Someone lit a fire under me today. I have no idea who or why, but I suddenly got down to business with a vigor, despite the fact that I’m still isolated, it was another dreary dull day, and I find the sight of frostbitten plants outside my window particularly depressing. All that aside, I got to work.
A
writer friend had put out a call for blog posts about writing process, wanting
to hear from different people how they go about writing. I put it aside, as I
did most things in the last few weeks, but I did recently rough out some
answers. Today I buckled down, edited it, re-read it twice, and sent it off. My
punishment for dillydallying was that she wrote a most apologetic note saying
she had been flooded with responses, and at this point mine is scheduled for
Summer 2023. Unless there’s a cancellation, in which case I’d be on the waiting
list. But I assume many others are also on the waiting list. It’s a good lesson
to act while—what’s the saying—the fire is hot? Not procrastinating. It’s also
a good illustration of what I’ve often said: a writer’s life involves a lot of
waiting.
But
then I got busy and pretty much roughed out a newsletter. Discovered that I
hadn’t done one since September, which maybe isn’t too bad since I try to do
them quarterly. So September was Fall, and this is Winter, and I do promise
readers that they are only occasionally—I don’t want them to fear I’ll show up
in their inbox monthly. But still in that hiatus I published two books—you’d
think I’d want to tell readers about that. My newsletter has fallen into a
pretty standard form—news about my writing, a glance ahead (provided I know
anything to glance ahead about), an annotated listing of books I’ve read that I
think might interest others, some recipes, and maybe a personal picture or two.
This time I will also offer a give-away—I have a nice piece of swag that I will
offer. More details later, because I’m hoping some of my blog readers will want
to sign up for my “Only Occasional” newsletter.
And I
seemed to get more emails than usual that required somewhat lengthy attention—some
about my neighborhood association, one from a friend who is having a really
hard time personally, one from a man who has begun writing me about his family
history—it’s fascinating and good historical stuff, but I am hard put knowing what
to tell him to do with it. He would like me to write it, but I have two big
projects on my desk that won’t be put aside.
I am
still in isolation though tonight I sent my doctor a query, explaining all the
real and possible exposures and asked for his advice. I expect I’ll hear
tomorrow. Meantime, it was another solitary day, and I was at a loss about what
to cook. Yesterday I washed a large head of leaf lettuce, and then had so much
else in my salad that I used only one big leaf. So I asked Jordan to make a big
salad tonight, and she did. But I had to put out a grocery sack with the
lettuce, apple cider vinegar, dry mustard, and garlic, because those are all
the things she didn’t have in her kitchen. She usually makes the salad in my
kitchen and had initially said she’d come out and make a salad. But I told her
I wasn’t sure we were quite ready for that. I made salmon cakes to go with my salad
and experimented a bit—put some mayonnaise and a dab of mustard in them. The
flavor was good, but they were a bit loose because of the mayo—guess I needed
more cracker crumbs. Earlier today I made egg salad for my lunch—finally after
all these years, I have found a recipe I love. It doesn’t have onion or celery
or any of that in it. Just mayo, mustard, pickle relish—and eggs of course.
And
Sophie must have sensed my frustration because she was very demanding tonight—which
only made me more frustrated until I spoke harshly to her, and then I felt
guilty. She wanted her dinner at 4:30, and I figured if I fed her that early,
she’d keep wanting it earlier and earlier. My explanation about it being too early
fell on deaf ears. When I finally fed her and gave her a treat, she then
demanded a second helping and a second treat. And then fresh water. And then she
wanted to go outside. The one time my tirade got her attention was when she
pawed at my arm—it hurt, and I yelled, and she slunk away. More guilt. Now, she’s
in her crate, but I will have to make amends.
See
how this works? The dog misbehaves, and I make amends. The Burtons go to crowded
functions, and I isolate. Something is out of whack here. Oh well, tomorrow I’ll
finish the newsletter and then maybe write some more on Irene Keeps a Secret
or Irene Stumbles into Trouble or whatever I decide to call it.
Sweet
dreams, everyone. Stay safe and mask up!
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