The compulsions of a writer

 

   

Ten years ago
Yep, ten years makes a difference at my age

It’s been one of those days—the mail-in pharmacy rejected my new prescription and I had to spend a long time on “Chat” with them, a hearing aid battery went out and I find that the company that makes them—the batteries not the aids—has gone out of business, I wrote a column and I n the middle Word changed fonts and would not change back no matter what I did, got a letter saying my medical information has been compromised but I think it’s a scam—little stuff but it all takes time, and I fret that I won’t get my daily quota of words done. Sometimes I think the Lord is telling me to slow down. After all, my deadlines are of my own making. Nobody is cracking a whip over me.

Part of my compulsion to write is an inbred work ethic. I went to work at the age of fourteen (as the most inept typist known to offices anywhere) and have always worked in one way or another since. I admit I’ve taken to lollygagging in the morning, sometimes not getting to my desk until nine. Still, I get there every day. But there’s more to it.

Not too long ago someone asked me, again, about retirement, and I gave my usual answer—you retire from a job, a I did from the directorship of TCU Press, but you don’t retire from writing. I am sure this is also true for artists in many media. I will write as long as I am able and my mind holds out. But lately I’ve had that thought: how long will I be able to continue writing? There are several projects I want to do: complete Finding Florence, the novel I’m writing now; do a book on Helen Corbitt and how she fits into America’s fascinating mid-century foodways; do an in-depth article drawing together bits and pieces from a file of personal correspondence from Montana author Dorothy Johnson, who was one of the wittiest people I’ve ever met and a short story writer at least on a par with O. Henry. And in the back of my mind I keep thinking Irene, my diva chef from France, needs to go to Texas—oh, the culture shock!

Today I had an email from an author, much better known than I am and a year younger, who pointed out that she and I, in our early eighties, are pushing it. Agatha Christie published her last book at the age of eighty-two; John LeCarre, at eighty-eight. I am tempted to research some other authors and their last date of publication, but I remind myself of those deadlines. Still, Susan Albert and I wonder how many more books we have left, how much time. I am reminded of a wonderful self-help tape I once listened to: “Life is Uncertain. Eat Dessert First.” I would say to myself, “Life is Uncertain. Write every day.”

At any rate, as I dealt with all those little fires on my desk, this morning, I decided my irritation came from a sense of urgency. But that too is self-manufactured. I’m relatively healthy for a woman of my age, and I have good medical care to deal with the problems I have.

It may be that I’m just compulsive. A doctor once said to me, “You’re not wired like other people.” Small compensation, that.

 

My device has an issue

I really did not want to spend the day in endless waiting, dealing with the niggling problems of everyday life. First an appointment with the retina specialist. I went knowing that eye appointments always take an eternity. To my amazement I was called right in to have my vision checked and my eyes dilated. But then I spent almost an hour and a half back in the waiting room before I saw the doctor. Waiting is an apt term for that room. I watched other people arrive, get called back, and leave—and still I sat.

Don’t get me wrong. I have had excellent care and come out on the lucky side of what could have been much worse. But patience is not my strong suit. I think some people can go to an instant state of meditation in such circumstances—I watched some people close their eyes and sit in apparent peace, and I envied them. Not me. I fidgeted. I checked my phone every few minutes. I tried to read on my phone, but it’s small for that.

And when I did see the doctor? Five minutes max. Again, I can’t complain—a good report. Come back in six months, no eye drops, everything is great. But, oh, go see the cornea specialist. Sorry, but I’m not in a hurry for that appointment.

Once home I tackled the pharmacy and the expensive prescriptions they gave me that I don’t need. This has been an ongoing battle, with Jordan running interference. The last time she tried to return them (we’re dealing with the only polite pharmacist so have to time our visits when he’s on duty), he said she had to have the card she’d paid with. I looked online, found the payment in my bank statement, and have the credit card. And he’ll be on duty tomorrow. Hope we can wrap that one up. You will not believe how expensive eye drops are. Those of you on Medicare will understand when I say I reached the “donut hole” by early May because of the eye drops in addition to the medications I regularly take. Christian said today, “What’s the donut hole?” Of course, he doesn’t know.

So to finish my day I got online with AT&T to find out why my phone doesn’t ring. Those chat sessions are useful, especially since I don’t hear well and do type fast, but sometimes I wonder how slowly the tech types or if perhaps they’re chatting with two or three people at once. I decided it was best not to multi-task, so I sat there staring at the screen, watching those little dots and the word, “Agent is typing.”

Long story short, my device has an issue. It’s not eligible for replacement, so the agent referred me to their insurance agency. Just give us the number where we can call you, she said. I explained that there was no number—after all, we were working on the problem that my phone is not accepting phone calls. She had a hard time with that, kept wanting an alternate number. I could hardly give Jordan and Christian’s numbers without telling them what’s going on and they aren’t home yet. So that’s at a standstill. I gave up my landline at exactly the wrong time.

Only good news on the niggling problem front is that I successfully set up and registered my Medical Guardian, so I’m all set to go—with no place to go.

I think I’ll have a glass of wine—or two!