An epiphany

My sweet Sophie

Several years ago I had a friend who had an epiphany every other day. No, not the religious meaning associated with Christianity, but the simpler definition of a sudden realization of momentous importance to your life. Such realizations often come in a very ordinary moment, like doing the dishes or mopping the floor. I’m not sure what I was doing—maybe napping because I seem to do a lot of that lately. But I suddenly realized that I have been in a funk without knowing it. I need, as they say, to get my groove back.

It began with my inability to settle down and read any book through to the end. Nothing grabbed me, spoke to me. For the last two weeks, I’ve started and abandoned maybe ten books, everything from mysteries to food-oriented nonfiction, some well-reviewed, others by authors I usually enjoy. I really did begin to worry that I was becoming a dilettante.

Then I realized I have not settled down to one writing project since the publication two months ago of Irene Deep in Texas Danger. I’ve dabbled with a memoir, though now I do have 6,000 words, but it is slow going, bouncing from my blog to remind myself what happened and back to the memoir to fit events and feelings into the story. I also started a new Irene story, Missing Irene, and wrote 4700 words before I put it aside. I’ve even been a bit lackadaisical about blogging. Perhaps the only thing I follow through on is cooking meals for family and friends.

So I started thinking about why. That’s how my mind works—I want to know why, what’s behind something. I’m not depressed so why am I not settling down to what I consider my work. Well, these are, as we all know, troubled times, and I feel obliged to keep up with what’s happening and, more than keeping informed, often comment on it. I think that’s the conscience of my father speaking through me. But if Greg Abbott signs a bill wiping out the water break requirement for construction workers, I think the voting public needs to know about it. And if Justice Sam Alito jets off to luxurious resorts with a rich businessman who has business before the Supreme Court and then denies knowing the man, I think we need to know about it. Right now I’m in suspenseful agony worrying about those people in that lost submersible (I once went in one, though it hovered just below the surface—my children thought at the time I was extraordinarily brave but in retrospect I think it was those Carribbean rum drinks). Never again. But I am appalled at the heartless attitude some people are taking. My prayers are with those five souls.

And emails—I get 150-200 emails a day. Last night my friend Mary told me she was cleaning out her emails. She had a backlog of something like 250,000. I was absolutely appalled. I never go to bed with an unread email, and once I read it, I either answer, discard, or file. I deal with it. Back in the day when business was transacted on paper, the mantra was if you pick up a piece of paper, never just put it back down: deal with it. The same applies to emails, to me, though I realize not everyone is as compulsive as I am. My emails keep me in touch with friends, other writers, blogs, and miscellaneous pieces of news. I enjoy them.

But my point here is that it takes me most of every morning to deal with what’s come in on my computer overnight, and by the time I do I am often distressed, tired, angry, whatever. And then I turn to my writing. I need to reverse things: write first, social media later, but old habits are hard to break. Maybe I turn first to emails because I’m expecting something wonderful, like a letter from “The Millionaire.” (His money wouldn’t go very far today).

And then, it’s been a rough year for my family. We’ve lost Christian’s mother and for a while I was afraid of losing my brother. His recovery, if it is that, is slow, and I am still worried about him. I spent a difficult two months thinking every day with my beloved Sophie might be the last. She is doing so much better now, but there are ongoing medical concerns. And the Burtons had to say goodbye to one of their dogs. Maybe I’m just reeling from family trauma. And now it’s summer in Texas, hot and uninspiring.

I don’t think, however, pinning a label on anything fixes it. It’s up to me to dig myself out of this hole. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. So watch for me, I hope, to be more dedicated about my work, to take fewer really long naps, to get my act in gear.

Oops, it’s time to cook dinner for the family. But I think I feel better already. Thanks for listening.