Dear Reader,

Tonight Word Raccoon and I had dinner with extended family. There, Zack’s girlfriend asked if I’d like to go to a poetry slam sometime – Yes and When, WR said. 

But WR also said she’d only go if she is allowed to read a poem – she knows just the one that’s begging to be read. IDK if I’m allowed to share Z’s girlfriend’s name but her eyes got big and she said yes! 

WR further asked if profanity is an issue (not something you expect to ask your son’s gf; we are not your typical mother, we fear), and she said not at all.  WR is relieved. And now she’s warming up her poeticizing skills.

WR also practiced two songs tonight that she will be singing at an event tomorrow. It’s been a long time, but she’s ready. Mostly. Until the time comes.

Why can she read anything or lecture and be just fine, but singing is difficult to do without the nerves? 

Tonight we signed our contract for the forthcoming “To My Grown Children” with The Listening Eye. It feels official now! 

Also, a huge thanks to Merion West for publishing a poem that means a lot to me, “Lady Lazarus Worries Me.” I sat on the porch of my favorite cafe and said the thing that has bothered me for years: didn’t we know? (Okay, I wasn’t born yet, but how could they not know? Did they not read her poetry?) 

Not trying to be morbid, but she had such a beautiful mind. I hate that we will never know now what she might have written if she hadn’t died so young.

Many, many things I want to say about the writing goodies I found when poking around yesterday and today from the “good ol’ days,” but I’m thinking that will have to wait a hot minute. 

After having not submitted poetry for ten days (why does that feel so long?? it has been too long since too many things, WR complains), she submitted three poems to a contest today: “Necromancer: Pergo,” “A God’s Eye View,” and “I Have Asked Too Much.” 

All are suitably strange to the current mood of WR. 

A line from each:

From “Necromancer Duties: Pergo”

Words are powerful, you sonofabitch.

From “God’s Eye View”

My mind gagas 

over the (bird’s) shadow

From “I Have Asked Too Much”

…we will pretend to be 

spending time together. 

Maybe WR has asked too much. But she will just keep asking. It’s who she is. 

Dear Reader,

Yesterday’s blog post got me really curious about my short stories from days of yore, so I started hunting. An email inbox I’ve had for a very long time now yielded four from its depths. I perused Dropbox and found another one or two and so many drafts of my various novels.

Word Raccoon was determined.

Then we located one of our external hard drives (We were told we only have ever had one but we swear we had/have two and if the one we did locate only has a few things from 2007 and then things forward, where are the files from before then because I’m quite sure we were backing things up in 2006.) and the literary gods, after much conferring, handed over a few more stories.

WR wasn’t finished. She knew there was a fistful of flash drives in her electronics drawer. 

Bingo. More.

But not everything.

For instance, she remembered splicing a collection of short stories together and sending them out at least once. In fact, she remembered posting about it in a Facebook writing group she regularly chatted in at the time.

So she went to the group, which has been largely inactive for some time but not yet archived, thankfully. She searched. She found her comment about the stories and, more importantly, the month and year she was putting the collection together.

She searched her email again, adding a couple of key words. And, as Jose Monkey says on his “find me” videos, “that was it.” (WR is amused by so many things.)

The rejection email for the collection led us to Submittable, which is basically our literary playground at this point but somehow we’d missed this: the rejection was still there.

Did…did that mean our submission was there?

Doubtful. I mean, I don’t think they store the submissions themselves anymore, just the info.

Obviously, I clicked on it just to see.

It led to a page that announced it was not found. 

WR drooped.

“Hang on,” I told her. “Let’s look around.”

So I closed my eyes and clicked on a different tab with my submission. There was a link…the material said it downloaded. Holding my breath, I clicked on it to see if it would open, and there it was.

Here’s the table of contents:

Though She Didn’t Yet Know It

• Collioure Shall Always Be Collioure
• There Are a Few Things
• Hunger Pangs
• A Mother of a Story
• Though She Didn’t Yet Know It
• Indiana Farm, Sunday Afternoon
• The Bolus
• After Birth
• The Color of Flowers
• The Secret Shopper
• Desserted
• I Win Things
• World Hunger and Shit Like That
• The Found

You might think I began re-reading these last night.

I did not. Not yet.

I will say that at least two of them have been published.

I’m both excited and scared to read these. I already have so many observations to make about the titles and what I do remember about them, and I ran across other stories that made me think, gorl, you should have included THIS and taken out THAT. (There’s a novella “anchoring” the stories. WR says that means “taking up space because I want to write more food stories but don’t have time before the deadline.”)

What I do remember, with barely glancing at some of these, is how strange and weird a writer I was. I remember coming upon a group of grad students during a residency freely discussing one of my workshop pieces (which you weren’t supposed to do outside of workshop) with what sounded like awe, and I was proud.

I didn’t write weird for attention. I did it because the world was strange and confusing and cracked to me then. Everything about my life was changing and I was just trying to keep up. My writing was a haven.

Then slowly, things changed. About my life. In my writing.

Here’s what I think happened with my writing: I’m not blaming any one mentor, but collectively they tried to tame the weird, which, to be fair, was their job. (The style, etc. Not the subject matter.)

I was asked if “x” really had to be a part of my novella. Another person said he was floored when a certain word entered the story unexpectedly. (It wasn’t profanity. It was the big O.)

To me, the unexpectedness was the curveball it needed to keep it from seeming twee.

While I wasn’t ashamed of my previous work, I became ashamed of how loosely I held the pen while I wrote, of how I had allowed emotion to drive the work without having much of a clue where one sentence would end and the next might begin.

My more traditional work began receiving attention and approval. I have never been an approval seeker, yet writing comes with publication (which I bucked against), literary friendships, and another kind of life to appreciate. There was a lunch where I became the unwitting and unexpected center of attention, peppered with questions about my writing by literary people I respected. I didn’t know what to do with that.

I’m grateful for my mentors. I truly am. One of the best once told me I’d listened to him too much, and he was right but I needed for him to say that for me to know it was true. (It was about an academic paper, but it was important for me to hear, and how often does someone realize what they’ve done!)

Where I think I needed the most help was at the level of language, because I knew I was playing fast and loose (WR, is that now TWO clichés in this post? Is it going to be that kind of morning? She’s not even listening. She just drank a Coke Zero and is blissing out.) with it sometimes. And there are punctuation niceties I still have to look up every damn time and also, I don’t care. I know I should, and I have opinions, but there.

All of this to say that while I have adored the freedom poetry has allowed me, giving me back those wild, ecstatic, days of writing, I also think it has given me permission to trust that earlier writer again.

I think it will be fun to look back over these stories.

Maybe I’ll just start my writing career all over, refusing to soften the weird. 

Why not?

Turns out the writer I was looking for may have been sitting on a flash drive all along. I want her back.

Literary discoveries in whatever form that takes for you, too, Reader,

Drema

Dear Reader,

Yesterday Word Raccoon and I thought there was a dead robin in a bush. It turned out it was very much alive and annoyed at being disturbed.

We wish all life situations could be like that, false reports of death.

Anyway.

WR and I were reading Mike Rucker’s excellent newsletter, (we did some work for him via a book marketer a few years ago), and he mentioned the best analogy for when you’ve gotten out of the habit of something. He quoted Steve Kamb: if you miss a shower, you just shower the next day. You don’t make a plan, get accountability, coaching, whatever. You just shower the next day.

While clearly life has gotten in the way of poetry and all manner of writing the past few days, and rightly so, and today especially will (my eyes are filling as I write this), I have still written a little, but not deeply. I’m still going.

This morning, for a bit, I am back on the porch. Tenderhearted, but I am here. No, I will not be attending and have not attended the virtual residency. Maybe tomorrow.

No, I will not be attending the final Twelfth Night discussion today.

I may well not make it to the gym or hit my move goal today, either.

And that’s okay.

It’s time to grieve, with family. 

For the next hour, though, I will write.

On the latest episode of Dear Hank and John, guest hosted by John’s longtime friend, poet and author Paige Lewis, John and Paige spoke about the value in having created work to be “ashamed” of in their earlier years, because that’s how you grow as a writer.

Several things occurred to me, maybe related, maybe unrelated, to any of this. The first is that while I have had my Submittable account for a long time, if I look back, I didn’t have anything accepted there until I started submitting poetry.

I had short stories published, and essays. But those were on other submission platforms. IDK if that means anything, but it’s interesting. 

I’m reminded that during my first workshop with Spalding, headed up by K.L. Cook, he said one of my flash fiction pieces was flirting with poetry. (It was brief.) He also said, when we talked later about my short stories and how I’d thought of writing a linked collection, that if I could write a novel, I should.

I did.

At the time, shorter work was easier to write because it wasn’t as painful. I hadn’t learned how to handle it, how to channel it. I’d get in and get right back out. (So much was going on in my life! I pity that young woman, but I also admire her. She never gave up.) 

I still like what I wrote then, even though I’d write many of those pieces differently now. Lewis spoke of watching poets change poems on the published page before they read them in public, and I’ve witnessed that as well. Poetry is living, breathing.

It’s clearly not that I lack the patience for novels. I’ve written them, and I’m writing another now.

But listening to Green and Lewis talk about early efforts, about “failures,” and about the value in imperfection makes me want to revisit one of my unpublished short stories, just one. I want to read it, sniff it, see if there’s anything alive in it.

That’s the thing about me and revising poetry. Often I pluck its heart while trying to make it stand up straight. Maybe it doesn’t want to stand up straight. Maybe I should let it droop.

I watched a decluttering video (I know, I know) yesterday while folding laundry (and maybe a while past that. Okay fine, I played two in a row.) They were decluttering an artist’s studio, and it was fascinating to see not only the materials this lifelong art teacher and artist had accumulated, but also her art.

Now, if I’m being strictly honest, her art was not to Word Raccoon’s taste. But the artist clearly knows, in her 70s, I’m guessing she is, who she is and what she enjoyed creating, and yet she is still open to new projects. I salute her. 

I want to be like her with my writing.

(The squirrels are so playful today. There are three circling the tree out front, and they are just chasing one another up and down the tree, around its base. They are young and full of life. Life goes on, yes, life goes on.)

In closing, John did surprise me (okay, disappointed me a little) by revealing that he’s a fan of the Twilight books. That’s okay, John. I’ll give you one. But just one.

To the rain falling right now (literally) as the sun shines. Yeah, that’s life, isn’t it?

Drema

P.S. My poem, “Comfort Eagle,” has just been published in the latest issue of The Louisville Review. If you’d like to read it, you can purchase a copy of the journal here.

Dear Reader,

Sometimes what you need is an Uncrustables maker. 

When you’ve had a bad dream, your day is stacked, you feel entirely overwhelmed and grief keeps buzzing at you like mosquitos and you say you’d prefer poems, thank you very much.

When you realize Virtual Residency began on Saturday and well, you didn’t add the dates to your calendar and you missed events you would’ve liked to have viewed. But then you see that some of them were recorded but where can you view them and shouldn’t you already know this and why don’t you know this and you could just ask but also asking feels like it would be a pain for those who are already busy busy but they’re not like that, they would tell you if you just asked but if they are recorded, that means you could watch them any time, yes, but where and what if you have already missed the good stuff and argh, brain, shut it! 

Okay, back to the Uncrustable maker. 

If you are not familiar with the delight that is childhood all squished together, Uncrustables are pb and j’s that you find in the freezer case that are de-crusted and sealed. 

They are also too expensive for what they are. I said what I said, Herbert!

Enter, the Uncrustable maker. (These thingies go by many names.) 

I searched for one of these online for quite a while and could not find one that made me entirely happy, so I gave up. And then I was asked to review one. (This is not the review; this is me saying the universe really, really, wanted me to have one, and so I do. More likely, Word Raccoon wanted one and pulled some strings.) 

I’m trying it for the first time this morning and I’m assuming the results will be good. My point is that I have a small project I am looking forward to at a time when all Word Raccoon wants are pb and j’s, Coke Zero, and apparently virtual residency sessions to feed her brain and Calgon, take me away. 

I need an easy win, even if it is from making a sandwich.

While I can’t write reams of poetry right now, the desire to is hovering, and I’m grateful. 

And I can start the dishwasher, which I will, right after breakfast. (I really do want one of those sandwiches. Soon.)

Also, I have discovered what happens to the laundry baskets when they go MIA from the laundry area, which is a not-small thing to me right now: if I have two loads’ worth of laundry in a basket, I wash first one and then the other, and I think what I do is take the first load out of the laundry room to fold it while the second is drying. Mystery solved; now to overcome the urge to move the basket because hey, we all know WR is not going to fold that laundry and put it away and then bring the basket back. Baskets are mere holding areas right? 

To her. As are sandwiches. Which is probably how she ended up “needing” an Uncrustables maker in the first place. I think she might end up hiding poems between two pieces of bread this morning. Who wants to volunteer to check? 

Sandwiches and poems,

Drema 

Dear Reader,

I am living between doses of Tylenol right now. 

Let me back up, because that’s not the toughest thing. We lost Barry’s spunky stepmother, Mary, and her funeral is later this week. She battled with MS for years, and we are all grateful she’s no longer in pain, but it’s a loss.

I cannot talk about it right now. Word Raccoon has said thank you no thank you, we cannot do grief just now because we are battling headaches. The nasty, can’t write, can’t think kind.

We are grieving, just under the surface. We will join the rest of the family to remember her and I am sure I will have more to say about Miss Mary at a later date. She’s been in my life a very long time. 

If deaths were fireworks, I’d say we’ve had a display going off in recent years. Which is not okay with me. 

WR and I have been at odds, too. Dealing with lighter topics (because the headache lurks, beneath it all, and I’m trying to run it off with levity), yesterday instead of writing I watched a decluttering video and went through WR’s earring stash. And gave a substantial portion of them away, which enraged her. But what good is it to have so many you can’t find what you’re looking for, WR?

(We came across a lock of my mother’s hair in with the jewelry that hasn’t found a permanent home yet. It was a tender yet too-soon memory.)

This week is stacked, starting with tomorrow’s teeth cleaning and hair appointment. Not together, but an hour apart. 

Didn’t I mention something about Spalding’s virtual homecoming? IDK if I’m up for it. Or the last Twelfth Night discussion call.

As I said, we are surviving between headache showers, the acetaminophen as an umbrella that works for a time. It’s either the weather or a side effect of my medicine. But you don’t want a doctor poking around about a headache because that could go in so many directions. Nope. We will continue taking sinus medicine and Tylenol and hope for the best for now.

But it doesn’t make us want to write so much. Or read. It does make us want to watch those decluttering videos curled in a chair. 

The next week, nothing will be normal. No one’s fault but WR likes her writing schedule. 

Oh, despite (or around, actually) today’s sparkling headache, we finished papering the kitchen accent wall. We put things back on the wall for now. 

We prepped the curtain for the kitchen window and then discovered the curtain rod was too short. We cried. Because why not. We looked for one in town and did not discover one the right length. 

It is too early to go to bed and if we try to sleep, we will not be able to, but we will watch videos and wish we could sleep in. 

I am so glad the sun is shining for now, and yet I’m falling asleep on the porch. Before dark.

Hoping for the words soon. Hoping for a stretch of time with more sun, metaphorical and otherwise. This is getting rough.

Drema 

Dear Reader,

I’ve unlocked new friendship levels this week, which is pretty fun. One friend, someone I’ve known for a couple of years, maybe three, I almost texted today to ask what she’s going to wear to an outdoor concert we are both attending tonight, but I didn’t, a little shy. Then, an hour later, she texted me with the same question. I described my outfit and then sent her a pic of me wearing it. She told me what she’s going to wear, too.

So we’re that level of friend now. Yay. (Maybe she unlocked it. At any rate, it’s unlocked, LOL.)

WR loves showing off her outfits.

We also coordinated dinner times. Since I will be arriving early, I will save her and her S.O. seats. (He messaged me the other day when he knew I was looking for someone to install something, offering to help. How sweet is that? That’s another friendship level, isn’t it?) 

Another person I’m just getting to know is moving to Spain, and when we talked yesterday after running into one another, she first gave me homework when we were discussing a career-based topic, (you know how I love homework), and then she invited me to visit her in Spain! 

I already did the homework, though I need to text her the results of the quiz. (Set a reminder, Word Raccoon) and I hope she’s serious because I’d love to return to Spain. 

A neighbor stopped over to say hello yesterday because he saw me “chilling on the porch.” (I was reading; WR does not know how to chill.) I discovered he is writing a fantasy novel. While I told him that’s not my genre, so I don’t know how helpful I can be, I did agree to read his prologue. I hope that helps.

With virtual homecoming happening this coming week, I’m sure I’ll reconnect with grad school friends, too. 

WR is reaching her paw out, tentatively. It seems time again, WR. It seems time. 

Oh happy day, Dear Reader.

Drema 

Dear Reader,

I had a few precious hours to write poetry today, but all Word Raccoon could do was whine about how chilly she was. Going indoors would not have helped. 

We did write several poems, but they were mostly about the atmosphere: mowing on a Friday instead of the Tuesday schedule, thus noise and scents; one called Rick Springfield, Shirtless (based on a comment someone made about him; and I actually used the word coy in reference to spring in another one and WR fell on the porch floor laughing.) 

I titled one poem “Budro.” Silly. 

And in a new poetic low, WR watched a bird watch a mower and wrote about it.

We touch the poetry, and sometimes it touches back. 

Sometimes not.

In other “distinctions” today, I reached two goals on the Fitness+ app: I met my daily move goal (gee, wow), and I completed my 25th “cool down,” which earned me a badge. A virtual badge. For a cool down. WR still crowed as if we had really done something. 

Oh, and I also ALMOST finished papering that short accent wall in the kitchen. The second roll of paper arrived, I used what I could, but due to matching issues, I was short and WR gleefully pushed the “order” button for me to get another one heading this way. 

(She also reordered an outlet cover so that the outlet covers in the kitchen will now match. I think she noticed how that builder grade beige one made me sad. I told her I would gladly cover it myself since I’ve made some kinda fun ones in the past, but she said no, no, that she wanted them to look alike. They are both Klimt inspired and that kinda say it all – his work is my color spectrum and my inspiration for both fashion and decorating, if I’m being honest.)

Do I mind “almost” days? 

Sometimes. But now, on the sun porch, no, I don’t, not today. I’ve had a couple of Oreos. I’ve made the house look better. I’ve created something that didn’t exist on the page until I put it there. 

I have pledged to take the rest of the weekend easy. And I think I will. While one project seems to lead into another on the house front, what happens when I run out? 

Maybe we should write a poem about that, WR. 

The happiest of weekends to you, Dear Reader.

Drema 

Wait, I need to water the flowers. Make a note, adoring public. 

Dear Reader,

This seems to be the season of all things literary classes for me and Word Raccoon. My grad school alma mater, the Sena Jeter Naslund-Karen Mann Graduate School of Writing at Spalding University, is hosting a virtual residency next week and alums are invited. (*Claps hands.*) 

Though I’ve known about it for quite some time, suddenly I’m like, Oh, right. That’s coming up soon. Pre-reading! Worksheets! Sessions to decide between!

There will be sessions in/on:

short story writing

book reviewing

writing short craft essays

narrative and pacing 

prosody, meter and scansion 

open mic sessions 

a talk on staging As You Like It followed by a viewing of it

storytelling through poetry 

writing a comedy pilot 

punctuation strategies 

faculty readings 

an alumni book discussion of Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar (which I now need to start reading immediately) followed by a Q and A with the author, I think

collage literature (yes, collage, not college!) 

writing (clears throat) spicy scenes

abstraction in poetry 

building narratives through scenes 

and so much more. 

(I wish I could post the actual session names because they’re so perfect, but alas.)

Some of these happen concurrently, so WR and I will have to choose. 

Actually, WR says she doesn’t want to have to choose. 

Me neither, Word Raccoon. Me neither. And we may not be able to attend as many sessions as we’d like due to other life obligations, but we are eager to attend what we can, if WR’s headache gets the memo. Ugh.

Too much learnin’ for a summer?

Maybe. 

Even with a headache, I papered part of an accent wall in the kitchen today. Now that I know I like the pattern, more wallpaper is on its way. Hey, I’m getting pretty good at this.  

Still too much redecorating. 

Time to get me to a café so I can write. Friday (today), for sure. 

Drema

Dear Reader,

Today is brought to you by “H” for headache. Word Raccoon and I have an impressive lineup of Things To Do, but the longer we are awake, the more we have decided maybe not.

Instead, we will write a pitching-and-swerving blog post, followed by whatever else we feel up to.

We are on our second cup of tea, we have had breakfast, and we were listening to Dear Hank and John until the head said, “Not now.”

WR is being overly dramatic, and I noticed it began the moment I put my workout shoes on. She’s probably trying to get out of a workout, but we are so close to earning badges on the Fitness+ app!

I think we will be fine in another hour or so. But I also think we are going to be sun porch dwellers today and ding dong ditch our obligations. 

Randomness Incoming

The birbs were in fine form yesterday, and what a treat it is to look up from writing Something Special and receive inspiration. Ah…

Again, though I am only self-diagnosed, I continue to be amused and surprised by ADHD attributes I apparently have. When they are mentioned in videos, I’m like, Sir, have you been spying on me?

Yesterday’s came in the form of a content creator whose wife has ADHD, and he was doing this “If you have ADHD, then you probably should…” schtick. When he said, “You should probably stop watching so many rug-cleaning and lawn-trimming videos.”

How…HOW DID HE KNOW?

A friend and I pass those video links back and forth sometimes. They’re so calming.

Also, the laundry basket thing! This comes from another creator. If you have more than three laundry baskets, supposedly you likely have ADHD.

I was like, Ma’am, we have six!

(Now five because I was so embarrassed that the last time I donated items, I donated them in the laundry basket so I would have one less.)

Why is this an ADHD thing? I don’t know, but it’s true here.

(We won’t even talk about how I got lightly roasted last night for “Where’s a laundry basket?” and “What do you DO with them?” My answers? “Somewhere” and “IDK.”

I don’t know what it will say on my tombstone, or if I will even have one, but you know what it won’t say, guaranteed?

“She sure did a good load of laundry.”

If it did, I would consider my life a complete failure.

So I went to pick up the library book I’m excited about yesterday and ended up with a few others as well. Not pictured is a freebie biography of Shirley Temple.

Did I start immediately on the book they had essentially bought on my excited recommendation?

No, no.

Instead, I chose Ben Lerner’s novel because it is short and I was in the mood for a quick dip. I read about 35 pages before my eyes decided that was enough for the day. But that short reading makes me wonder if I should give up my smartphone.

(Not the first time I’ve considered that.)

On Dear Hank and John today, John Green mentioned he has signed 47.5K of the 85K copies of Hollywood Ending he needs to sign. I wondered if he’s already signed the one destined to end up in my hands in September.

He scoffed, in an uncharacteristically publisher-insider way, about Ann Patchett complaining in an interview about having to sign 17K books, and he was like, “Please. That’s nothing,” or whatever.

I have done book signings, but I have not come close to signing even a thousand books at a time. And I certainly did not presign nearly so many.

Maybe this headache isn’t for real. Maybe it’s my poetry staging a coup to get me out of obligations for the day so it can take over.

It and I have to have a serious conversation anyway.

And perhaps that bold accent wall my brain intended to spring on the kitchen today wants me to take a beat. But I am only a couple of projects away from finishing the kitchen. It might be prudent to finish one room at a time instead of mad dashing from project to project.

A few days ago, the sun porch told me it’s finished.

As if it needed to say that.

It’s lovely, and my eyes can rest when I look at it. There’s not a corner that doesn’t feel mine.

This post is, if it’s not obvious, a very rough draft.

How is it Thursday already?

No even remotely clever signoff in my head,

Drema

Dear Reader,

I’ve been burrowing into an Ann Patchett novel the past few days. From the get-go, her newest release, Whistler, warmed Word Raccoon’s and my heart with its generosity, charm, and the possibility that connections made years before can endure and unexpectedly rebloom even after a long absence.

This is a spoiler-free zone, so read without fear of spoilers.

I was curious about the novel’s title from the get-go, wondering if, since it begins at the Met, it involved Whistler, the artist. WR and I were really hoping it would. I don’t think it’s giving anything away to tell you the artist does not make an appearance, but artwork (not related to him) does, which was enjoyable, too.

Whistler is, as the cover image suggests, in this case a horse, but a possibly mythical one. I’d like to explore the horse’s role in this novel, but that would involve spoilers. Suffice it to say that by the end I was wondering if the horse or the rabbits (appearing in art collected by Daphne’s husband’s deceased wife and still valued and preserved by Daphne) were the more important animal to the novel. And I’d like to write about that, too, but again, spoilers.

Here Patchett showcases her impressive skill at calm observation of the intricacies of human relationships and the refusal to make the inevitable complications dramatic. One of her characters says or thinks something like, We survived it.

To me, this is one of her greatest traits as a storyteller: she speaks of events of all stripes, of all temperatures, from a measured place. She does a great job of allowing the narrator, Daphne, to judiciously hear a circumstance and understand both sides of it, too, something I admire in writers and in humans.

In Whistler, Daphne and her husband are visiting the Met, as I said, at the story’s beginning and a man is following them, one who turns out to have been her mother’s second husband, Daphne’s stepfather, Eddie.

From the beginning, Daphne’s reaction to reuniting with this man that she hasn’t seen in over 40 years is precious. Slowly we learn why her mother divorced him just after a tragedy whose events are just as carefully meted out throughout the book.

I mean…Eddie is a charmer. He’s so loving and kind that you (that is, I) had my guard up for too long, worried that he might be revealed to be nothing of the kind. 

Also, I admire the novel’s “sets,” if you will, the different houses and places where the action took place. Somehow I can see them all without them having been overly described. I like how she takes the most high-brow and pretentious places and events and brings a sandwich-and-shoes off sensibility to them, which is definitely my style.

And WR couldn’t help but notice that an elegant luncheon yielded a fancy bag of leftovers foisted upon the departing attendees, which is both amusing and touching. And, WR says, delicious sounding.

Without resorting to dramatic scenes or events, Patchett leads us through the lives of several characters, sharing important secrets that have shaped lives but that were kept for all the right reasons. (This is not a talk-show-tragedy-level-secrets book.)

I can’t help but admire Patchett’s restraint. Even with all of this drama and the concurrent possible outcomes, she resists bending the story with sensationalism. And the secrets, once learned, actually help all of the characters. That is, the secrets do not betray, they, once released, heal.

There are present-day pressure points that you wonder if Patchett’s going to or maybe ought to push on: someone who drinks too much without comment, another who clearly wants another life that is not compatible with what his spouse wants and you wonder how that’s going to end up. There is disillusionment in the oddest of places and yet Daphne has been deeply formed by this mere seven-month relationship when she was nine with her beloved stepfather, who then disappeared from her life. His lesson that stuck with her is that most people are good and will want to help you, that they can be trusted.

Retirement and its temptations and pitfalls are a constant theme in the novel. As a private school English teacher, Daphne does not want to retire because she loves teaching and tries to help her students in all areas, though she admits to not being able to remember their names when they come wave after wave, semester after semester. As someone who has taught, unfortunately, I relate.

Her husband, newly retired, wants her to as well, but he’s 17 years older than she is. She’s not ready. Likewise Eddie, who is older than them both, refuses to retire from publishing. (He and Daphne also bond over their fierce love of literature.)

The reveals unspool gradually, and a detail that you think is just a character trait (such as the revelation that Daphne does not fly), turns out to have very good reasons. Which not only makes you nod when the connection is made, but also keeps your curiosity meter running and you immersed for the duration.

Throughout you see how little resentment Daphne holds for her life circumstances, and what little she does hold, her sister Leda tells her is nothing compared to her patients’ trauma. (Leda is a therapist.)

This is a book that makes you wish you could read it all in one sitting, and do if you can. 

Sure, there are a few conveniently timed moments in the novel and a couple of “we can talk about it later” scenes where the seams show, but I don’t care and neither does Word Raccoon.
She stood over my shoulder the whole time and asked to go to the Met. We’ve never been.

I think she’s hoping to meet an Eddie. I think we’d all like to, WR.

You might enjoy this one, Dear Reader. And I have another book on hold at the library, so I’d better return this one. Next up for me? Maggie O’Farrell’s Land.

Drema