Back at work, mostly

 

 

 

Quarantine’s over! Not that I’m rushing out into the world—or even inviting Christian to the cottage for supper (tonight’s supper was not very good anyway—delicious gravy, but the meat was tough—I got tired of chewing.) Our doctor’s advice was to mask for five days after quarantine, and I will take that literally. Disinvited the friend who was to come for happy hour tonight and the one who was coming for supper tonight.

I‘m having trouble sorting out the sleep/wake/work thing. Today I crashed about one o’clock, too early for my usual nap. I think a rainy day contributed, plus the fact I had cleared the decks for writing—and was maybe intimidated by that. It’s the old Irma Bomback syndrome—she once wrote she’d rather scrub floor than look at a blank piece of paper in the typewriter—Irma’s day, of course, predated computers.

I had a good nap, woke up and wrote a thousand words on the Irene-in-progress, now titled Irene in a Ghost Kitchen, because the old title, Missing Irene, no longer was appropriate—she was only missing for the first thousand words at most. I think the ghost kitchen will remain relevant, but you never know—stories have a way of taking on a life of their own, no matter what the author plans.

For two nights now, since our stomachs felt better, Jordan and I have been eating supper in the cottage together, because it’s the one place we don’t have to mask. What are we going to do? Give covid to each other? Last night was green noodles (watch for tomorrow’s Gourmet on a Hot Plate column). Tonight she liked the idea of cube steaks in gravy. I recently cooked cube steaks and got them tender, but not tonight. Will have to keep working on that. I’ve been getting really good frozen green beans from Central Market so I pulled those out of the freezer. They had subbed microwave green beans for the ones I usually get, which wasn’t helpful because I don’t have a microwave. I cooked them the old-fashioned way, and they were okay—but uncut and difficult to eat. I am increasingly leery of any subs made by CM shoppers.

We’ve had slow rain for most of two days—lovely, but it makes me sleepy—and tonight it has just stopped coming down rather steadily. I saw one report of four inches in our neighborhood—the poster made it sound like a challenge to see if anyone could beat him. Sophie is made very nervous by the occasional thunder and follows me everywhere. Since we think she has pretty much lost her eyesight, I speak to her, “Now we’re going to the bathroom to brush my teeth,” or “Now we’re going to my desk.” She follows along and camps wherever I am. Her presence has the advantage of making me follow one piece of advice always given to writers: Putt your butt in the chair and keep it there.

I’m going to take a glance at Facebook and go back to bed. Thanks for all the good wishes. I truly appreciate them.

A discouraging day

 

T

Tonight, I have my writer’s hat on, but it was not a good writing day. I always start my morning by reading emails and then the news briefs—and that’s where I got bogged down today. I hang on every word about Ukraine and politics in our country and in our state. This morning, because of the ongoing assault in Ukraine and the powerful State of the Union address last night, it took me longer than usual to get through emails, msn.com, and Facebook notifications. So, it was closing in on noon before I began to write. Bad timing for a person like me, who lives by the clock, much as I’ve tried to break that compulsive habit.

Another compulsive habit I have is thinking I must add a certain number of words a day to the work-in-progress. For me, with this Irene story, it’s a thousand words a day. In the late morning I started in where I’d left off and wrote maybe six hundred words. Then I went back and discovered that I had contradicted everything I wrote the day before. I erased most of what I wrote today and then wanted to kick myself because I could see a way to make it work with a few minor adjustments.

But tonight, I did what I should have done: began reading the last full chapter I’d written, fixed some rough spots, and then moved ahead. This morning I lost words; tonight, I added 1200. Not a bad day's work. But of course, it’s not the number of words that make readers enjoy or discard a book—it’s the story told. There’s a lesson there. There’s also a lesson about how work habits change—for years I would have told you I write in the morning and cannot write at night. But lately, I’ve been writing at night, plus doing my blog.

There is a contradictory theory among many writers: if you can just get that first rough draft done, you can then go back and fix it. The whole point is to get words on paper. I think I’m somewhere in the middle.

In the small work-in-progress group I cherish, Wednesday is the day I ask what each is reading. Today I added a question about whether they found it hard to concentrate on reading in these tumultuous times. Six or seven out of a dozen or so said they were indeed having trouble concentrating.

I find that I am also having trouble sleeping. There is illness in my family that concerns me, apart from Ukraine. This morning at 5 a.m. I woke up because Sophie was demanding a refill to her water bowl—she does this by banging the metal bowl on the floor. Very hard to sleep through. I was sooo sleepy, but by the time I gave her water, made a side trip to the bathroom, and crawled back in bed, I was wide awake. And I lay there worrying. For some reason I got it into my head that something had happened to Zelensky overnight—so relieved to find that was not true.

Today I donated to World Central Kitchen, the outfit that the DC chef José Andrés started to feed people in crisis situations. Today he is in Poland, jus ten miles from the Ukraine border, feeding refuges. Somewhere in my wanderings today I read that if the people of Kyiv cannot get food, they will be unable to fight and the resistance, which has so astonished the world, will collapse. Sustainment is a primary concern. For me, out of the many charities that are suggested online, this one seemed the most appropriate. Perhaps because I’m a foodie.

As I ate my dinner tonight—a patty melt that was so good—I thought with a twinge about the hungry people of Ukraine and particularly about the frightened children.

I had hoped that my Jamie was coming to Fort Worth today and taking Jordan and me to dinner at The Fitzgerald, the new upscale seafood/steak place in the Camp Bowie/Ridglea space occupied years ago by Café Aspen. Jamie worked his way through college waiting tables at Café Aspen, and it became our family restaurant. I thought it would be fun to go back to that spot. But he called today, obviously sounded like he had a cold, and said he didn’t think it would be smart for him to bring me his germs. He’s pretty sure it’s not covid but promised to test when he got home. So, it was a patty melt for me, though I have good leftover meatloaf in the fridge. The life of plenty. Aren’t we blessed!