A discouraging day

 

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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!