The Week of The Heavy Hits

The first signs of a cold I mentioned in my previous post turned into a fully blown assault on my general well-being; I spent a day in bed, feverish, aching, too sick to do much besides watch television. My voice went from raspy to non-existent—a challenge in the classroom.

More difficult was getting some feedback on my work that seemed designed to stop me dead in my tracks. Which it has done, though I'm rallying now.

I never thought that being a writer would be easy. When I quit my perfectly good job as a legal secretary to devote myself to writing, I expected that there would be plenty of moments of panic and doubt and...well, I was right. But I was also right in believing that if I didn't do this thing I would regret it for the rest of my life.

I've been blessed in many ways. The trick, it seems to me, is to remember those blessings, and acknowledge how lucky I've been. So, a gratitude list. Here goes:

• My husband's belief in me buoys me when my own doubts seem to be winning, as does the support of my friends. 
• My daughter continues to tolerate me. And we laugh together. A lot. 
• The Inner Bitch has been very, very good to me.
• The Universe keeps sending messages that I was right to make this choice.
• Today the sun is shining and the changing leaves provide moments of breath-taking beauty. 
• Against all odds, I still have a roof over my head and a room of my own in which to write.

What are you grateful for today? 

Signs and Portents

I knew it would happen, I just wasn't sure when.

Overloaded.
Over-committed.
Over-extended.

Today is the day when the various demands on my time, energy and capacity collided. I have no one to blame but myself, of course; I wanted to teach, I wanted to do what I could to make it possible to teach more in the future, I wanted to figure out a way to make enough money.

Of course I have the first signs of a cold.

Of course I rushed home from my morning gig to do an interview at 12:30—an interview that is scheduled for next Monday.

The good news is, now I can just write for the rest of the day. Except there's no food in the house, no milk, no half and half, no...the list of what isn't here that should be is long. 

So. Now I know that it's time to pay attention. Make some soup, have a little lie down, enjoy a cup of tea, then write.

Okay. 

A little glass-blowing, again

There is an apple cake baking and a pot of minestrone simmering. My house smells of cinnamon, tomato, sugar, oregano, the particular crispness of early fall night. Outside my window I hear a few cicadas; their summertime Phil Spector "Wall of Sound" music has begun to fade so it's possible to focus on the steady chirp of a single cicada nearby, the rest are just in the background.

Soon they will all fall silent.

Things are shutting down. Yet the Montauk daisies and the sedum are in full bloom.

Happy

Anniversary.

Ten years ago I married the man I call "The Total Package." My steadfast, my love, my true best friend.

I am so grateful he is in my life. I am so proud to say he is my husband.

God only knows what I'd be without you, Neil Swanson. 

Inadequate

I just finished reading a few entries in Peter Terzian's blog on the Paris Review website, A Week in Culture: Peter Terzian, Writer, and am feeling...well, inadequate. The man is reading "Ulysses," for crying out loud. Not just reading it, he's parsing it; a little bit each morning. And he and his husband read poetry each morning at breakfast. That's after his daily dose of Joyce. Then he reads even more while commuting to his job.

I, on the other hand, am struggling with my self-appointed task of reading something—anything—of quality each day.

Of course, I must remember that I am writing (500 words a day, minimum); teaching (which includes quite a bit of reading); freelancing and dealing with the effects of whiplash. Oh, and then there's all this life to deal with.

Still. Come on. Can't I do just a little more, a little something to improve my mind, deepen my knowledge of classic literature, learn (finally) to appreciate poetry even if I don't fully understand it?

This is a beautiful day and I had a complicated dream that seems full of meaning—my father was in it (though I didn't see him, I knew he was there), Frank Conroy was in it and we had a joyous reunion that was way out of proportion relative to my actual interactions with that great writer/teacher, an old boyfriend or two, an acquaintance of mine who I wish was an actual close friend, and I lived (in this dream) in an odd little place with a front door I had to remove completely.

"Take down the barricade," I think is the meaning of that door. Or perhaps it is that, once I've opened the portal, it will take a large effort to close it again.

But haven't I already opened that door? And why was this dream populated by nothing but men (and me)? 

The View From Here

We'd had a lovely time at the party—met new people, had interesting conversations, laughed, enjoyed. The night had turned cool enough that I shivered, just a little bit, and pulled my shawl close as we walked to the car, commenting on how dark and quiet it was—so unlike our part of the world.

Of course the kid who hit us from behind was drunk, but we didn't know that for certain at the time. All we knew was that the car was damaged, that we'd sustained a shock. And my neck hurt, my back hurt, my fingers were tingling. When the dispatcher asked if we needed an ambulance, I said we did.

There's something odd about having a stranger holding your head stable from behind—faceless, bodiless (except for those hands with their firm grip), yet intimate. There's something odder about being strapped to a body board, head now stabilized by a neck brace and some sort of blocks; odder still, being able to only look straight ahead which means "up," into the faces of firefighters in full regalia.

This is the week when my capacity for remaining positive, for acceptance, for patience has been sorely tested. There's good news, of course. If marks were being given, I'm fairly certain I'd get a "C," at best.

But there's good news, right? We are both still here. No one died or lost a limb or use of a limb. So why do I feel as if some essential thing was lost? Why is looking up so hard now that the neck brace is gone, I'm no longer strapped in, that moment has passed?

Interview

So, I was interviewed on a radio show recently. You can listen to that here: Interview.