> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://dianaludwick.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Ten_Spaces - URL: https://dianaludwick.com/ten_spaces/ - Published: 2026-08-10T07:25:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-08-10T07:25:00.000Z - Description: “Ten_Spaces,” a semi-serious evaluation of what to write in ten characters on a Boat and Tote when in Freeport, ME, written Monday, August 10, 2026 poem 222 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Semi-Serious, Fully Maine," by Diana Ludwick © 2026. - Author: Diana Ludwick - Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Poems, August, Family, High Summer, Summer, Vacationland, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03 I'm in Maine and it's law that I must purchase a Boat and Tote canvas satchel on premise at the Freeport flagship L.L.Bean store and then embroider it with a strict ten-character limit personalization. But brevity is not my strong suit, as many a prior boss and current partner could attest. So, I spend the best part of an August day crouched in a gremliness ball, elbow crooked over knee, chin on other patella, plotting and erasing and counting from the rental home's dining table. I am sounding out potential bag phrases typing into Microsoft Word, then highlighting the word — or cluster of words — to confirm character count. I imagine myself holding the following bags which possess the right number of symbols as I walk through an urban farmer's market: **"'A, 2, D'** —**Buzz"** (*Home Alone* is the best movie. Fight me). **"2-0-8-5-4!"** (Because we're all *Real Housewives of Potomac)* **"Shh!Luxury"** (Because 'Quiet Luxury' is longer than 10 characters) **"Go Bag"** (which I really like, but it's a wee dark, living in the suburbs of a contentious Capitol of the country, and I feel like it's a second custom bag, not the first) In between, I am trying the same thing on my phone Note app, because sometimes a small screen feels different than a big screen. Things that definitely don't fit but I write down, anyway: **"I'm Right on Top of That, Rose!"** (*Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead* is cannon) **"Co-Detective"** (the smartest thing to come from the stupid movie *Holmes and Watson*) **"Slightly-Hinged"** (a good summation of my poetry) **"Skips on Treadmills"** (a grave reminder that Peloton tried to take me out in February 2026) **"I coupon-clipped your way through law school, so you could make a difference in the world! And now all you can be is 'Neffler the Muffler Man!"** (Shelly Long is a goddess; her character Phyllis Neffler in *Troop Beverly Hills* is unparalleled) Almost none of my bezeled and brilliant ideas make the cut. And these iteratives realizations are followed swiftly with expletives (many of them also longer than ten characters). I keep trying: **"Sourdough Mom"** (which is probably for the best, because it's a bit basic) **"Diana (dy-AN-uh)"** (because not all people can pronounce my given name correctly, despite The People's Princess being one of the most popular humans of the twentieth, and twenty-first for that matter, centuries) Lastly, My First and Surname, together, also misses the count. And then it comes to me, carried down from the sun-drenched Maine heavens like blueberry-studded tablets from the Eastern White pine-forested mount: **"Semi-Serious"** — a moniker that fits me to a T. When I finally find this phrase, it feels like home. Relief appears, stuffing itself into my crannies like towels jammed into a beach bag, and somehow there's room for just a little more hope, another tube of SPF, another to-be-untouched book. I make my trek to the green-lettered landmark to select tote size, strap and bottom color, thread hue. And then I fill in the black outlined boxes, all ten — but somehow the form is wrong, I have two letters to fit in, yet the boxes have run out. Clearly the form was misprinted, I scan the floor to flag down an employee for a correct personalization sheet. I will this this error on their part. My current husband peers over my shoulder, and unhelpfully, without asking, counts aloud: "Di, that's one-two-three-four-five — "— six-seven-eight-nine-ten — eleven, *twelve*." My phrase is *twelve* characters long. Impossible. I am, as I am so often in this life, divergent, non-compliant, out of bounds, the limit *does* exist, so *Mean Girls* Lindsay Lohan you were wrong. Dread, wet anger seeps into my heart, sweat beads on brow like a canvas bag left too close to the shoreline at high tide. My metaphorical sandwiches waterlog with tidal flow, my emotional hardcover swells with seaweed-tinged waves. "WHAT DO I *DO*?!" I cry out, a little too loud, drawing attention. Like all cast into the five stages of Sontag's grief, I quickly make my way from rage to bargaining. I can fix this. This is not permanent! I make my way to the cashier, rehearsing my pitch. After all, isn't the customer always correct? What's two characters, among friends? I approach the next open till, lock eyes with the holder of my fate. "So I realize you have a limit," I begin. She draws her breath quickly. I am not the first to question the fates. "Yes, we do," she confirms. "But I was just thinking, here I am, here you are. "*We* can solve this together," I say, putting on my consultant's solutionist's voice. Her eyes narrow, her stance stiffens. Not great. "Look, I'll sign a waiver, I'll attest I know it's not standard. "I'll get a witness, a notary; this is *feasible*," I close. She stares at me, her Maine kindness pared back to brass tacks. "Look." She starts. She leans in, lowers her voice. "Here's what I can do. I will write your request in, *verbatim*. "I will specify that you acknowledge you are out of standard. "I will have you sign the receipt. "And *then* we let the keepers of the threads decide." I brighten immediately; stay of execution! I will take an ominous maybe over a clear-cut No any day. She writes my phrase thrice, then states it aloud. She prints the receipt. I review it, re-state it aloud, sign it. "Godspeed," she says, a curt nod that imbues gravity. Like I am pushing off on a whaler for three years while my soon-to-be widow wears a path into our floorboards. And now I wait.