Yep, that’s the
sum of my accomplishments today. Two sentences, a bit under a hundred words,
isn’t much. Some novelists write two or three thousand a day. Writing nonfiction,
I often let myself feel pretty good about 800 words. But under a hundred? Still,
I feel pretty good about those two sentences. They aren’t exactly golden, but
they’re probably keepers, at least until the editor gets hold of the manuscript.
You see, I’ve been
away from my work-in-progress for three weeks. First, there was that glorious week
in New Mexico. My plan of long hours alone in the cabin, working, while
everyone else fished didn’t exactly work out. I spent long and lovely hours
sightseeing and in, ahem, the lounges of historic hotels.
Once home, life
got in the way—and that reprint manuscript that I was working on. And then
there was the neighborhood newsletter which took more time than usual this
month. Always, though, this past week, the work-in-progress was in the back of
my mind, and I knew I needed to get back to it. I had left it at the beginning
of a new chapter, and almost as if to validate my theory that the subconscious
works on things when you think you’ve put them aside, those two sentences—the first
of the new chapter—appeared in my brain. Actually, they arrived in rough form a
couple of days ago, and my brain has been refining them ever since, at odd
moments, like when I wake in the night.
And the very good
news for me, is that I am back in my groove. After writing those sentences, I dug
into the book that I need to study for research and got a goodly page or two of
notes. And a confession: I’m a happier person when I’m actively working on a
project.
My other goal for
the day was to make meatballs for Sunday supper, so in the late afternoon—after
a lovely lunch brought by Chandry and her stepdaughter, Ella—I dug into
hamburger, ground pork, pecorino and parmesan, and all the makings. I confess
that it was a production big enough to strain my tiny kitchen facilities—and maybe
me. I started at four—and it was seven-thirty before I had all the meatballs
cooked and put away, dishes washed. In my toaster-oven, I had to cook the meatballs
in three batches, let them cool, etc. Tonight they are in the fridge in a
store-bought marinara—Rao, the brand recommended in several places. Tomorrow night
I’ll serve them with soft polenta instead of pasta.
And now I’m tired.
A major cooking project like that wears me out physically—it’s not easy to cook
from a walker seat, and I spill everything everywhere, so my clothes are a mess—and
mentally, but it’s done, and I am glad I did it. Probably should have halved the
recipe for our family, but we will have leftovers. And Jacob, who doesn’t like
my cooking much, loves meatballs. We’ll see if these meet his standards.
Wonderful rain
tonight—steady for at least twenty minutes. Sophie stuck by my side but was
pretty much okay. Jordan told me they were going to friends for a cookout and
to watch their new outdoor TV. Good luck with that.
The air is cooler
and smells wet. Lovely.
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