Dear Reader,

Today has turned into a bit of a writing triumph. Last night I finished the James timeline, which meant that when I reentered his thread today, I knew what needed doing. Word Raccoon is totally immersed in the novel now, I’m happy to say.

This was not the post we were going to write. We have a great idea, but we are pleasantly tired from writing/reading/revising all day, and we want energy for our fun idea. So today, please accept this humble little progress report.

James’s thread is now rough-draft finished. Two threads down, two to go! And August is only half gone! I may make my (self-imposed) deadline yet.

After finishing his thread, I “rewarded” myself by taking WR to the gym. Despite my best efforts, when she gets wound up about her writing she gets snacky. I will not tell you about the poor manners she used on a small bag of Cheez-Its. I don’t even really like them, but she didn’t care as she found the bottom of the bag. Poor things didn’t stand a chance. (I wonder what the origin of “stand a chance” is. Too tired to find out.)

Wait, WR insisted we look “stand a chance” up, and I’m glad we did: Jane Austen uses it in Pride and Prejudice, published in 1813: “Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance.” Even better, chance ultimately comes from a word associated with the falling of dice. I mean…I must be tired because now I’m thinking, isn’t all of this somewhat self-evident, WR? I wanted to know how stand and chance actually got married (Austen/see what I did there?) into a phrase, but I really am too tired. The Austen thing was cool to learn, though.

I added dates for the third thread to my timeline spreadsheet and confirmed a few facts before plunging back into a 105-page section, which I quickly shrank to 84 pages by getting rid of a scene that made me and WR both go, “No!”

I wish we could do that in life sometimes. Highlight twenty-one pages and delete.

Quick bit of good news before I close shop for the night: my poem “Bonnie and Clyde Without Guns” has been chosen by Molecule: A Tiny Lit Mag for publication in their fall issue, out September 15. I’m so happy that my fun little poem has found a home. I remember writing that one scorching night at an uptown cafe last year on my Freewrite. I sat there going, “Okay, now what?” and as I was writing the suite of poems, I had a good time just free associating. I would blame WR, but what’s to blame? It’s getting published.

Getting deeper into the third thread of my four-thread novel both thrills and scares me. This is a real, live book. I think I am going to be able to finish not only this rough draft, but meet my goal of a solid draft by year’s end.

Oh, I did change not the POV but the tense in the third thread: she’s now in present because she sounded like she had a big stick up her…anyway…now she sounds better. So far. 

I still need to write an important poem by James, though. I hope I can do his writing style (or what I imagine it is) justice. I’ve really gotten into his letter and journal writing style, so I hope I can. He’s still one of my favorite characters in the novel. 

The happiest of Sundays to you, dear reader.

Ugh, that closing is so greige. Maybe it’s greige enough that you can paint whatever you’d like me to say onto it. 

Drema

Dear Reader,

Could someone please page the sun?

Despite a trying morning, before life came at us, Word Raccoon and I managed to finish the Rebecca thread!

(Well, the rough draft of it.)

Within half an hour of starting to write today.

(Knew we were almost finished!)

Some readers may want to throw shoes at us for how it ends, but we are but scribes. Maybe.

WR wants to complain about her trials before we get back to the writing. (Mind you, she managed to navigate all of them, so I don’t know what she’s complaining about.)

First of all, while she was delighted to finish the Rebecca thread, that means we have to choose which thread is next and also be sure all of the “beats” match the Rebecca thread. (I have told her WE ARE NOT going back to polish the Rebecca thread until the others are also finished.) Anyway, she was sad to be done. Silly raccoon.

But then, though I had scheduled a BIG NASTY ADMINISTRATIVE TASK for noon, because we finished Rebecca early, I decided to take it on ahead of time. It took almost two hours, but we have slain it. Mostly. Enough for now.

Then we were interrupted by something unexpected that came to our door, which I won’t go into, and the second, a tree limb that fell with a loud crash right onto the porch roof.

Right where our neighbor had been standing not ten minutes before!

The roof was fine; the limb was lighter than it sounded. I dragged it to the brush pile, said forget everything, and went to the gym. WR came along but only because I promised a burger and Coke Zero run after. I said okay, but she’d better bring her gym shoes along to change into.

After lunch, I made a pasta casserole (don’t I sound like Betty Crocker? Gross!) and put it in the fridge for later, because I suspect another thread is going to open this afternoon, and I’d like to be free to explore it.

I don’t count today’s writing day as finished yet, though I did find a book at the library yesterday that I want to read, and it’s lightly calling me.

I wanted to talk a bit more about the writing process.

As I wrote yesterday, I had the joyous experience of not knowing what was going to happen until I was writing it. I could only do that because I know my characters thoroughly. I can toss something towards them and know where they’re going to take it. So all of these months, nay, years of wrong turns, etc. were really just an extended version of character study, I guess.😂

Okay, eeny, meeny… which thread to open next?

Oh, I think I know.

Drema

Dear Reader,

Word Raccoon began her day in a writing fever, and by lunch, she had almost completed the Rebecca thread and noticeably slowed, mainly, I suspect, because she doesn’t want to be finished with the (very rough still) draft of this thread. She’s enjoying the ride and keeps slowing to go, “Whoa! That happened?”

At one point she wrote new paragraphs of another thread in the middle of Rebecca’s just so she wouldn’t have to finish Rebecca’s. (To be clear, this is the plot layer; the other layers come later. Right now I haven’t even described what Rebecca looks like, but the reader would absolutely know what’s happening in the book now from this thread. Whew.)

She’s particularly proud of a bit of technology she gave to the mystery scenario that suited it. If all stays unchanged. With my and WR’s drafts, that’s hard to know. 

As of this writing, which is about three hours earlier than I typically stop writing when I’m on a tear, I have “only” written 11 pages because it turns out that despite the speedy beginning of the day, these latter pages have not been. 

The past couple of days I haven’t known what I was writing until I’d written it. I mean, a character would come into the room, I’m like, “Hi, what’s up now?” Often I’d be surprised. 

I always hope a character will surprise me. Sometimes they do, and that just makes my day. WR does cartwheels inside when that happens. 

Sometimes you’re sitting (or standing) there minding your own business and whoosh, here comes a powerhouse of an idea and Word Racoon swoons. It rattles her day, but in a good way as she grabs ahold of it. 

Don’t mind me. I’m just falling asleep over my manuscript. Day 13, complete. WR and I are enjoying it, but we are worn out.

Oh, and two lines for future poems came to me today, but I forbade WR to do anything but write them down: No Nathan Fillion on an Elephant Yet, and, well, never mind about the second. It’s schmaltzy, now that I look at it. 

Then again, so is WR. 😂

Drema 

The Rebecca thread is now officially up to page 77 from writing the past three days! (Again, still not counting those beach pages and any that might be salvaged from the former thread.) 

Twenty-four pages beats my former grad school submission packet record speed of 22 pages in one day. I remember how I used to wait until the weekend and get those packets ready. It was more fun under pressure. I remember my hands hurting that day. But you’ve heard enough about the hands, and they’re not so bad today after all.

Today’s writing was fast and furious plotwise. I kept surprising myself and my characters. Word Raccoon grabbed the keyboard and she was off! I had to lure her away from it with freeze dried sweet bites, and now I’m trying to get the bag back from her before she does them serious harm.

The sneaky raccoon must have turned off my alarm this morning, because I woke up an hour and a half later than I intended to. Then I could not get myself going; it was one of those “Stanley, give me a list and a countdown” days. Once I had some caffeine and a shower, I came to. 

I can’t overstate how much today’s writing session did for my novel. Major issues solved, new issues created. Nothing neat and tidy. Misunderstandings. Miscommunications.

It is full of texts two ways (text messaging and full texts, like books), letters, notes, clues, and reversals. You know, your typical campus novel/literary mystery. I’d say “All Novel, All August” is working, though WR reminded me that we rescheduled one medical appointment only to pick another up.

Furthermore, she noted that we did not go to the gym yesterday or today. But we did work out at home today, silly raccoon! That’s something. Sometimes you’re in the writing zone and nothing else exists. And that’s okay. 

There was a fill-in barista at the cafe today, James, and I wondered if that was a sign from my novel, but though this thread speaks of James, he is not in it per se. I did not let WR steer us in that direction. Rebecca is speaking. Loudly. We let the dominant character have the floor. Always.

Though it was chilly on the café porch and rainy, it was worth the view. And warmer than inside the place. 

I was glad to have on my scarf that I bought on my first trip to Paris. It’s très tourist, but I like it. 

Eye and hand resting time now. I have left Rebecca in a very vulnerable spot today; here’s hoping tomorrow remedies that. 

Drema 

P.S. A literary journal said that my poem, “A Handkerchief Will Do” made it to late rounds but ultimately was not chosen due to space constraints. Dang it. But I appreciated the positive feedback. The poem is about a trip I took to England, where I struck up an hour-long conversation with someone about Sons and Lovers at the airport, only for him to later ignore me in the Jane Austen Centre. For reasons that the poem knows. (No names are named, nor titles. I don’t even know if we exchanged names, but sir…)

Dear Reader,

Was today even a day? 

Word Raccoon and I heard rain, so we wrote rain into the novel.

Over the past two days we have written 53 Rebecca pages. Fifty-three! That does not count what we wrote this weekend. 

If our hands and eyes weren’t wearing out, we’d keep going. 

As I write, I am wondering WHAT IS IN THE ENVELOPE? And, is this a clue? 

Rebecca has had thoughts I had no idea she was thinking. She has had some adventures, made some very cool discoveries. I know where everything is (pretty much) going, though I don’t know how any of it happens, not yet. 

I hate having to not say more, and if I hadn’t written so much today, I’m sure I could say it more eloquently. 

However,  two things to share on the publication front.

The first is a poem published by Half and One. They created original artwork to go with my poem, “Squirreling.” The artwork is just adorable, and that’s a first for me, having that done for my poetry. Many thanks to them. 

“Squirreling” is based on something I saw at a café, when someone kept looking up every time a car pulled in and only ate half her sandwich and left; I added a fictional touch to imagine the rest of the circumstances. No potato chips were harmed in the making of this poem.  

Half and One also chose the poem for their Volume Six print publication which includes their favorite 15-20 pieces they have accepted for the quarter. I’m thrilled. 

The second is that I have a poem newly published over on The Closed Eye Open. Thanks to them for publishing Control: The Language. (You have seen it over here before, but they like to give previously shared work a wider audience.) This one means something to me. Well, don’t they all? BTW, you will need to scroll and scroll down the page if you’d like to see it. But do check out the other work there, too, if you have a chance. 

Okay, Word Raccoon says that she can’t wait to go to sleep so she can wake up fresh to get back to writing the novel. She’s a fan now. Poetry who? She asks.

She can’t fool me. She’s ever smitten. 

Drema 

Dear Reader,

I began this morning’s writing time not knowing which direction to head. Should I incorporate the new pages into the existing draft, such as it is? Should I look over the printed pages and do the indicated revisions? 

Rebecca’s section was particularly difficult because, as you know, I changed her pages from third person to first. Because the book said so. Because Word Raccoon demanded it. 

They were right. Today, I glanced at my notes on the printed, third person section. I had identified a scene I needed to write, which meant I needed to either change the rest of the draft I already had or write new pages. By the time Rebecca was buying a new wastepaper basket from Etsy, I knew she needed a fresh start, so I gave it to her.

(And I must say, she has marvelous taste in wastepaper baskets.)

Reader, WR and I wrote 19 pages today, 5K words! No wonder our wrist aches. (It’s fine. We’ll be fine.) 

For the first time, this section flows. I know who each person is and what they want. I have a handle on the mystery, and the first puzzle piece has been revealed. 

I have given them the means to immediately find some information, and too many places to look for the next bit, which is what they need: some frustration. 

The clue revealed a bit of humor in James that I did not know lurked. 

Rebecca and Eric are hunting for any traces of Ernest, and WR wants to giggle because she knows who he is and where they can find information about him.

Anyway, I think WR and I wrote a poem this morning. If it’s any good, I’ll include it below. If not, just imagine I wrote a beautiful poem for you. 

(This one is definitely barely revised. But sometimes those are the most fun.) 

Untitled

There are TV series that have 

built-in spoilers

because they’re based on books.

Like A Gentleman in Moscow. 

You can watch it slowly 

because you already know

where it goes.

Then there are the “don’t tell me, don’t tell me, don’t…”

because you want the joy of 

discovery.

Where is this poem going?

Don’t tell me.

Don’t tell me.

Warmly,

Drema 

Dear Reader,

As I mentioned before, I wrote fourteen pages of my novel while Word Raccoon and I were away at the dunes this weekend.

By hand. (Great shades of Great Expectations, am I right? By hand. Get it?) In my journal. (Remember, it’s All Novel, All August. Again, do we like that? Does the punctuation work? IDK, but I guess at over a week into August I’m committed to the bit.) 

It seemed like a good idea at the time, writing by hand.

Actually, it was a good idea. I like writing in my journal when my hand lets me, and apparently Vacation Me was quite industrious because when I got home and counted the words, there were just over 2,000 of them.

The problem with writing by hand, of course, is that eventually someone has to type them up.

And I had already written them once. So, not it. WR called shotgun on that decision. 

The very idea! It felt even more unfair to Word Raccoon who had watched me return home and immediately wash the dirty laundry, unpack all of the important things, open packages, and generally reset the house. (Oh, the poor tomato plant is drooping! I thought rain was forecast for the weekend. However, I’m pretty sure the skies are working overtime at the moment, so let’s hope my dear plant survives this monsoon.)

Anyway, I took photos of the pages this afternoon and asked an app to transcribe them for me.

Modern technology!

What a time to be alive!

Except…my handwriting is, ah, apparently not what it used to be. I think of handwriting I admire with sharp, confident edges, writing that says just the thing that your writing needs. WR says she could just inhale that. Well, that’s not my writing right now, though I do have a trove of that sort to gaze upon. Handwriting is a kind of art, isn’t it? 

As to my handwriting at the moment? When I’m writing quickly, my handwriting can become…squiggly. 

Still, the app did surprisingly well.

Mostly.

Well, except I had written:

A uni groundskeeper in coveralls.

The app transcribed:

Wini Wigginshereker in Coveralls.

Dear Reader, I cry laughed.

Who the hell is Wini Wigginshereker? And why do I love that name so much?

And why, having invented her, did the app apparently decide that in Coveralls was part of her proper name? Sounds like a take on a medieval name: Miss Wini Wigginshereker of Coveralls. 

I know who she is now: Wini Wigginshereker in Coveralls, who has worked at Oakmont University (Ah, where we lay our fair scene) for thirty-seven years, owns an alarming number of keys, and knows exactly which faculty members are duds.

Unfortunately, Wini wasn’t the only unauthorized addition to my novel.

At one point Rebecca says, Lovely ring.

Or at least that’s what I wrote.

The transcription had her saying:

Grand ring.

Which sounds less like my creation and more like someone’s elderly British aunt approving an engagement over tea.

Then there was the note in which I wrote gaslighting and received qualifying on the page.

All of which meant that after escaping the task of typing fourteen handwritten pages, I still had to sit down with my journal beside my computer and check the transcription word by word.

Reader, we did not want to.

In fact, WR complained about it for longer than I care to admit. I called her a whining weenie and promised her leftover pizza. She said if I added on an episode of Hacks, I would have a deal. 

Then I checked one transcribed page, which wasn’t too difficult because I knew almost immediately when I had not said something that way. (It’s the same sensation I get every effing time I read a short story I had published years ago and reach a couple of sections I KNOW weren’t the way I wrote them. I signed off on the revisions, so that’s on me. Ask me if Drema of Today would do that. SHE WOULD NOT! I’m not against revisions that make my work better. These didn’t make it worse or better, just different. And I preferred mine. Not that I feel passionately about this or anything. Right?)

And another page.

Correcting the mistakes became almost fun as WR roasted the app. Page five.

Page seven.

Another correctly transcribed uni! A shocking triumph, considering it was hit or miss on that point.

And then, somehow, I was finished.

All fourteen pages.

Two thousand odd words, now safely transferred from my journal to my computer, where I can begin figuring out what belongs in the novel and where. (The not-so-easy part. I mean, I have a general idea where most of it goes, but there’s a flow chart in the middle of it – remember the not-murder board? Yeah, that.) 

Which means I have once again learned something I already knew and will almost certainly forget the next time I encounter a task I don’t want to do:

Sometimes the dread takes longer than the thing.

Although sometimes the thing also gives you Wini Wigginshereker in Coveralls.

And I think I’m keeping her. What should I do with her, dear reader? 

BTW, I wrote this notebook poem this morning. It was amusing at six a.m. Let’s see how it plays during prime time. (As always, a notebook poem means it’s had very little revision, so please have mercy.) 

Non-Rhoticity Chicken 

I learned a term today

for something I have

long heard.

It’s a fancy way to say

Oops, the r’s gone away.

If you’re curious about 

my title,

just repeat it

for a while. 

Always in all ways,

Drema

Dear Reader,

This is a notebook poem I wrote early this morning, curled up in a chair.

Word Raccoon thought you might enjoy it.

It’s just a draft.

Tourist Attraction 

One location, two sights, 

a brochure promises.

First of all, they still print those?

Soon I find myself enthralled,

gazing at the cherry-picked photos in the stack I snatched

from the wooden holder

by the hotel door.

No, you must Particularize, poet.

Fine. 

Marengo Caves. 

Shop Shipshewana. 

Henry Ford Museum/

Greenfield Village. 

(Those two are one.)

My childhood reopens and 

this time asks to go to

the places that catch her 

fancy, rather than being 

shuttled by her parents’

agenda.

But that’s not this poem.

It wants to know if

You were at the

second location

and

what it was like.

Funny how you can live in

the same world 

and yet 

barely know it. 

For instance.

(I assure you, this is all 

one poem.)

Living in the same city,

same time,

merely

intersecting 

sounds like

one location/two sights

to me. 

And we didn’t even sign

the guest book

Today I wrote, again by hand, more novel pages. Nine pages, to be exact. Which will be a pain to transcribe, maybe. Or maybe I will use an app, read into it, if my hand rebels. Whatever. I am thrilled.

In fact, we found ourselves making notes to add other threads here and here.

WR and I think we have broken the code on the Rebecca pages by switching them to first person.

We even created a murder board in the novel except not for a murder. (Yes, we’re being mysterious.)

Maybe, just maybe, the rough draft of book three might get finished before the end of the month.

It’s worth the tired eyes and sunburned face.

WR wonders how you are doing, Dear Reader.

Drema

Dear Reader,

There is a pain au chocolat in the kitchen, and just like that, breakfast this morning has become unnecessarily complicated.

Word Raccoon says it’s not complicated at all to her.

It began with the scale. Now, while I no longer allow that beastly thing to measure my self-worth, I do have an appointment with the rheumatologist coming up, so I’m trying to trend downward.

No, no, the scale was a gentleman and told me exactly what I wanted to hear. (Mostly.)

But my favorite denim shorts said, “Gorl, he a lie.”

Do I know which to believe as to my progress? Not really. What I do know is that I was anticipating that pastry, and now I need to rethink it.

Dammit.

(A hummingbird just blessed the flowers just outside the sunporch. What a gorgeous sight! They like the red and purple blossoms, I think. WR wanted to ride on its back. Silly animal. )

I had planned to pair the pain au chocolat with a string cheese for protein, and we have some strawberries that need to be eaten. (Need is not the word; they’re not punishment berries.)

Add to that the fact that when I told the mister I want to cut back a smidge on the sweets for the next few weeks, he immediately brought home not one, not two, but SIX small fruit pies!

Mamma mia! How am I supposed to convince these shorts differently now?

I have added a belt to the shorts just in case they decide to say “just kidding” at a most inconvenient moment.

But I’m struggling over what to have for breakfast now.

WR says I should just let her choose.

I beg your pardon, but I already know. You’d choose a chocolate-filled poem, wouldn’t you?

To breakfast decisions and weekends, dear reader.

Drema

P.S. And now an uninvited cup of gas station rice crispy treats has entered the chat! No thank you!

But I did write four pages on my novel BY HAND (seems lefty has forgiven me for all the painting stress for now) in first person.

Yes, that’s the stuff.

Also wrote a very rough draft of a poem, “Bonnets and Suspenders on the Beach.”

I hope you find something to admire in it. 😘

Bonnets and Suspenders on the Beach

The women’s hems skim across the sand

as they tote their babies over their arms like sacks of onions,

white bonnets alerting to the slight wind.

The men roll their pants bottoms.

Another man crosses the blue boardwalk,

wearing an embroidered sombrero the height of two. 

Black hats and suspenders,

white bonnets and bare feet, stare.

Dear Reader,

Word Raccoon is watching me with a mixture of alarm and amusement, because there should be a little spinning wheel above my head this morning: Brain Processing Error. Please Wait…

And this time, she says, it’s not her fault. 

Task: Do laundry.

Simple enough.

Except… towels or my clothes?

Well, that depends.

Am I staying home today?

Or going to the café?

Because if I’m going to the café, I shouldn’t start my own laundry and leave it running. That’s irresponsible.

But wait.

I need to get dressed first.

Gym clothes?

Water-the-plants clothes?

Café clothes?

Well, if I’m going to water the plants, I definitely shouldn’t put on café clothes because I’ll probably end up with dirt on my shorts.

But wasn’t it supposed to rain?

Should I even water the plants?

I should check the weather before getting dressed because the weather decides the clothes, which decide the schedule, which decides the laundry.

Obviously.

And wait… am I even going to the café today?

Didn’t I decide to stay home because I have too much to do?

Except…

Didn’t I do most of those things last night?

Printer upstairs.

House tidied.

Dinner made.

Dishwasher run.

So maybe I am going to the café.

No.

Laundry first.

Towels and workout clothes.

If I wear one set of gym clothes today, the world will somehow continue rotating even if they don’t get washed until tomorrow, won’t they? So it’s fine to wash a load now, worry about today’s gym clothes later.

Excellent.

Decision made.

Except…

No.

Focus.

Towels.

But lifting the laundry basket made my arm complain.

I should take a pain pill.

Later.

Laundry first.

I carry the towels downstairs.

Victory.

I start the washer.

Success.

Wait.

Was that enough detergent?

Should this load get one pod?

Or two?

It’s a fairly large load…

No.

Too late.

And suddenly, with absolutely no logical bridge whatsoever, it becomes critically important that I sanitize the laundry basket.

Why?

I have no idea.

Apparently headquarters issued a memo.

While I’m holding disinfectant…

I should sanitize my phone.

I find an alcohol wipe for doing that.

Then.

Breakfast.

I want peanut butter and a banana.

Is that enough protein?

The bananas need to be used anyway.

There’s also a peach.

The peach should probably be definitely used for or before lunch because otherwise it’ll become one of those peaches that goes from “perfect” to “archaeological specimen” while you’re looking at it.

It’s close.

But later.

Coke Zero.

Which cup? A Red Solo, one of my pink lidded ones, or, gasp, a regular glass?

Which reminds me…didn’t I wash dishes? I need to unload the dishwasher.

I could use a disposable bowl for breakfast and then I won’t have to wash another load right away.

Why is choosing a bowl suddenly a life philosophy? Just eat.

Breakfast accomplished.

Except now I’m watching a SpaceMaker Method video. Oh no, will I be able to make myself turn it off? Those are long and even though I got up early, it won’t be if I keep messing around.

Now it’s warm.

Why is it warm?

It’s cool outside.

Should I open the door and let porch air in?

No, because the porch windows are closed.

That won’t accomplish anything except making me stand there wondering why nothing changed.

Fine.

Ceiling fan.

Perfect.

Actually…

Now I’m cold.

Wasn’t I going to take a pain pill?

I think I have a poem coming out today.

Wait.

Did it already come out?

Did I miss it?

Did they postpone it?

Should I check?

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

Friends, that was only a sampling of what was going on in the brain. I am happy to report, though, that caffeine and some writing cleared the musty old thing and allowed the thoughts to roll after all.

P.S. Earlier I went out to the sunporch to write and schedule this post. While sitting there, I videoed a “suspicious” cat lurking nearby. At first, I thought he was stalking wildlife, but he was actually just visiting the neighbor’s cat!

It took that gentleman over three minutes of slow, careful maneuvering just to get within ten feet of her. He acted like he was hunting in the jungle: carefully approaching, backing up, and then extending his paws.

Now, they are both just sitting there. She is refusing to look at him, and they’ve been frozen like that ever since. It is so sweet.

They look almost like friends. So cute. I wish I could get WordPress to post the video so you could see his dramatic approach! I suppose Ms. Cat was just happy to have the company.

Maybe I can get a screenshot of the video to upload?

The Bestiest of Weekends,

Drema

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