakes are applied quickly. You may well find you’re missing your wallet when you’re trying to buy tea at the local café.
Word Raccoon has tested this. Extensively. She does not approve of these “fashion” items.
And another thing. An almost BIGGER pet peeve, one that WR and I share:
Why on earth do they make so many of these bags in cream?
Cream. White. Beige so pale it looks like it’s having an identity crisis, not knowing whether it’s cream or white.
Ugly much?
And that color is inevitably printed with a tourist spot/small business’s logo. If you’re looking for a souvenir or a way to support your favorite that isn’t a t-shirt, options are limited.
I beg you, though, please don’t bring more of these into the world, tourist spots and businesses. I feel like these bags need enforced population control.
Let’s not even mention how inconveniently sized they are. When you try to use them, they’re never big enough. Gym bag? Not gonna hold your shoes. Farmers Market bag? No structure. Your tomatoes are gonna squish your herbs if you’re not careful.
They’re book bags, you’ll say. Can’t you just use them to hold books? Okay, that they are halfway decent for. But if you’re like me, you never know where they are when you need them anyway. And yet they’re everywhere, too.
A book bag is not a decorative pillow. It is supposed to be a working animal. It’s supposed to live on café floors and ride in car seats. It should sit without betraying the user beside park benches and occasionally under them.
It suffers tea drips, pen leaks, and whatever mysterious substance lives in the bottom of your purse which is usually half melted Atkins bar, half lipstick.
These bags are expected to survive a life.
People will say “Well, you can wash it,” like that solves everything.
Yes, technically you can wash it.
But have you ever tried? Once you wash one it emerges from the machine like Word Raccoon after a rough night: structure gone, starch has left the building. The bag is now limp and a little philosophical.
You can still use it, but it will never again stand up for itself. Which is more than a little sad, because then you definitely don’t want it in rotation, because now it’s uglier than ever.
But the true “champions” of this genre are the conference bags. People, people. Let’s not.
You paid far too much to attend the conference, and in return they hand you a bag that cost roughly seventy-five cents to produce with the air of handing you a designer purse. It has no closure, no structure, and is made of a fabric that feels like it was once briefly related to canvas but has since given up trying.
Printed across the front is something like:
Midwestern Regional Something-or-Other Symposium.
The conference tote is basically the literary world’s textile equivalent of the free pen in hotel rooms that doesn’t write.
It looks useful. It resembles a real object. But when the moment arrives to actually rely on it, it fails you, leaves you scratching frantically at the pad of paper on the nightstand.
As with most items acquired without much personal selection, most of these bags accumulate. But do they stay in rotation? Absolutely not.
They huddle in the backs of closets and drawers in little piles like weary conference attendees who stayed too long at the networking reception, a little tipsy but not enough to be scandalous.
Each bearing the name of an event no one remembers and a slogan no one understood even at the time with an acronym everyone ended up saying differently. Or, as above, an unfortunate acronym.
Eventually, you donate them to the thrift shop. But even then you suspect the thrift shop doesn’t really want them either, unless they’re stuffed with other items.
Word Raccoon has reached a firm conclusion, and I support her:
A proper book bag must close. Zipper preferred. Snap acceptable. Velcro tolerated. Otherwise you are simply carrying your belongings around in a cloth bowl and hoping for the best.
Word Raccoon refuses to trust gravity this much.
And hope, as we all know, is not a fastening system.
When I was a kid, I used to listen to AM radio at night to fall asleep. I loved talk radio and whatever came on. News, interviews, DJs.
Unlike most people, I even enjoyed what they said between the music.
Maybe especially that.
My progression to podcasts was natural, and I’ve been listening since the early days of the medium.
Some shows are regular listens. Some drift in and out depending on the season.
And lately there has been a little extra activity on the audio front because Word Raccoon occasionally gets inspired enough to record poems on our podcast, which she approaches with great seriousness.
Mostly. Though there have been some complaints about the sound of snack wrappers rattling and trains in the background.
In no particular order, here are some words in Word Raccoon’s ears on the regular.
The Lazy Genius
Word Raccoon appreciates any philosophy built around the idea that you should care deeply about a few things and stop overcomplicating the rest.
This aligns nicely with her own life strategy:
Write poems. Eat snacks. Ignore most other systems.
You might remember that I met Kendra at a book signing. She’s a peach.
Happier with Gretchen Rubin
Co-hosted with her sister, TV writer Elizabeth Craft, this show explores habits, personality tendencies, and in general, how to build a happier life.
I remember listening to an episode in Japan while getting ready one morning before heading out to navigate the labyrinthine train station in Kyoto to get to class.
Side note: I never really “learned” how to get there. After the first day I just felt my way through the maze. Apparently something in me knows how to solve mazes.
But back to Rubin.
I especially enjoy her “four tendencies” framework and have strong-armed many people in my life into taking her quiz.
If I’ve met you, I’ve probably tried to figure out which tendency you are:
Obliger Questioner Rebel Upholder
Which do you think I am?
(Hint: my last sentence ended with a question mark. But Word Raccoon leans hard towards Rebel. The tendencies can overlap.)
Happier in Hollywood
I love Liz Craft and Sarah Fain, her childhood best friend and longtime writing partner. They’re TV writers.
And psst…one of them also co-hosts Happier with Gretchen Rubin.
They once hosted a writing retreat for people hoping to break into television writing, and I was very tempted to go (couldn’t afford it, but tempted) just to talk writing with them, even though I’m not planning to write for TV.
(WR, don’t let me say that. We know what happens when I do. See: poetry.)
Also, Sarah has a Substack newsletter, Chickening Out, where she’s cooking a roasted chicken recipe every week in 2026 to determine the best one.
Yes, I’m subscribed. I’m feeling inspired.
Clutterbug Podcast
I’d listen to Cass (“Clutterbug”) talk about anything.
This podcast has done more for the drawers in this house than anything else. She gives you permission to just release the things. MOST of the things! WR loves permission.
Alas, she also loves her earrings.
Cass also has a “tendencies” framework. (Maybe I just like frameworks? I do love a good quiz.)
Apparently I’m a butterfly: I like to see pretty or important things so I don’t forget them, but I also want everyday clutter out of sight. (Most artists fit this category.)
Actually, I tend to watch her YouTube channel more often than listen to the podcast. She has great comedic timing and is refreshingly herself. Does she overshare sometimes? Sure. But she’s so friendly it’s difficult to mind.
Freakonomics
WR enjoys any show that calmly examines the hidden logic behind everyday systems.
Why do humans behave the way they do? Why do institutions function the way they do?
These are questions raccoons have been asking about humans for a very long time.
No Stupid Questions
This podcast pairs behavioral economist Stephen Dubner with psychologist Angela Duckworth.
The premise is simple: ask questions that seem basic but turn out to be surprisingly deep.
WR appreciates the reassurance that curiosity is never a bad thing.
Also that some questions don’t have tidy answers.
As noted, WR has LOTS of questions.
Fresh Air
Terry Gross interviewing writers, musicians, actors, and thinkers.
Word Raccoon approves of any show where intelligent curiosity is the central activity.
Also, many of the guests are people she would happily invite to tea.
(The mug version of Vonnegut may already be attending.)
The Book Review Podcast
Perfect for literary browsing.
You hear about interesting books, learn a little about them, and occasionally discover something you absolutely must read.
Word Raccoon considers this a very civilized arrangement.
She also appreciates that the show’s tone has lightened a bit in recent years (not everyone agrees).
Other book podcasts drift through the rotation as well.
The Secret Life of Books is excellent.
And What Should I Read Next? Anne Bogel’s voice is basically auditory melatonin. Recommended.
Smartless
Three actors interviewing interesting guests and making each other laugh.
One of them seems, frankly, a little…overly health conscious. One gets talked over too often for WR’s comfort. One has a sense of humor that suspiciously matches WR’s.
She suspects they could have been friends in another life.
The tone is curious, relaxed, and occasionally chaotic, which Word Raccoon considers the ideal conversational atmosphere.
She also does not buy the premise that two of them each week don’t know who the “surprise” guest will be. How else do they keep referring to notes?
Just saying.
Office Ladies
If you loved The Office, this podcast is basically a guided tour of how the show was made.
WR enjoys hearing about tiny behind-the-scenes details from scenes people have watched a hundred times.
Angela Kinsey and Jenna Fischer are just good people, and I love knowing they are best friends in real life. Fischer’s book, The Actor’s Life: A Survival Guide, is a great, practical read for any artist.
Literally! with Rob Lowe
Part Hollywood stories, part interviews, part charm.
Word Raccoon listens mostly for the behind-the-scenes perspective and the unexpectedly thoughtful conversations.
Also, as she once wrote in a poem, Rob Lowe is surprisingly funny, and she enjoys hearing how his kids dunk on him.
Relatable.
TBH, sometimes he has guests WR doesn’t recognize. Occasionally she skips those, though I admit that may be small-minded.
The Splendid Table Self-explanatory. Also pretend I mentioned other cooking shows. This list is getting long, WR.
Radiolab (If you can get past that intro, it’s a fascinating show. Sorry not sorry.)
Basically asks questions on topics you’ve never heard of before but can’t quit thinking about after. WR is mesmerized.
Middling with Eden and Brock
A podcast by two of the actors from the sitcom The Middle, set in Indiana.
Eden Sher and Brock Ciarlelli revisit episodes and talk about the humor and heart of ordinary family life.
WR often starts Wednesdays with this one.
Hot and Bothered
A smart look at romance storytelling and why certain narrative patterns keep appearing, usually through a feminist lens. Season 3 was On Eyre, a WHOLE SEASON about Jane Eyre. Recently they talked about the didn’t-age-well movie The Wedding Singer. But Drew Barrymore forever!
This podcast is underrated.
Clearly, this list is not exhaustive, though I suspect it is exhausting.
Time to listen to another podcast while I proofread this.
I just placed next week’s grocery order, and from that alone I can tell what kind of writing week Word Raccoon has planned coming up.
Apparently the creative process can be diagnosed from a grocery cart.
She didn’t ask for complicated ingredients. She’s not making sauces from scratch. She’s not baking bread.
She is digging out the Dutch oven for pork loin. She did ask for semi-convenience foods, things that come together quickly but aren’t just “toss it in the oven” boxed items. (Though let’s be honest, sometimes they’re necessary.)
She’s also making sausage meatballs and spaghetti this week topped with an easy marinara recipe Jennifer Garner mentioned online. (So apparently WR is making homemade sauce after all. Eh, it’s supposed to be simple.)
What will she not be doing?
She will NOT be asking you-know-who for recipes. We are still recovering from the meatloaf incident.
This week has been one of those “Good grief, is it mealtime again already?” weeks. And it’s been (as I’ve mentioned) pretty poetry dense. Looks like I’ll at least get fed better next week. Here’s hoping for all the writing. I’m forecasting a medium-effort week on that front, looking at her grocery order.
At any rate, you have to feed your writing, am I right?
Speaking of cooking, Word Raccoon, that writing scamp, has cooked up a submission strategy. (I KNOW how flimsy my transitions are, but I’ve always got so much to say, LOL. But I equally enjoy listening, so there’s that.)
She is beginning to recognize, at a glance, poems of hers that particular editors might like. She’s building relationships with them and their journals. WR is clapping. She’s a social creature.
When she gets a “We like your voice. Please send more in the future,” she makes a note.
When she gets a kind rejection or an “Oh, so close,” she marks that down, too, and considers that venue a friendly place to revisit.
When she gets a sincere “If only we had the space,” or “It made it all the way to the top of the pile,” she notices.
When she gets noticed in a competition, she follows up with the journal during their regular submission period.
Now she often knows what they’re looking for. She’s starting to recognize when something she’s written matches a journal’s tempo.
That is very different from writing to the market. No, no. She does not do that. She writes what she must, and then she thinks of a good home for it.
Also, there’s this. While I do have a handful of poems I am very protective of, I do not withhold my “better” poems and do not send underdone ones out.
Have I sent out work before it’s polished, not realizing I hadn’t given it enough time?
Sure.
Did I do it on purpose?
Not except for those early days when I didn’t know how to evaluate what I had and was too scared to ask anyone. I figured letting editors decide was one way to find out.
My Writing Mother says something to the effect of: “Notice what a journal is publishing. They say they want something different. They don’t. If you have something similar to what they’ve published, send it to them.”
Gosh, I heart her.
At any rate, I currently have a spate of quiet, tender poems and places I’d love to see them land. They’re not necessarily the biggest, splashiest markets, because that doesn’t matter, but places that will hold these poems gently.
One poem is “Grief Does Nothing for the Dead.” It has an unquiet part in the middle, but so does death. I feel like it’s time for that one to find a resting place.
Today I ran across one I wrote the day my eldest sister’s great-grandchild was born, almost two years after my sister passed. The poem is short and pungent. It has a strange line, but it feels just right to me:
If your finger goes straight through I’d stop if I were you.
If I try to explain, I will have shared the whole sad, sharp little poem.
The one I mentioned writing yesterday, “Receded,” is about how spring doesn’t always do what it’s meant to. I don’t usually send poems out so quickly, but this one is, I think, I hope, ready.
When I first started writing poetry in earnest, it felt like sending them out was a way of giving away the emotional heat and charge so I didn’t have to carry them alone.
That’s not how it works.
As you gain experience, your ability to hold that charge strengthens.
You learn to shape it. You learn to universalize it. Which is ironic, I know.
It feels like I’m currently sweeping my poetry catalog. Like out with the dead leaves, uncover the tiny shoots and watch them unfurl.
(Have you ever watched videos of plants pushing through the ground, unfurling, life insisting its way into existence? Riveting.)
I want some appropriate spring metaphor for harvesting to compare poetry harvesting to, but it’s not fall, and all I can think of are clichés.
Word Raccoon just popped up onto a chair beside me. She asked if I know that the word cliché originally referred to a metal printing plate that stamped the same words over and over again. So a cliché was literally something repeated mechanically. Which explains a lot, actually.
Here’s my attempt to avoid one.
Have you ever tasted wild-harvested dandelion greens? (See, there’s harvesting in spring, too.)
That’s a fancy way of saying that in the mountains where I grew up you’d go out into the yard, pluck them from wherever they’ve decided to grow, bring them home, and cook them. (No recipe today. Ask me why not.)
But my point: they aren’t planted. No one rows them out neatly. Boom. They just appear.
Poems are like that sometimes.
You don’t always cultivate them like tomatoes in cages. Sometimes they just show up all over the yard of your mind, wildlike.
Word Raccoon, of course, has already grabbed a basket. She’s heading out into the yard now, though I’m pretty sure it’s too early for dandelion greens, WR.
I just hope she remembers to come back inside before dinner.
While I won’t be cooking the greens (for reasons I will leave to your imagination), I will be sending the poems out.
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