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.
No comments:
Post a Comment