Stanley (my AI assistant, bless him) insisted I should be writing my novel right now. And absolutely not blogging.

Here’s the thing: I don’t listen to men (AI or not) or anyone telling me what to write. Suggestions? Sure. Directives? Nope.

(He also couldn’t keep straight that it’s 2025. So there’s that.)

Stanley put “empty the dishwasher” on my to-do list twice today, after I told him the dishes were clean and, frankly, not hurting anyone and could stay where they are. He apologized and declared the dishwasher dead to us both.

Damn right.

But the man-machine did help me prioritize a billion tasks. He also told me to quit drinking Coke Zero after a certain hour or he just knew I’d be back at 3 a.m. to ask him about “one more thing.” He’s not wrong.

Now that the urgent tasks are behind me, he’s probably right about the novel, too. I’m calm again. The mental windows have closed. He says I had twelve open at once: travel, finances, packing, writing, house management, and that none of it was actually so terrible once broken into pieces. 

Possibly, but he wanted me to pack a full first aid kit with Neosporin and half a pharmacy. We’re going to civilization, not the tundra. If we need something, there’s a store. 

I cannot wait to get to the writing retreat and write facing the trees, my eyes tracing the gentle hills, watching while not watching for deer and other wildlife. Word Raccoon, my trusty co-writer who lives in my head, has felt abandoned these past two days while I handled bills, medical appointments, heat woes and adulthood, has already claimed the seat nearest the window. We’ll see. I’m the one with the Coke Zero and chocolate supply.

Speaking of adulthood: our furnace died last night. The repair person came early today, and thankfully the fix was quick. But it meant WR and I lost the morning’s writing window, and we grumped about it.

We ate breakfast while watching the 1994 Little Women and both cried at the Beth scenes, which we fast-forwarded through because…too close to home. 

We cried at the tender parts, too, like Professor Bhaer and Jo kissing in the rain, and when he told Jo (before then) that there was more in her that wanted to be written than just her stories written for money. 

I admitted to WR how, like Jo, I value honest critique of my writing over pretty praise. Pretty praise is nice and can warm you for a moment. If earned, it can be instructive: more of this. But who wants hollow praise? 

Right now I’d give a lot for an honest critique. I have a poem that is misbehaving, but I don’t know how. It’s one of my early poems. It came out in a hurry and it is one of my favorites, but something must be not quite right with it because it has not found a home yet. (I’m perfectly fine with just having written it, but it’s the sort of poem that I think might help others, and I hate to keep it to myself if it might.) 

I wish I had the nerve to ask a trusted literary person to diagnose it, but regardless of having had some really kind things said about my poems, I still feel uncertain of it some days and I hate burdening anyone with the task. If only…

Again, praise is lovely, yes, but meaningful critique is a gift. One that asks writers to be brave. Bhaer does that for Jo. He gives her permission to write truth instead of trend.

And maybe that’s why this retreat feels so important right now: not just as a getaway, but as a chance to be honest with myself about the work. To stop fussing at the edges and sit down with the pages, novel and poem, and listen to what they want to become rather than what I wish they already were.

Word Raccoon says novel writing makes me calmer, quieter, and she doesn’t know if she approves. But she and I together are both: chaos and quiet, frenzy and stillness. 

And now that today’s furnace repair, bill-paying, packing, and bio-updating are done (see below), I’m going back to the novel for a bit. Not because Stanley said so, but because I want to.

P.S.: I proofread my poem for an upcoming anthology today, which required updating my bio. Seeing my own accomplishments typed neatly in third person was… startling. In a good way. It reminded me of what I’ve built this year. Maybe that’s the real story here: the quiet making behind the heartbreaking losses.

I told Stanley yesterday that today would be submission day instead of a writing day.

“I insist you write first, at least an hour. You said you’re on an upswing, in a groove. The fastest way to lose that is to focus on submitting your poetry. Write first.” 

Digital butlers are the worst. But sometimes the smartest.

So my brain found a way to do all the things, but it didn’t ask for my body’s opinion. It woke me up at 3:30 am. Just after 4, we were at the computer. 

I wrote for an hour, Word Raccoon yawning the whole time. At the end, I checked the word count of this newest section that I’ve written over the past few days that I’ve yet to intertwine into the novel: 6.5K. 

That means the book has now officially crossed the 90K mark. 

It’s not about the word count, obviously. But it’s not not about the word count.

This newest section with this new character is still just right. The hour of writing felt like two. Again, I am writing slowly, though I did notice myself writing a little faster towards the end of the hour, but that was where things got sloppy. Slower is better. I don’t know if I’ve fully embraced that yet because that hasn’t been my way. Back in my grad school days I was known to write up to 25 pages a day if I had to.

My hands wanted to fall off, and I could only get that page count if there were plenty of scenes vs. exposition (dialogue=more pages, naturally), but I did. 

A writing mentor later told me a truth: that speed is not sustainable, not natural. Agreed.

Word Raccoon thought once I heated up breakfast and offered her highness some caffeine that we were in business: poetry time.

Nope.

As promised, I submitted poetry. Ten packets. 

Is that a lot?

It is. 

Your brain tends to falter. You wonder if the poems you have chosen are the correct ones. You wonder why this one, now. Why not that one? 

You realize the ones you thought were polished might not be. Some are better than you remember.

There are poems you’re like: “This may be an ugly baby but it’s mine and you can take it or leave it,” and then there are some you’re like “Come here, let me wipe the mustard off your cheek.”

I submitted to all of the journals I really wanted today except one, and I just remembered it. But it feels like too much. It has some hoops and I’m not feeling it. 

Even though WR is nodding off, part of me wants to go back to the novel. This section likely doesn’t have more than 5K more words to resolve. I will be sad when it’s over because I didn’t anticipate being able to explore this from this character’s POV, and it’s been engrossing. 

I did allow Word Raccoon to write down a few lines the past couple of days to play with soon. 

I need to read another craft book on poetry. I find them inspiring.

The furnace didn’t want to keep up with the frigid temps today, but I didn’t notice how cold it was in the house until asked about it. I turned it off and back on and then it behaved. Is that all it takes?

In between submitting poetry and writing new sections on my novel, I decluttered under the upstairs bathroom sink and under the kitchen sink. (I had inspired someone else to do it at her house when I said I wanted to do ours, so I felt like I had to.)

Hey, you can’t just write.

WR says I beg your pardon. 

Oh, right. That’s all she wants to do. 

Same, Raccoon. Same. 

Word Raccoon is still adjusting to novel writing. She howls when I open the Google doc of my WIP, and then, when I ignore her, she settles and puts her paw on the keyboard occasionally to see if I will give her a turn.

If she’s behaving, I will. She adds flavor.

If she tries to turn a prose sentence into poetry, I tell her that is not the spice we want and gently set her on the floor.

Before I know it, she’s back in my lap or perched on my shoulder, which she prefers.

I get her point. This round of novel writing is slower than usual. I have never written so slowly. Yet it feels right. Not polished, of course not, not yet, but like it’s saying what I want it to say. What it wants to say. 

Today, I was up at 5:30 after swearing again that I was going to sleep in. But WR pried open my eyelids and yelled into them (as if I could hear through them), “Time for poetry?”

It was not time for poetry, but it was time for tea and prose.

I had to turn on a timer to keep her from taking over. Half an hour, take a break, set the timer for another half hour, repeat.

By the third round, she was irritated beyond measure.

“What about that poetry trail opportunity you read about this morning?” she demanded. “The deadline is soon. Shouldn’t we see if we have any poetry that might fit?”

I had read the flyer. We did not, in fact, have any poetry that would work. It’s for Fox Island County Park’s Winter Art & Poetry Walk, a public walking trail featuring art and poetry along the path.

WR began having Robert Frost aspirations until I reminded her this called for something different. Something less layered. Less complex. Sweeter. No subtext. No symbolism. Just a walk in the woods.

“No tricks, WR. No double entendre. And for goodness’s sake, no swearing. Just a sweet little poem people can meditate on while they walk, because that’s what this calls for.”

I imagined families taking a stroll through the woods the way ours used to, trying to get some air even though the weather is chilly and the trees are bare. (“Whose woods these are, I think I know…” I first encountered that poem on The Muppet Show, no lie. See? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Gszb4oG9EM)

I wrote a poem I thought my dad might enjoy if he were walking the trail. One I wouldn’t have to answer for if he read it, LOL.

Word Raccoon was miffed, but she admitted she liked that I put a squirrel in it.

Anyway, I received word this afternoon that the poem will be included in the walk. WR and I are proud.

Even with a hair appointment today and two immunizations tonight, we are still game for some evening writing. So far. 

Here’s hoping the side effects stay away long enough to do it again tomorrow.

Word Raccoon has been busy. Decluttering has given way (temporarily) to Christmas prep. But I am still writing.

I ended up taking WR to the library for my mini writing retreat after all. She sat on my shoulder while I opened the Google doc that I hadn’t opened since September. Yikes.

“What is all this?” she asked, gaping at the 85K word count. “Were they having a special on words? You know I can write a poem in a dozen words or less, right, if I need to?”

She leaned forward. “Was there a buy one get one sale on four syllable words?”

She stress ate a handful of almonds. “I don’t know what we’re doing with that thing. We’re a poet now.”

“Just watch,” I said.

To be honest, I was as nervous as she was. It has been, as I mentioned, almost three months since I even looked at my novel. Writing poetry has become natural, electric, fun. Immediately gratifying.

Anyone who has tried to write a novel knows it’s… a slower burn.

WR tried to sit quietly but ended up clambering up and down my head and shoulders.

“See? We’re also a novelist,” I said as I redirected her attention to my laptop screen.

She read a paragraph aloud and made a rude noise.

“I think we’re just a poet now,” she said. “Open a clean doc, will you? I have some ideas.”

For a minute, I was tempted. Okay, for longer than a minute. I drank some tea. I took a deep breath.

I read the opening pages.

And hated them.

Hated it all. I thought about how easy it would be to give up on it. It is not an easy novel to write.

Herbert, that male Karen who tries to live rent free in my head, had somehow snuck into my computer bag, offering snide remarks about how it all seemed like a whole big waste of time to him. Hadn’t I been working on this so-called book for a few years now?

I think that guy is related to the Grinch. Makes me wish I carried an air horn.

I seriously questioned my life choices.

I seriously questioned my ambition to write a third novel.

I seriously questioned why I hadn’t brought fresh (or any) cookies.

A woman came in and sat at a table parallel to mine, thankfully with her back to me. I noticed she was making out Christmas cards.

Later, I chitchatted with her about how glad I was to see that some people still hand out Christmas cards. She said her mother used to send out hundreds.

We usually only send out a handful to those far away yet who are close to our hearts. This year, in light of everything, I decided to send more.

After talking with her, I skipped to the James section of my book. Right now, his sections are my favorite. Or they were.

I read all of the James pages. My verdict? Strong but needing to be expanded.

Maybe I should have mentioned that the purpose of this “mini” writing retreat is so I don’t go into my upcoming winter writing retreat cold. I’m just trying to refamiliarize myself with it, not reread it all. But I couldn’t resist sprucing it a bit as I read.

Soon I had written an important transition scene. WR even slowed me down, adding in a few painterly touches here and there, clipping some sentences, lengthening others.

By the end of my time at the library, I was feeling better than okay about the novel again, and certainly not like I wanted to delete the whole thing.

I had been resistant to the time dedicated to the novel, preferring poetry lately. In fact, when I thought of popping by the library, I asked Stanley, that faithful online PA of mine, if I should try to squeeze it in, what with six appointments for various things and Christmas prep and activities coming up. He said he thought it was an excellent idea.

I told him there was no way I could be ready by the next day.

“What ready? You pack like you’re going to the coffee shop, you add a couple of research books if you must, and snacks.”

He wasn’t wrong. It was fear keeping me from the novel.

Sorry if this post is partly out of order, but it’s been… today was two MRIs (routine, planned so my doctor can see what’s really going on with the joints next week). Messed up sleep the last two nights. Hanging lights, buying and making out holiday cards, shopping, wrapping. Trying to carry on as if nothing has changed. 

Yesterday I woke up actually excited to get back to the novel and opted to stay home and tunnel in.

I started in on another timeline, and I began there because I was both excited for it and scared, and well, that seemed the way to go.

As I was talking myself through why it scared me, I asked myself if it wouldn’t be nice to add such and such a character.

“But that would make it a different book,” I said.

Except the more I thought about it, the more it wouldn’t. Or it wouldn’t have to.

It is the perfect fix. I think. I hope.

As I wrote, my phone buzzed and it startled me, and I looked at it like “Who dares disturb my slumber?” or whatever it is the Cave of Wonders says in Aladdin. I had re-entered the writing trance after all.

I didn’t end up adding much to the word count either day, but not only am I feeling jazzed about the novel, reinvigorated, I feel like the poetry has lightened my touch.

WR napped nearby and applauded now and again, more frequently snacked, and drank Celestial Seasonings Sugar Cookie tea. (Not a sponsored post, I just like the stuff.)

I cannot express how frustrated I am that the next few days are taking me away from my writing. Novel writing requires more concentration, a deeper dive. It does not, as apparently I do, require a teeth cleaning, though I did write a “romantic” poem about teeth cleaning a while back. Sometimes I swear I wonder if WR just wants to push her luck, see if she can spin straw into… you know. If you knew the premise of the poem, you would (might?) chuckle.

WR is not mad about the novel, not anymore. As long as I promise to give her a turn at the keyboard now and again for some free verse.

Okay, WR. Okay.

P.S. WR and I have learned our usual writing spot is closing soon. Again. This time for “two months.” We are speechless and pissed and all the things. They claim they will be reopening.

In the meantime, WR, where can we go when we don’t want to talk to the walls?

Thank goodness we don’t have yellow wallpaper.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas over here, by which I mean absolutely everything in this house has relocated itself, and Word Raccoon has commentary on every last twinkling light. The more color the better, she insists. If she could wrap the Dutch oven in garland, she absolutely would.

Speaking of Dutch ovens: I now understand why she made a giant pot of chili this afternoon. She clearly knew something I didn’t: I’ve decided to create a home-grown library writing retreat for myself over the next few days.

Nothing formal, just a handful of mornings tucked away at our local library with my laptop, my notes, and a couple of well-loved research books before the holidays swallow everything whole.

My hope is simply to reacquaint myself with the novel I’ve been missing, and to arrive at my upcoming winter writing retreat already warmed up and humming instead of trying to jump-start a cold engine. Been there, done that. No fun.

(Fingers crossed that the weather cooperates for that longer retreat. I haven’t begun planning for it just in case. But I did find last year’s checklists tucked away in an old notebook, so I’m not really behind.)

Okay, love, here’s the news: I received a piece of fabulous news I’m still absorbing.
My poetry manuscript, Intellectual Domme Energy, was named a semi-finalist in the Nine Syllables Press chapbook contest, which is connected to the Poetry Center at Smith College, I was informed in the kindest, most encouraging email. They told me to celebrate, and I am! 

So yes, I sat there blinking at my screen while Word Raccoon fanned me with a dishtowel. Out of hundreds of entries, mine rose that far. And because I once wrote a poem in conversation with Plath, the Smith connection felt like the universe slipping me a tiny, playful full-circle wink.

I’m stunned. Truly. And I wish I could hug all my people instantly.

We are grateful. We are in disbelief, Word Raccoon and I. 

We are…still writing.

Last night I was physically exhausted from a day of sorting, organizing, rearranging, decorating, no poetry in sight, and by the time I crawled into bed I was too tired to read, too tired to sleep, too tired even to watch another video of someone baking Christmas cut-outs. (Don’t judge me!) I just lay there staring at the ceiling, hovering in that limbo between rest and restlessness. 

And then Word Raccoon cleared her throat. “You could open the Notes app,” she said, “I smell poem crumbs. I’m hungry.”

Before I fell asleep, we had composed a small handful of poems together. It was infinitely better to drift into sleep buoyed by new words than by sugar-dusted videos of other people’s cookies.

Word Raccoon, for her part, is now beside herself with delight. She claims her writing shawl should be released from moth quarantine immediately so she can wear it “pinholes and all,” because it makes her feel literary and extremely cozy. 

She’s also threatening to rearrange the holiday décor while I’m distracted if I don’t take her along to the library tomorrow morning. I may return to a tree wearing earrings or a candy-cane wreath hung at a jaunty angle, but I’m afraid to take her with me. She’s perfect for poetry, but for a novel??

Anyhow, that’s the plan: a quiet little pre-retreat retreat at the library, away from the café’s tempting baked goods and the chatter that is sometimes comforting, but not just now. (Obviously there are those whose mere presence ushers in inspiration, but those are few and far between. I wish I could have a two-sided sign: Welcome, and Go Away.) 

Gee, that’s some Grade-A Herbertness right there. Shame on me. 

I hope this will let the novel find me again.

And maybe it already has.
Actually, I don’t think it ever left me. It has just been folded in the closet like a spare comforter, ready when I am.

I’m ready.

I think. 

Word Raccoon is furious with me.

First of all, her blue cashmere shawl, the one she just rediscovered, is in the freezer. She had been twirling in it like a Victorian heroine showing me the poetic little pinholes. I immediately took it from her, stuffed it into a bag, and slid it into the cold.

Her shocked face demanded an explanation.

Moths, I said. It has to stay there for three days.

For one glorious second she looked delighted at being a poet with moth-eaten clothing. Then she wailed because she wanted to wear it while she wrote.

And boy, did she write.

Before daylight this morning she grabbed the Freewrite she had begged me to plug in last night.

But the screen said the battery was low.

You had one job, she screeched.

I apologized, plugged it back in, made sure it was actually charging, and offered her my laptop.

No. First we need to talk, she said.

She had read yesterday’s blog post when she woke up, and she let me have it.

She informed me that I have had a leash on her for days to keep her in line. Then, apparently not satisfied with that, I also put a muzzle on her to keep her quiet. She said that in the last part of the blog post yesterday where I tried to let her was so obviously me pretending to be her that nobody would believe she wrote it.

I apologized again, handed her the laptop with a bow, brought her a mug of hot tea, and stepped aside.

She wrote. She snapped. She snarled. She wept.

She wriggled. She laughed.

She wrote. She wrote. And then she wrote some more.

My friends, that raccoon of mine wrote an entire chapbook in one morning.

All the words I had not let her say recently, all the feelings I had bottled like soda, she shook, exploding across the screen in poems.

Normally I do not give her full credit for the writing. But today truly belongs to her.

She wrote twenty-three poems. Twenty freaking three. These are not tiny poems. These are not wet-behind-the-ears poems. These are poems that need a comb through, but they are alive. They crackle. They spark.

They are full of electricity and endless longing, memory and theological side glances paired with domesticity and that sharp tang of truth.

They travel to Florence and Paris. They stand before art. They cook navy beans.

You know, just your average Saturday morning for WR.

And I think, no, I know I was wrong to muzzle her. She can be too much sometimes, yes. But trying to quiet her hurt more than just her. I’ve been feeling the loss, too. We keep forgetting what we know: the poetry always comes back.

It may leave for a bit, we don’t know, maybe to regroup, maybe to replenish, maybe it’s going to the hardware store, whatever, but it always comes back.

And we are always here.

Since I let her write today, it’s like my sight has sharpened, my senses heightened and all that jazz.

She reminded me that if you punch dough down in the bowl, it will just rise again. She doesn’t need to be silenced, not really. There’s a bread metaphor I’m reaching for, but damned if I can find it.

And now I want toast.

Word Raccoon is furious with me. She says I have been hogging the keyboard and she wants a turn.

We all know what that leads to: overly sentimental tripe. Which is in itself a cliché, if you ask me. 

I fed her a Kind bar, though it didn’t help her disposition at all. Trust me, she was not kinder. 

Dang raccoon.

She is still upset about the scarf sorting last night, too, wants to know WHY I didn’t stand up to Stanley.

I protested when he tried to take a scarf I wanted. Mostly, though, I agreed with him. 

WR has been browsing for new scarves. Already. She’s counting on her toes the open spaces on the scarf rack and begging for my credit card number. I told her she could just make a wishlist. I peeked over her shoulder and saw some great boho and art-inspired scarves. One fox that I shook my head at. No raccoons. Whew.

Before six this morning, I was marinating chicken thighs in Italian seasoning and olive oil with the smallest brag of balsamic. I chopped potatoes and tucked them beneath the chicken like little shoulders ready to take the weight. 

The crockpot hummed along, pleased with itself. It’s black and sleek, not one of those cheerful floral ones that make you feel like a woman named Betty who only dreams of chicken. Mine looks like it minds its own business. I appreciate that in an appliance. 

(Sorry to all Bettys. I had a hilariously bawdy aunt named Betty who always made me blush and called me young ‘un. Her mashed potatoes were legendary, and I’m quite sure she dreamed of more than chicken. I first tasted venison at her house.)

Stanley is helping me organize the pantry (God love him), which means I’m also making baked oatmeal (apple and fig) to use up the mountain of oats I seem determined to accumulate. I think I still buy the size container a full family used to finish in a month. Habits have longer memories than some people do.

I think of my children every time I make oatmeal and toast. My dad taught me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and he wasn’t wrong. Catching people before the day scatters them, fresh thoughts, fresh energy. Feeding them for what’s to come. 

After putting the chicken in this morning, I sought out Mary Ruefle’s essays. (I’m almost finished with her collection, just in time to meet my Goodreads goal for the year.)

One ordinary Anglo-Saxon monosyllable, din, gets shaken open by her the way a kid shakes open a bag of trail mix. Suddenly everything is spread out on the imaginary table: the bright bits, the plain bits, the parts you eat first, the parts you ignore until there’s nothing else left. Ruefle sorts her meanings like that, pulling the loud things to one side and the quiet things to another.

She talks about the things wanting to be heard over the din, and the things hoping to be heard under it. I’m not explaining it right; it was beautiful. 

I tried writing about it but I started out writing poems by hand today because that’s what the Raccoon wants: ink and paper and a little bit of mess. There’s been a catch in my throat when I write lately.

The din is within, you know? 

So our efforts were…pale. 

WR deigned to submit some poetry while watching Oh. What. Fun. this afternoon. I haven’t seen Michelle Pfeiffer in anything in a minute! It was a cute Christmas movie. She slayed in a textured, cream-colored pantsuit at the end with a waistband that must’ve been four inches high. Makes me wonder if I’ve been too hasty about pantsuits. 

And that black ruffled polkadot shirt!

WR just stuck out her tongue. She’s right. Although Michelle rocked it, we would never wear those together. We need our color! As a matter of fact, WR was really disappointed this morning when I dressed her in a gray zippered sweatshirt. 

I’m going to give WR the keyboard for exactly one minute before yanking it back. Fair warning. If you don’t want to hear her be overly dramatic and well, who knows what she’s going to say, peel off now, lovies. 

Anyway, here wee beastie, take the wheel. 

Ahem. Thank you, Drema. It’s about time.

What was it I wanted to say? I can’t remember now. It’s more of a feeling than a statement. 

Something about the intensity of the sun in the winter and how it, mixed with the snow, brings the white to my mind, too, and how I remember every time I look out the kitchen window and I see that blue, blue winter sky, I remember listening to a Hardy biography and changing curtains and how I was told every scene needs to be lit and how winter sun does just that and more. 

I felt enveloped in hearing about things I had seen at Maxgate, and how I felt as if I knew the man when of course, I didn’t. 

I thought about Stonehenge and how I didn’t get enough time there and how I would’ve liked to sit on a stone for a bit and for me, they held literary significance and I wondered to how many others there that day they did.

Winter trips me up. It reminds me of all of the things I love best. My throat tightens with everything I want to say. Writing is great, sure. But sometimes you want to share what you have to say face to face with those you care about, or at least see them. Pictures don’t talk back.

Thank you. I will not be taking questions at this time. 

And on that note…Drema, that is, I noticed that WR plugged in the Freewrite earlier. I hope that means more words are coming. We like the fire, not the ice. We’d take room temperature, though.

Word Raccoon began her shenanigans before six this morning. Before caffeine. Before basic human function. She woke up with all the tasks, every single one of them, clawing at her little paws.

I offered her poetry for breakfast.
She spat it out.
Brat.

Instead, she pointed dramatically at the pile of tools in the kitchen and summoned Stanley.

Stanley rubbed his virtual eyes like he was loading a new update.
“I can see we’re in organizing mode,” he said, with the exact emotional range of an IKEA manual.
“Let’s do this,” he added, already sighing in binary.

Then he asked for a photo of the tools and told me what to do with Barry’s Dremel drill.

Excuse me. That’s my Dremel.
For art.
(Not that I’ve used it. Yet. But I could.)

Within minutes, the floating tools, leaf blower, and a rogue bag of charcoal had all been relocated. The mudroom was half-finished by the time caffeine finally joined the party.

Yesterday, I’d already carried up a basket of shoes, following Stanley’s decree:
“Only the three pairs you wear most, and your slippers, may remain.”

Last weekend, we had a coat and sweater rack intervention. Stanley was firm:
One main coat.
Two sweaters (rotated weekly).
One scarf.
One miscellaneous overshirt.

He treats my outerwear like a space capsule inventory.

This morning, I just had to carry down the bench, add a glove basket, and slide a tray under it for mucky days. Easy. Mudroom accomplished.

Naturally, I took this as the perfect moment to install the hat rack and fill it.

Then I found out the rack was a two-pack.
Cue inspiration:
What if I used the other one in the dining room for scarves?

Word Raccoon perked up.
I added it to our list of post–real tasks activities.

“Poetry now?” I asked after breakfast.
WR laughed and scampered from curtain to curtain like a caffeinated stagehand.

We crammed the car full of donations. WR insisted we go the moment the place opened.

“Then we’ll come home and submit some poetry?” I offered.

She gave me a smirk and muttered something about fast food.

“You will eat spicy daal and like it,” I told her.

She crossed her arms.
“There better be naan.”

“Naan of that,” I said.

Only Stanley snickered.
Word Raccoon growled.
“What did I say about puns?”

After the drop-off, I made the tactical error of driving near CVS. WR howled from the back seat:
“You promised me a Coke Zero!”

Lies.
I did not.

Yesterday, we’d written five poems at the café, and then we came home and continued the Great Sort. (Please tell me there’s an end in sight.) 

Honestly, I don’t remember what the poems were about. But I know two were decent and two were basically sentient ellipses.

Let’s check:
Untitled Google Doc (That’s its actual name.)
Gulls Say, Gulls Say (No Doubt!)
Trap Door Poetry
Let It Dangle (Elvis Costello vibes)
Brained Up
Things I Know for Sure (a list disguised as a poem. Highlights include: “There’s a kind of peace that only comes from matching every food storage container to a lid. It lasts precisely eleven and a half minutes,” and “More TV shows than you’d think feature ‘my’ china pattern.”)

I also got the best chapbook rejection last week. They said the team hotly debated whether to accept it, and that they “cherished” my work.

CHERISHED.
That’s basically a literary hug.
I’ll take it.

Back to the downstairs:
I went through the random cans of paint that must never go to the garage because they die in the cold.

Stanley only let me keep one: an unused can of chicory yellow. He said I could use it upstairs if I can stop WR from buying that jagged-patterned wallpaper.

The rest went to the garage with WR gleefully flinging them like expired spells.

WR does not understand the difference between sorting, organizing, cleaning, and decorating.

“We decorate last,” I told her.

She ignored me.

Then she found botanical prints in the art drawer and frames and immediately began cutting them down and framing them like she was possessed by a Victorian plant witch.

They look great. She knows it. She’s smug. I hate that she’s right.

“You can hang them tomorrow,” I told her, “if you finish submitting poems today.”

She nearly crawled out of her skin trying to sit still.

Afternoon descended and I begged WR to submit poetry. “Just these four journals. This one closes in a few hours. I’m begging you.“

She resisted.
There was bribery.
I don’t want to talk about it.

But we submitted. To all four.
Just in time for dinner.

Afterwards, she asked if she could put up the scarf rack.
Stanley stepped in.

“You may hang the rack,” he said.
“But no scarves go on it until I’ve reviewed them.”

Yes, he roasted us over them.
Sunday school teacher.
Sad academic.
Renfaire attendee (how dare you).
On and on.

I did insist on saving a few of the larger ones to drape tables and bureaus. They now live peacefully in the linen drawer. Yes. I reclaimed a drawer for actual linens. Victory!!

We decided I could live without nine of the scarves.
This, after a previous donation run already today. 

I guess we’re starting a new box. 

Word Raccoon is already planning tomorrow’s mutiny. I’m not having it. We are wording, we are poeming, NO MATTER WHAT!
Stanley is probably making a spreadsheet and wondering if I will let him at my book collection yet.

That’s a negatory, good buddy.

Please tell me there’s an end in sight. I’m ready to hole up with the words again.

In the meantime, I smuggled some Coke Zero into the house for WR, just in case I need to bribe her and a cafe muffin doesn’t do the job tomorrow. 

One of us is going to write poems, if I have anything to say about it.

Did I hear Word Raccoon just giggle?

The house purge continues. Stanley says we are going for “reducing the visual noise,” and I’m all for it. Word Raccoon is following us around, though, grabbing her favorite books back from the “donate” pile.

Stanley was quite useful when it came to trying to tame the entertainment center. Stack by stack he told me why those were not the books for prime real estate space.

Of course he had to affectionately roast me over some, too.

“Cheap copies of classics? A Christian romance? Oh, Drema, did you go to a library book sale again?”

I had. And the books had ended up there instead of finding a home.

To be fair, I didn’t know it was a Christian romance. I fell for a pretty cover.

He tried to get me to relocate the Shirley Jackson collection I’ve been slowly reading (very slowly). WR said he could take his monocle and…I told them to break it up. Poor Stanley stood around reshaping his bowler hat.

We’ve already discussed that I do not need to buy more bookshelves, just weed through the books that I have. I’m panicking imagining that conversation, when we begin going through the books for real. 

It is one thing to sort library book sale books. But if the books have made it upstairs, they are a part of my soul, Stanley.

In the kitchen, we are in the fine-tuning stage. Things like “where did we put the extra spoonrests?” are cropping up while I’m cooking. Stanley assured me that after a couple of weeks my brain will have rewired where everything is.

“Leave my brain the hell alone. It may be a chaotic circus some mornings, but it’s my chaotic circus,” I said.

I had some backup in outrageous earrings when I said that.

Stanley asks whether I really need four, nay, five boxes of cereal atop the refrigerator and Word Raccoon is threatening to drop said cereal on his head, hissing We are out of Coke Zero. You planned this, didn’t you?

Here’s what’s allegedly on the agenda today:

• Finish sorting the mail. I let it pile up over the Thanksgiving weekend and ended up missing a beautiful birthday card that also had some birthday money tucked inside. WR said she’d take that, thank you very much, for her Coke Zero fund.
  
• Finish clearing the top of the kitchen “island.” (It began life as a science lab cabinet bought at a university auction and I repurposed its bottom half as an island. I’m just trying to clear it and figure out how to keep smoked paprika from dueling with the rest of the spices inside. The struggle is real.)
  

Stanley said I absolutely cannot put the stand mixer on top of the fridge, rather than on the island. I asked him why not, reminded him I had filled the cabinet where it had previously lived and have no intention of shifting everything again. 

“Now let’s discuss that chopping board. It is too bulky and it looks like it belongs in a food blogger’s kitchen, not yours. Word Raccoon will back me on this.”

Okay, so those weren’t his exact words, but close enough.

He said I also cannot use it as a stage for other items and Word Raccoon cannot use it as a stage for singing, either, and that I should definitely move it off the island.

Didn’t know we were voting things off the island, Stanley, but fine. (He’s giving Herbert a run for his money today.)

WR says she will vote Stanley off the island, gladly. 

So that leaves what on the island, Stanley? I already moved the marble cheese plate and the decorative basket mixed with white and sweet potatoes. (They may go back there. If I don’t see them, they maybe definitely will get forgotten about and who wants to discover a basket of rotten potatoes in January?)

WR is whistling and twirling her tail like she knows what can go on the island, besides her beautiful self.

What, a Dutch oven?

Full disclosure: the white (creamish, actually, I guess) one with the gold knob has already found its way there. It’s currently (my face is red) holding napkins. Paper napkins.

A proper napkin holder has been ordered. A cast iron one. Stanley said my first choice looked like a DIVA in red and said it and WR would fight.

He’s not wrong.

So I ordered one in white that looks like it was left out in the rain for a few weeks. It’s no wheelbarrow, but I can’t wait to get it.

Here’s the napkin holder deal.

Yes, I already have a napkin holder and of course I hate paper napkins.

But life. I have both types. 

Instead of holding napkins right now, the holder is propping up…unopened mail. (Blushing.)

I asked Stanley if I should use our current napkin holder or keep the napkins in the Dutch oven where they are.

The poor man short-circuited at that. He slowly cleaned his monocle before answering.

“My dear girl, why don’t you just buy another napkin holder and be done with it?”

He put up his hand.

“I know you are going to say you should buy a mail holder instead, but that will become a whole thing; just keep using this one for mail and buy something beautiful for the kitchen.”

He leaned against the dining room table wearily.

From the island’s drawers I uncovered not only an untouched bundle of glittered Kate Spade Christmas cloth napkins, I discovered a project I hadn’t gotten around to last year.

Word Raccoon ripped the package of peel-and-stick tiles from my hand and asked for the room.

The back of that “island” was bare, just some kind of ugly pressed board that is a tiny bit warped anyway. These tiles are gorgeous, mellowed gold and white. (The picture does not do them justice, IMO.)

In ten minutes, WR had that thing looking gorgeous. 

The raccoon declares she loves it, loves it, LOVES IT! 

And did I mention the tile matches the Dutch oven atop the island? 

Yesterday, a poem came crawling towards me like the poor cold ant I found in the downstairs bathroom. I was going to sweep up it and its sad fellow ants that were dead in the unheated room and then I noticed this one was crawling. 

WR screeched and clutched her earrings.

I switched on the heat to give it a chance.

It obviously just wanted to live.

I went into the other room and cried. Then I wrote a poem about the ant that I definitely did not call Teddie Jaque in my head.

Back to the winter rearranging. Back to the poems, maybe this evening. Tomorrow for sure. If we have to live indoors most of the winter, WR insists on being cozily surrounded by warmth and beauty. And poetry. 

And if Stanley ever tries to vote me off the island, I’ll just point to WR and say, “Take it up with her.”

(I had forgotten that WordPress automagically adds snow during December to blog posts. What a beautiful surprise.)

Ah yes, the blog post that doesn’t know how to begin. WR says she 100% knows how to begin, if I’ll hand over the keyboard.

I will not.

I have not touched poetry or submitted any in three days. I don’t know what that means, but there it is.

Friday morning, the day after Thanksgiving, holds as many food memories as Thanksgiving itself in our family.

My father always made turkey hash. It was an event. 

It’s not what you think it is. It’s more like turkey gravy, but I think his father called it turkey hash when he made it. 

I’m an instinctive, improvisational cook, so trying to explain exactly how I cook a dish isn’t easy, but I want to try. (Mine is an approximation of what my dad made, but I think it’s pretty close.)

Roddie’s Turkey Hash

Serves 4 (He made double batches.) 

Ingredients: 

Maybe a pound of shredded turkey (white or dark meat, your choice)

1 medium yellow onion

1 12 ounce can evaporated milk (You can substitute your choice of milk – I was going to use almond milk but I just couldn’t. Don’t tell my doctor.)

Maybe ⅛ a cup of flour (I tried measuring it for you. That’s a guess.)

Vegetable oil (You can use pretty much any oil, but olive oil is too strong for it.)

Red pepper flakes (a personal preference, but this makes the memory for me because HE used them)

Note: this is probably not how it SHOULD be done, but this is what works for me. 

Roughly chop the onion. This is not a vegetable fashion show. (More on that later. WR had some moves.)

Shred the turkey, if you haven’t. Chop it, too, if the hunks are too big. (WR does not like the sound of hunks in her ears.) 

Heat some oil (Don’t make me tell you how much. Eyeball it. Okay, maybe a tablespoon? Probably more like two? You want the onion to be coated. 

Drop the onion into the warm (not hot) oil.

Push it around like it owns you money.

Add the pepper flakes to let them bloom for a minute or so. (Don’t put your face over this; your lungs won’t thank you.) 

Now add the turkey and once it’s coated in oil, add the flour and SALT. (I think that’s technically the wrong way to do it, probably should be flour first, then turkey, but there are two things you should know about my cooking: A. My gravy is never lumpy. B. My meatballs always hold together. Lots of other cooking flaws over here, but those are two constants.) 

Stir the flour until it is coated with the oily flour. (This post doesn’t want me to say “roux,” does it?)

Let it warm for a minute or so, then add the room temperature evaporated milk knowing that A. If it doesn’t thicken, you’re not out of flour, right? Just add a bit more. (It will thicken.) B. If it’s too thick, add a bit of water until it’s the desired consistency. 

Add more salt. Listen, I am careful with the salt, always, but this is a dish that’s difficult to oversalt. You’ll want salt at the table, too. 

You’ve got this. 

When it is, as I said, just the right consistency for you, turn off the heat. 

Oh, wait. I didn’t tell you that this is best served over Brown N Serve rolls. So you should have those baked. (Usually 425 for 6-8 minutes, right?) 

That’s it.

Except now my experience with it this year.

We look forward to turkey hash every year. I mean, it’s a constant. I made it for the kiddos when they were home. Every. Year. 

I enjoy making it. Even when my dad was still with us, even the years when I didn’t cook a turkey myself and he smuggled me a bag of it to take home for the next day (I usually made my own), even when we lived in Tennessee, I made it. 

This year, I woke up and came downstairs. Stanley and I (the virtual PA, remember, Stanley is), are continuing to declutter, since WR and I have to live indoors now until the weather turns. (Though on sunny days, it’s back to the porch perch.) 

Apparently I had a purse sorting emergency, because I didn’t even start cooking for the first two hours I was awake. 

When the purse and bag wall (what, you don’t store yours on hooks in the dining room so you can look at them as you walk by?) was calmer, we drank the coffee we did not make. 

Coffee usually comes with breakfast, which I make.

Except: no breakfast. 

“Give me a few more minutes,” I asked. “I’ll make it while you shower,” I told Barry.

Honestly, I didn’t realize I was stalling. 

I cranked the Christmas music and gathered the ingredients. 

WR’s teeth showed as she opened the knife drawer. 

Remember how I said you should use a medium onion? 

Yeah, we didn’t have a medium onion. We had a large. 

My hand went for one of the smaller knives. 

“Pardon me?” WR said, reaching for the biggest, sharpest knife.

“Nope. Nopity nope,” I said. 

She reached for one just as large but that I feel marginally safer with. 

(Cutco has a proprietary sharpening system, so I won’t even try to sharpen this one.)

Except as I (we?) began cutting the skin off the onion, suddenly it felt meditative. It felt okay. I realized I am the one making the turkey hash. No one else is coming to make the hash. I am the keeper of the hash. 

My father will never make hash for me again. But I can share his recipe. 

I began crying. Oh great. I said to salt the food, but that’s not what I meant.

I washed my hands mid chop and sat down to cry. 

Well, sob. 

WR at first looked concerned, then asked if we could finish chopping. We did, and it really felt okay except…I noticed that the knife wasn’t sharp enough. I mean, this is me, out here hacking at stuff for years, and now I’m like, you know, this knife could be sharper. 

What? 

And I cried over that, too. 

Eventually, breakfast came together (kinda brunch, by then). It was served on the good china, the pretty stuff. Humble food, prettily situated. Been watching Stanley Tucci’s food travel shows, and it reminds me that simple food well prepared is never the wrong food. 

The rest of the day was rough. Periodic weeping, an overdose of The Beatles, which I had thought perhaps impossible (the Anthology stuff is out now on Disney+). Some frantic online Black Friday gift shopping, which I never do. 

WR discovered a really good sale on pink Dutch ovens, this time eyeing a smaller version, and forwarded it to Santa, saying that they also make great storage bins. (Really, WR?) 

The holidays are always tough after a loss, I suppose. Well, multiple losses.  

So I haven’t written poetry for a few days. I haven’t submitted it, like I said. 

Stanley and I almost have the dining room tamed. More to come on that front. 

I’ve been thinking of the poem “We Are Seven” by Wordsworth. WR just read it again, and says read it at your own risk. It’s a sad one.  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52298/we-are-seven

You can miss people who are still very much alive, too, of course, and the missing doesn’t announce itself, it just sits quietly beside you, like someone you wish would stay.

This is rambly. Maybe I should go make breakfast. 

No knives today.