Between Phases
23 February 2026
Luna. Moon. Moonstruck. Moonshine. Lunatic.
What is it about this pale orb that has me looking for her whenever I step outside after dark?
Did you know the moon is etymologically tied to measure and meter?
Sounds like poetry to me.
But then most things do.
Let me ask you something:
Are you a poem?
A short story?
Flash fiction—or an epic novel?
Are you fiction or nonfiction?
That’s like asking nature or nurture.
Isn’t it always some measure of both?
The moon holds me because she marks time.
And of time, I know this:
Last week passed beneath her light.
You saw how the Egg Nebula stirred my imagination. You watched me take liberties with the lineage of archetypes—a meditation still unfolding. Wednesday wound up at Attention, a quieter musing.
But I was most over the moon about Grasslands Produce Riders—my reflection on how landscape shapes culture. It feels like an essay with longer legs. For now, I let it rest.
A new week rises—a waxing crescent following the dark.
Here’s what’s forming:
Tuesday
A new poem inspired by Mongolian throat singing. Watch for Khoomei. I’m partial to it.
Wednesday
A surprise—even to me. Unplanned, but arriving nonetheless.
Thursday
An essay in progress. I feel myself in transition—the Incubator strong, the Guardian close behind. My clearest reading yet of the AuthorKind Archetypes. Lately I’ve been circling one question:
Is narrative trust something writers build—or something readers grant?
We’ll see what phase we’re in when it lands.
—Jennifer
JL Tooker