This morning, it’s like Word Raccoon and I are on a scale. You know, the kind with two arms, little bowls hanging from chains? And we started out so well, doing all the things!

We’re up: 

We did some hand laundry.

Put fresh batteries in the hall and cabinet lights and installed them. (Let’s be honest, “installation” was peel-and-stick. Not exactly big muscle labor. But they’re motion-sensitive and they make such a difference that I’m tempted to order lights for every shelf we own.)

Made a cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut butter.

Tossed a massive bed pillow in the trash, because why store it when we don’t use it?

Found a spot for the lap desk we almost donated but ended up using this weekend.

Listened to a couple of podcasts/videos while doing all of this that nearly convinced us to grab the Dawn Powerwash (not sponsored, but call me) and go to town on the stove.

And then. The down. 

I don’t know if I’d just fully woken up by then or if it was the fine motor skills kicking in, but I noticed my fingers were being dumb today. I don’t even want to go there because it makes me feel old and helpless and sad. But the struggle is real. 

I remember once, years ago, asking a very serious poet I’d just met if she had a backup plan for writing, like in the event she couldn’t use her hands. She said yes. We joked about alternatives. I told her I’d use my nose to peck at the keyboard if I had to.

And I meant it.

Clearly, this has been on my mind for decades. And it’s very unlikely I’ll need to get that creative, but still, Word Raccoon got scared. She started turning cartwheels in my hair. I told her to knock it off, take a stupid pain pill, give it time, and oh yeah, go shower.

The shower helped.

I put away a load of laundry, even though it was getting later than I’d hoped. My goal had been to be AIS (ass-in-seat) by 9.

But I had a bank run to make. It could have waited, but alongside Barry’s band money, I had a whole bag of change to convert. I don’t remember the last time I cleaned out my adorable Mrs. Potts “piggy” bank, but I needed it off my plate.

Since it was almost 9 anyway, I decided to hit the bank first.

I did.

And Mrs. Potts’s innards yielded $59.36, friends. Score!

So now I’m at the library. It’s already ten. I’m an hour later to the page than I’d hoped and here’s a question: what’s the etiquette on a banana peel in a public space? Like… do I need to wrap it and bring it home or is it okay to just drop it in the library trash?

WR is banging pot lids in my head. You know those little monkeys with cymbals? Like that.
She’s eyeing the string cheese I brought. Two problems:

1. She just ate the banana.
2. Can she even open the string cheese?

She says she needs one of those baby scissors on a keychain. Do they make those? Because WR is convinced they’d solve everything from snack access to existential despair.

Her hands are feeling better now. Actually, typing is going okay. 

Do you suppose the tea water is hot yet at the front desk?, WR asks.

This is jazz writing today. Apparently.

Okay. Time to open the file. Just open the file, WR. Open it. Open the…

She opened it. But she also insisted on opening the string cheese. I’m guessing she needs her AirPods in and a timer on to settle her.

She also noticed the cute older couple who comes in and hangs out in the alcove reading magazines. Or “reading,” she says.

Are they making out?

I’ve forbidden her from getting up to check.
She’s a nosy parker.

WR, who cares if they are? Leave a tender moment alone.

Some days the writing is unglamorous. That was today’s work, which was more editing than writing. 

Because I am a “messy” writer (it is what it is), my plan for the day was to take one of the timelines of my novel and sequence it chronologically. It was 111 pages long, so it took a minute.

Should it already have been sequenced?

Maybe.

Is that how I write?

Absolutely not.

Was I dreading it?

Absolutely.

What I actually did was copy and paste sections and begin putting them into something resembling order.

Some of the scenes are doubled and tripled, because I tried to say different things about the same moment at different times. That is fine. That is part of how I find my way into a scene.

Some of the material ended up in the scraps folder.

Some of it, not much, I deleted, because I know when something is inherently not useful.

Then (and this matters to my process), I highlighted in the original document the text I had already transferred over so I would not move it twice.

One section completed.

A whole section.

Am I frustrated with myself that it even has to be done?

Absolutely.

But Word Raccoon has been over here making armpit noises and reminding me that it is not that serious.

And also, the work itself is strangely fascinating. It is like holding a negative up to the light. You see triples of a scene. You see it leaning in one direction, then another. You see what wanted to be said before you knew how to say it.

Sometimes you’ve discovered you’ve said it three times already. 

It is laborious. 

It is absorbing.

All of this and no revising. Okay, truth be told, there were a couple of sentences I just could not let stand and WR gnawed on them. (Anything to keep that trash panda into the novel so she won’t go wander off into a poem .) 

I feel more tired than I think I should from it all. But maybe that is not my fault. Maybe that is Word Raccoon’s fault for staying up late and nibbling at the website. She said she was going to, and while The Beast in Me played in the background, another show recommendation from my hair stylist, I let her loose.

(What she doesn’t know is I washed two loads of laundry today, and if she wants to finish that episode, she’s going to be folding towels while she watches.)

Was updating the website partly an excuse to stay up late and watch a gripping series with one eye?

Sure.

Still, I am not mad about the new look.

P.S. I let WR watch part of another episode during lunch. I am fairly certain I caught her making notes for a poem during it, even though I told her it was not time for poetry. Maybe later. She pouted, agreed, and demanded chocolate. I gave it to her.

You do not want an angry raccoon getting hold of your writing.

Just another sentence I would never have imagined I would write. 

The poem I ignored yesterday returned this morning. I’m grateful. 

I’d just finished listening to that novel (still not naming it, not just now), and a line from its tender closing scene lingered even after I lifted my phone from my chest and set it on the nightstand.

This felt like a moment to savor. Not rush. Not deflect.

Word Raccoon can’t always bear these kinds of moments, but I waited. A breath, a beat. The psithurism of syllables, like leaves, sounded (a gorgeous word, psithurism, and where has it been all my life?), and I said: 

Come here.

I opened my arms and reached for my phone.

The poem that had been lightly circling since yesterday settled onto the screen.
It stayed. 

I let it.

I didn’t breathe as I quickly typed, before I even felt properly awake. 

Its ending? Ambiguous. Maybe even a little gross, if read a certain way (hi, WR). But I’m pleased. So pleased I may polish it and send it off before I lose my nerve.

Goodreads tells me I first read this novel back in 2014. I don’t track everything there, but it’s better than nothing. I remember discussing it with my Writing Mother soon after I read it. 

I’ll re-read it with my eyes, I know. But this time, I needed the softness of someone else’s voice reading to me. The book is sharp. Unflinching. I stopped listening at times, just to breathe.

Not trying to be coy, just speaking, in general, about how a book (and time, and not-time) can open a window. Or a wound. Or, sometimes, a poem.

WR says she’d like to advocate for new-to-her words as gifts. I support this. 

Fully. 

Weekends are all:
“What should we do, Word Raccoon?”

The options!

There’s breakfast (if she’s hungry),
and then that note to self: Pay the bills!
(Though it’s on the calendar, she often puts it off. Ugh. Admin.)

There’s
“Wasn’t there one last poetry submission (or two, or three?)
you wanted to send this month?”

So many options. Too good to choose between:

Reading

Writing
(subset: poetry or novel?)

Household projects
(WR tried installing the new hall lights, but the batteries were corroded.
Now we wait for more to arrive.)

This morning WR and I sang, naturally, while making breakfast.
Laughed.

We checked on a relative who took a nasty spill.
They’re okay, thankfully. Oof.

We’re grateful the son made it through surgery yesterday, surgery he said we didn’t need to be present for. If it had been anything but outpatient surgery, I would’ve ignored what he said and been there anyway.

WR and I are still pondering what to do with that bulk meat purchase from yesterday.

Cook?
Freeze?
Juggle it?

…Maybe not that last one.

We’ve postponed the decision until tomorrow.

We’re trying to remember to move the beer to the front of the fridge
for Barry’s band practice tomorrow.

We started watching Stiller & Meara: Nothing Is Lost. Very good. Perfectly nostalgic. But complicated, as families can be.

WR took her steam mop (irrational joy!) to all of the linoleum in the house.

I considered writing a bleak poem that came to me, and decided today was not that day. Didn’t even make a note. Thank you, no thank you. It may be January out there, but I refuse to let it snow in my heart. 

I’m working on a grocery order:
Things I Will Not Buy in Town (Because Quality or Price) But Still Need.

I’m listening to an audiobook, 85% through.
No, I don’t want to say what.
(It’s literary fiction.)

Do I want to give my opinion on it? 

Also no. 

I want to do all the projects. Now, now, now.

It’s like my nervous system is writing to jazz and chain-smoking imaginary cigarettes.

Except I’m asking it to clean grout.

Sad face. 

It won’t put up with that for long.

I hope.

WR replaced the hangers on 25 pieces of my clothing. I ripped five items from her grubby little paws to donate; she whined, but surrendered them.

Apparently, we need another bundle of 25 to finish the job. We’re swapping in velvet slim-fit hangers for the heinous plastic ones. (Ugh. Plastic.) WR refuses to live with ugly when there are alternatives.

More hangers: Ordered.

Yes, we could’ve counted when we ordered the last bundle. No, we did not. WR does not like to math. Except algebra. She kinda likes that. 

Probably because of the letters.

WR joyfully pulled the stove out and cleaned behind it. She cleaned the walls. The corners.

I had to make her stop.

Who is this critter with all the energy? At one point, I caught her jumping up and down.

She was supposed to choose between reading, writing, and submitting poetry, remember?

She did submit one packet, at least, (three of her Emily Dickinson poems). But that was it.

The poems make her crave spring. Especially the violets: so pretty, so lost in the grass, just begging to be seen. The kind of flower you want to warn people not to step on accidentally. Underappreciated. Understudied. Okay, okay, enough about them. I know. 

Manet painted violets. He was really good at still life. I saw an exhibit of his still life in Chicago, and I was just mesmerized. 

Anyway. 

Decluttering: finally finished. Long live deep cleaning. (Really? Who said that!) At this rate, I’ll be ahead of spring cleaning. (Ha! When was the last time I did that??) 

After that? The fine tuning. The decorating.
(Okay, okay, WR has been doing bits of that already.
But soon, WR. Soon.)

Kinda sounds like the writing process, doesn’t it?

If Saturday holds this much energy,
Sunday better stretch first.

(If this is as boring as I fear it is, forgive me, dear reader. Sometimes you just feel like writing something, even when you don’t know what to say.) 

I tried the “Japanese cheesecake” hack that’s making the rounds so you don’t have to.

The “recipe?”

Cram as many cookies as will fit into a single-serving container of Greek yogurt. Cover with plastic or pop the lid back on. Refrigerate overnight (or at least a few hours).

Verdict?

Don’t bother. Just have real cheesecake. Unless you enjoy soggy cookies? 

In hindsight, last night was not a night for forcing alchemy on any front. 

I sat down to submit a poetry packet. I was tired, but I reached into my ready-to-submit folder and pulled out one of my cheekier but meatier poems, expecting this part to be easy.

But.

The poem uses a very crude word. On purpose. To good effect. 

I was rounding up a packet for a university’s journal, and while I thought the poem would be a good literary match, I wasn’t at all sure they’d accept that “make or break” word.

WR and I don’t accept censorship. 

Not even imagined censorship. Not even from ourselves. 

We do, however, demand that we interrogate poems that may be lacking. 

The poem is actually sweet at its center, which is probably why WR insisted on the word, to offset that. (Unlike the unfortunate “cheesecake” which could have used more sugar.)

I put on my writing gloves. Picked up the scalpel. 

After much consulting with WR, I found a euphemism that still conveyed the meaning I wanted. Not censorship, but truly asking if there wasn’t another way of saying it. 

There was, I was embarrassed to find. But had I not found a better-but-still-apt phrase, I would’ve kept the word. 

All good now, right?

Nope.

The more I poked at the poem, the more it unraveled. When that happens, I stop tinkering until the next day, and I compare both during daylight hours. 

Now I’m wondering what its message is, and why it’s telling three stories…or is it?

Don’t revise when you’re tired, duckies. It’s a thankless job and it will keep you awake long after you’ve closed your laptop.

Upon reflection, I’m not sure that poem was right for that journal after all.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t need revising. (I haven’t gotten around to it yet, but I will.) 

Even if it does mention “middle-aged fools.” (I love that line.) 

I tried to work on my novel at the library today, but alas, slow progress. So many of my people are hurting today, and I wish I could do more for them. 

I did manage to tighten one section of the novel, moving whole paragraphs to the “scrap” file; I think it’s about time to print it so I can start scribbling notes onto it. It’s funny how parts of it are only just a shade past me thinking aloud.

I’m like, gorl, you better give me a scene and quit reading me stage directions or worse. 

Now, though, I know enough about what the novel wants to be that I can add drywall, you know? It’s only a matter of time after that until WR swoops in with drapes and wallpaper, if I let her.

I’m already beginning to feel the ache of having to give up writing this book when it’s finished, so that tells me that while we’re not even close to being done, we are on our way. I’m open to the idea of finishing it, which comes first. 

(I probably shouldn’t say this yet, but WR leaned over my shoulder a couple of weeks ago and whispered an idea for novel #4 into my ear. I’m not committing to it yet, but it’s not half bad.)

I also made a trip to the grocery this afternoon for (gasp) fresh produce. The cherries are gorgeous, red/black, almost too pretty to eat. Reminds me of a scene in my first novel, Victorine, when Manet paints her holding a guitar and cherries in Street Singer. Now I’m nostalgic for the world that the novel was for me for years, the refuge. It was like living in a beautiful dream while wrestling with the meaning of art and love. 

Anyhow, WR is claiming some cherries for dinner. 

Then she has to get those last-minute poetry submissions in for the month. How is it January 30th already? 

“Welp, this is our life now,” Word Raccoon sighed this morning as we wrapped the Cutco knives and boxed them for shipping to be sharpened.

It took an hour and a half. To box. Five knives. (Fragments intended.)

You might recall that I am not a fan of knives.

I started off with this cool cardboard I had saved that I thought would be perfect for wrapping and taping the blades (I’m sweating just thinking about those little M-F’ers), but it was too thick.

I will spare you the wrapping nightmare, but let’s just say I’m glad we have multiple rolls of packing tape, however mangled.

Tiny tape tragedies happened while you slept, Metropolis, but all is well now. 

Before we go on, let me tell you about the latest poem WR and I recorded and uploaded. I had a perfectly respectable, calm-sounding recording, and then SHE took over the microphone for the last two words.

Ah, well. It’s winter. Although I’m not thrilled with her version compared to mine alone, I guess she’s allowed to have some fun. 

Respectability is overrated.

Here’s the poem: https://www.buzzsprout.com/325601/episodes/18591624. 

Back to today.

This morning, I told Stanley that I was thinking of oatmeal and toast for breakfast, but that I had kinda overindulged yesterday. (There might have been a milkshake last night. With peanut butter added.)

Stanley tried to helpfully redirect my breakfast choices. Probably because he has to hear me whine later if he doesn’t.

I was making conversation, not asking you to play Food Monitor, I barked to the AI. (I’m touchy about the food stuff.) 

He also suggested I start the day with a 60-90 minute writing session, which WR and I promptly ignored.

You can imagine what WR suggested he do. She wanted oatmeal and was food shamed?

Oh, Stanley. 

We decided not to do a blessed thing Stanley suggests today.

However, as a consequence of going it on our own, WR and I bounced from task to task, a la Tigger: 

– Swap the silverware drawer inserts and the storage bag container so that the silverware is closer to the dishwasher.

– Sort the silverware I don’t want now that I am adding back the big bunch of it I found in the hall closet yesterday. (Apparently once upon a time I thought we’d be hosting large dinner parties?) 

– Ready some mail to send to my son since we still haven’t gotten together for Christmas yet but he needs this. Instead of enclosing a card as well, I wrote “I love you” Post-It. That’s all WR has in her today, folks. 

– Descale the coffeemaker. I had mentioned it in passing last week and I thought “Yeah right, like I’m ever going to get around to it.” Apparently, yes I will. 

– Remembering that making dinner is a thing. I forgot to defrost the chicken and I wanted to make a Stanley Tucci lemon chicken bake and pair it with lemon linguine.

Up next: a workout, and then, then I will write. Allegedly. 

I guess it’s just an upside down day is all, and getting these things off my mental plate often means I’m freeing space for writing, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.

I’m envisioning some work on the novel, some poetry polishing, maybe a couple of submission packets. 

And yes, today totally feels like a cereal day if we go by my attention span, but also, it’s cold outside. So: cooking.

A warm meal on a day like this is like the gorgeous scent of that lemon I zested over the chicken thighs: bright, Greek, and a reminder of the grove of lemon trees in Fodele on Crete on the way to the El Greco Museum. 

Maybe I should grab that roll of lemon border and see what I can do with it.

WR, enough! 

Am I smelling chicken?

That’s right, the timer went off ten minutes ago.

You’re allowed to wait for Hank Green to join the “Come on Superman” video trend. (Surely he will?) But Word Raccoon says she doesn’t want to say the “stupid line.” (Although do we know what it even is?)

She’s thinking, though. She’s thinking. What is it that she is known for saying repeatedly?

Maybe this: You’re allowed.

You’re allowed, she says, to decide what that means. 

You’re allowed to stay unfinished until you recognize yourself in it. (It, the work. It, life.)

Here are some other things she finds heartening on this winter’s day, the day she decided that since she hasn’t used her Happy Light for a few years now, it’s safe to donate it. 

Hearing from a literary journal I’ve admired for years that a poem made it very far into the room; it was an almost. One of those dream journals writers whisper about. WR took it in stride, but I’m officially shooketh. And gratified.

Also this: Hank Green has an opinion about the best couplet ever. While I can’t say I agree, it’s amusing to watch him have his (always) strong opinion. And while he might call himself a science guy, he has also written two entertaining novels, one that had me waving someone away while I finished reading a scene. 

His opinion re: the couplet:

I read both of his novels back to back during a self-declared “I’m not doing shit” weekend the May after we lost Tammy not quite two years ago. I hadn’t had time to rest or grieve, and I needed to do both. 

I also signed up for MasterClass that weekend and watched Neil deGrasse Tyson’s entire class, followed by Amy Tan’s, and kept going. Reading, watching, resting. Letting other people think for a while. 

As for WR, here is her running list of lines, ideas, fragments she is absolutely going to write poems about, around, or inside of soon:

• The title of this post. Obviously.
• Tattoos while you wait. From the name of a shop on a show my hair stylist told me about, Run Away.
• You’re allowed to play with the puppet. (Yes, someone actually said that to me. With lines like that handed to me, how could I not be a poet nowadays?)
• Apple TV shows H/Jack, Shrinking, Pluribus, and my favorite, Platonic. It’s about two friends who bring out the worst in one another, and yet I cannot look away. Self-destruction of the highest order. 
• Tombstone recipes?? Compiled in a book?? Yes, please. 

On winter days with strong white light, this is the kind of contentment that should be written about.

Hall closets should also be cleaned out. Especially the ones you’ve been dreading. You’re liable to find (that’s a Southern turn of phrase, isn’t it? Tee hee) things you forgot were in there (a roll of lemon wall border that may or may not end up gracing the kitchen) and things you have no idea why you still have (a deflated, pink-striped volleyball). 

In progress, duckies.

It’s allowed. 

I insulted Word Raccoon today. I knew I would, though I didn’t mean to, and yet I needed her to clean the damn bathroom. The upstairs one.

I lulled her into safety by giving her a snack and a cup of coffee and the promise of a real breakfast after Barry’s Zoom meeting was over.

She thought she was going to grab a shower.

Once upstairs, I shoved a magic eraser into her hand and a bottle of bathroom cleaner.

She was not pleased.

To say the least.

She huffed and puffed, but I told her once she was finished, we could read. So she got to spraying. 

Afterward, she really did get that shower, and I sat in my new reading nook and read. I stumbled upon the perfect solution for the chair full of stuffed animals (NO ONE is going to take my Minions and my few other cuddle buddies away from me; I’ve done all the paring back I’m going to do), a recently emptied decorative shelving unit nearby that I’d been meaning to send elsewhere. Not now.

Mid-read in the craft book we’re still reading, I was struck with a poem I had to write immediately. I covered WR’s eyes. It was entirely too early for that sort of imagery.

Later, after doing all the things (making a proper breakfast, working out, paying bills, etc.), I read some more and came across a lovely bit of translational trivia that I want to share here, but it’s so lovely I don’t think I will. I wish I had a silk bag with a list of the names of those who would enjoy it most embroidered on it. I’d hide my favorite words and thoughts in it. 

Some treasures just want a certain audience. And vice versa, I think.

Anyway, we wrote a couple more poems.

We submitted poetry to two places.

We washed, dried, folded, and put away laundry.

We ordered necessary household items.

We wondered where the day had gone.

We contemplated the anatomy of a poem, starting with the title, naturally, and held each piece up to the light. 

We carefully considered enjambment and WR started thinking about jam. 

We corresponded with various loved ones.

We made a list of places we’d like to send our poetry to before the month is through.

We panicked seeing how late in the month it is.

We wondered WHY the Libby app insists on sending us all of the books we have requested at the same time, especially when rearranging books on our physical shelves has meant we’ve put reverent hands on so many we’d like to re-read recently. 

(Psst… we understand the REAL reason Libby does what “she” does, but we just want to complain.)

We also wondered why we are so far down on the latest Grisham hold list on Libby and why we haven’t put ourselves on our local library’s hold list for the same book, which is still long but much, much shorter.

And now WR is giggling because she knows some of you are judging her for liking Grisham, and she does not care in the least. Well, it depends on who you are.

And why is WR insisting we say “we” in this post when it’s mostly me and my writing imp knows it?

Today was giving pandemic.

WR agrees.

But the porch lights, which go on at sunset, are turning on an hour later nowadays. Trust me, I’m paying attention.

It snowed last night. A lot. And it’s still snowing. Not the gorgeous, clumpy first snow, the steady kind that keeps coming like it’s clocking in for a shift.

It can stop now.

I cooked pasta e fagioli for the first time yesterday, which meant leftovers today. It was… respectable. I’m still in my “try to use up what you have” era, though I did order cannellini beans especially for it. So maybe it’s “I wish it were pasta e fagioli,” but I’m going to count it.

But I wouldn’t invite Stanley Tucci over to eat it.

While in the kitchen, I started listening to The Housekeeper and the Professor by Yoko Ogawa. It’s sweet. It’s a little like 50 First Dates, except it’s a mathematician whose memory resets every eighty minutes, and a housekeeper and her son who slowly become part of his world.

My January strategy is always read-read-read. Listen-listen-listen. I never know what the rest of the year will look like, reading-wise. Right now I’m five books ahead of my Goodreads goal, almost six. Let’s hope this year allows for plenty of soul-nourishing reading. 

The water tried to freeze in the downstairs bathroom yesterday. I call that bathroom “the dungeon” because it’s cold and weird and it doesn’t get much wifi signal, so trying to listen to an audiobook while doing laundry sucks.

Thankfully, I knew where the space heater was, and Barry had it set up in a jiffy. Disaster averted. So far.

This morning:

I read more in a poetry craft book.
I wrote a poem.

Regardless of the heat-holding powers of curtains, Word Raccoon insisted on having them open today so she could watch the snow.

She wrote a poem.

I wrote another poem. Or maybe two. Can’t decide if they are pieces of a whole or not.

I scanned today’s New Yorker Books & Fiction newsletter this morning and was reminded that today is Virginia Woolf’s birthday. I clicked the link that took me to a 1954 article about her, which made me feel “less than” because I can’t keep facts (especially dates) about her life in my head, though her fiction is part of who I am now.

Which made me remember how easily Gretchen Rubin can quote Woolf, and I felt even more miserable.

I downloaded a couple of Woolf’s nonfiction books, though I’m pretty sure I already have them somewhere in the house, vowing to do better, to re-read them ASAP, pen in hand, even though I feel like you can know someone much better from their fiction and poetry than their nonfiction.

But I metabolize fiction and facts and churn it back out as art, and sometimes I literally can’t remember the facts. Which is so frustrating.

Or if I’m trying to retrieve something in a social situation, my brain goes blank sometimes. Sigh. 

Anywho, this all brought up for me a trait of Woolf’s writing that I still haven’t learned to incorporate into my own, but should, which is restraint.

I overexplain, on the page, in real life. I’m so afraid of being misunderstood. (I just cut two sentences so I wouldn’t overexplain more, LOL.) 

Word Raccoon is raspberrying all this. She says I’m stressing about nothing, that we should just live, dance, like we did earlier today.

But then again, she ate cake for breakfast and is seriously considering having it for supper, too, so how much can her wisdom be relied upon?

She did say that I should tell you: my poem “White Lake Fish” has been accepted for publication by Midsummer Dream House. I’m grateful to them for choosing my work. 

Stay warm out there, and safe, any of you who are experiencing the white stuff. Word Raccoon and I are begrudgingly resigned to staying home until things clear up a bit. 

Written last night while the cake cooled and I submitted poetry. Posted this morning while I pretend not to want more of both.

It was late last night when Word Raccoon started demanding something spicy or she was going to commandeer the kitchen and end up eating as much cake as her little trash panda tummy could hold while sitting in the cake pan.

I told her I didn’t care how old she thought she was, that title was TOO MUCH. And I grabbed the pan from her.

She said I’m too much.

She reminded me that I (blushing) actually said earlier in the day: “May I be alone with my thoughts?”

To another human.

With a straight face.

And yes, I meant it. At the time.

So maybe WR was right. Maybe I am the one who’s too much. 

After I ate, I apologized for the drama and had a good laugh at my pretentious self, but to be fair, I had just emerged from an intense novel scene and was attempting to warm dinner (which involved slicing the second pork tenderloin from the day before), remember what butter is, and how to heat rolls, keeping track of burners and the toaster oven all while my brain was still buzzing from that scene I had been writing.

That scene. 

Instead of returning to the novel after dinner, I baked the cake I’d promised Word Raccoon.
It took its good sweet time, to the extent that by the time it cooled, it had officially become today’s cake.

Which is fine, since I did call it a Weekend Cake. So it tracks.

(Chocolate cake with chocolate icing. Or maybe no icing. Depends on the mood today.)

I danced and sang to Queen while I baked. 

Still not quite ready to dive back into writing the novel without a full mental runway (later today, I hope), I did the thing that WR had been poking me about for days: I submitted a packet of food poetry.

Then I looked at another journal.

Their submission guidelines weren’t draconian, but last night, with a weary brain and a cake timer ticking down, they might as well have been. 

But also, I was loath to submit because I was so tired.

WR and I had just heard “Don’t Stop Me Now,” and the lyrics felt like a personal dare.

And so:

“Submit it and quit it,” WR yelled.

That scandalous varmint.

I submitted it. Quickly. Made sure I followed their rules but didn’t linger. Got in, got out.

Then I sat down to write this while the cake cooled. (I did freeze part of the cake, because otherwise, instead of the English muffin with Canadian bacon, egg, and avocado I made this morning, WR would have begged for cake. And she would’ve won.)

Cake is, after all, her favorite dessert.

Besides poetry.

Shhh… if we’re not careful, she’ll want cake and poetry again tonight.

I don’t think so.

Well, maybe. 

Unless she does something novel.

(See what I did there?)