Starting over. Where to begin?

For days now, my first thought in the morning has been that today is the day that I must pick up the dropped threads of my blog. After all, I’ve been blogging since 2006. I checked just now, and my last blog post was June 08, just shy of a month ago. But where to begin? I think I’ll go wash my hair.

Truly, that’s been sort of my attitude. A Scarlett O’Hara-type tendency to put off what I’m not sure about dealing with. When this attack on my physical well-being began, I was woefully ignorant of how severe the impact would be. Just a minor problem while I went merrily about my family, writing, and social life. In the hospital I wrote, in my mind, great blogs and even roughed out a new Irene adventure (she told me she was not through yet, but where she got this hare-brained idea, I’ll never know). I had no idea how hard everything would be. For goodness sake, walking from my bed to my desk this morning with the four-wheeled walker was a major challenge. Write another Irene novel? Maybe on down the road, but not this week, thank you.

My blog started as a mix of writing, cooking, and grand-mothering. Pretty much all of that is changed now (yes, I sometimes want to howl, “I want my old life back!”) The grands are mostly grown—youngest is now sixteen (maybe seventeen—I lose track). Because I have had a tracheostomy, my meals are liquid and bypass my mouth and taste buds completely—so boring. I guess I have always measured out my life not with Prufrock’s coffee spoons but with meals—they were like punctuation for each day. Without that incentive, there goes maybe half my blog. Writing remains, but I am not sure even avid readers want to read about writers and their doings all the time.

Originally the blog was a stew of those three elements, but eight years ago when I downsized to my cottage, I made a half-hearted attempt to change it to “View from the Cottage.” It seemed to me that my view of the world then was limited to what I could see from the cottage—like the tiny sliver of the street in front of the house and the glimpse of children walking to elementary school. But that wasn’t really true then—to a certain extent I was out and about in the world. Now my view really is limited to what I see—and hear and read—from the cottage. So what do I write about?

I am loathe to give up the blog. I’ve made so many good friends, met so many interesting people. For me, the blog is like Emily Dickinson’s letter to the world. My blog links me to a wide, wide world, and I like that a lot.

So bear with me. I’m not extraordinarily private, but I do promise not to share daily medical updates. I am known for strong political opinions, and I’ll likely share more of that. I’ll watch for other topics, and maybe you’ll have some ideas to share.

Can we start View from the Cottage, Part II together? I’d be so grateful if you’d take this new journey with me.

Keeping busy

A post from the senior minister at our church this morning asked each of us to think about what we are grateful for in this time of stress. It hit home with me, because I have been thinking how blessed I am, so grateful for family, a safe and cozy cottage, plenty of food and wine, a dog to listen to me rant.

But there’s one more thing: I am, as I long have been, grateful that I’ve built my life around books and reading. That focus means that I am never alone in my cottage. I always have something to do, something to write.

I’ve read some memes lately about introverts and extroverts, suggestions that while introverts are doing well with social isolation, extroverts are not. Introverts should reach out and check on them, just as we should check on elderly neighbors alone. I worry about people whose whole life is built around the social contacts of work, eating out, going to the bar, etc. If they are following the guidelines, they must be very frustrated and lonely.

I meantime am a happy camper. I am reading several books and websites for a proposed project—it hasn’t been officially approved yet, but I have strong indications that it will be. The reading, which has to do with food and mid-20^th century American culture, is interesting to me.

But better than that: I have a new project. Several years ago a university press director asked if I would be interested in editing my blogs into a book. Flattered, I made a stab at it, but it seemed an overwhelming task. I have been blogging since 2006, so it wasn’t simply a matter of compiling—it meant picking and choosing, and it meant settling on a theme. Writing is an obvious one—but I began to write almost thirty years before I began to blog—if this was going to turn into a memoir, there was a huge gap.

My brother urged me to collect the family-oriented blogs, and I still may do that. I would hope someday the next two generations would treasure such collections.

But for now I’ve decided on a collection of my thoughts as I tentatively journeyed toward writing mystery. I had already compiled a few blogs, and I’ve spent the last two days excerpting more—I am now through 2007, so you can see it will be a big project. And I realize once I get them together, I’ll have to edit and provide some running commentary. Will it work? Will it be publishable? I don’t know, but for now, it’s keeping me busy and happy.

The blog’s beginning in 2006 coincides with Jacob’s birth, and as I read, I find lots about what a happy, cheerful, sometimes rebellious kid he was. And there are darling passages about other grandkids, like Edie, who at the age of four called one morning, just to say, “I hope you have a lovely day.”. Or Sawyer, who was told to put on sunscreen and replied, “I’m going in the garage. There’s no sun in there.” Morgan who kept inching away in a family picture after the grandchildren were dedicated in church—she finally ended in a corner all by herself, and she has that independent spirit to this day. I may have to go back and do this culling all over again with a different criterion.

Dr. Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute for Allergies and Infectious Diseases, says this epidemic could last eighteen months. I wonder if that is long enough for me to sort out my blogs. Maybe, like all of us, I shouldn’t look that far ahead but should take each day as it comes.

Change—and new directions

No, don’t go! You’re not in the wrong place. This is still Judy’s Stew, only dramatically changed, even with a new name.. I’ve gradually been changing the look of my social media presence to reflect my change away from cozy mysteries and back to where I started—writing about women of Texas and the American West. So I thought a western look would be more appropriate.

The URL for the blog remains the same— http://www.judys-stew.blogspot.com but I’ve added a new title: “View from the Cottage.” When I was first in the cottage, I was recovering from surgery and got out very little, so what I saw of the world was viewed from the cottage. In my files, I’ve called the blog that ever since, and it’s true—my world view is as I see it from the cottage, which I guess distinguishes it from those who write from positions in the middle of politics or academia or the commercial world. It’s sort of an onlooker’s perspective. Anyway, changing the look seemed a good time to change the name.

              Change, though some resist it mightily, is usually a sign of growth, and that’s what I’m taking my writing change as. Mysteries were fine, I wanted to try my hand at them, and I think I did a credible job with fourteen either in print or available digitally. I certainly broke no sales records, but my books were consistently given four and five stars, and the comments I got encouraged me that I wasn’t embarrassing myself too badly.

But the inspiration was running out, and I knew I would never compete with younger, more dedicated authors, those who daily study their reviews and ratings, who compile statistics about what advertising works and what doesn’t, who take the business end of being a writer more seriously than I ever wanted to. It embarrasses me a bit that I wasn’t willing to do all that, to master the technology, but all I ever wanted to do was write and tell stories. Writing has, to me, always been my first calling (beyond being a mother), but it has always been second in a way—for years, I had a demanding—and satisfying—day job, so I wrote in the evenings. Now in retirement, I write at a more leisurely pace. Making room for reading and cooking and naps and lunches and dinner with friends. So the business side was low on my list.

In many ways, I see this change in focus as my career taking off in a second reincarnation at my somewhat advanced age. I have said I owe it to Debra Winegarten who, knowing she was dying, asked me to write her Alamo book for her. I did, and that book, The Second Battle of the Alamo, will launch March 7. Working on that book drew me back to history and westerns and women, as I realized how much I was enjoying working with the material. The publisher liked the manuscript well enough that they gave me a contract for another book—tentatively titled “The Most Land, the Best Cattle: the Waggoners of Texas.” And they issued contracts to reprint five of my historical novels about women of the American West. I said to a friend that I felt a bit that I was riding on a dead woman’s coattails—Debra died over a year ago—but the friend reassured me by saying, “Debra cracked the door for you, but you opened it with the manuscript you turned in.” Heady stuff.

Anyway, here I am—writing about women of the West and now thinking ahead to my next title, even while still working on the Waggoner book. And I’m happy as a clam. Will there ever be another mystery? What has happened to Kelly O’Connell, and what’s going on at the Blue Plate Café? I’m not ruling anything out.

I did have some hesitation about changing the look of my blog, afraid I’d lose readers simply because they didn’t recognize the familiar sketches of my, my kids and dog, my cottage. But Judy’s Stew was running out in another way—originally meant to be about writing, cooking, and grandchildren, it evolved into a personal essay/opinion blog. Cooking spun off into my Gourmet on a Hot Plate Blog, my grandkids are so busy with school and sports and life that I don’t see them as much and don’t have as much to write about them, and I find myself writing more about random topics than writing.

So I hope those who read the blog regularly will stick with me. And check out the new look of my Web page— http://www.judyater.com

 –and my Facebook Author page--   https://www.facebook.com/Judy-Alter-Author-366948676705857/

And please give me some feedback. Let me know what you think.

Do I want to write a memoir?

Me and my kids--aren't they lovely?

I have grappled with the question posed by memoir and me before, but it came to mind again today when I read an essay on the current popularity of memoir. To the delight of booksellers, readers are lapping up life accounts by everyone from Michelle Obama to your neighbor down the street who, it seems, had a hidden life in her background.

I belong to a small but close-knit online group of women writers, many of whom are writing their memoirs. In fact, I sometimes feel like an outsider because I so carefully avoid the question of a memoir. But those who write them seem to have had some great trauma in their lives. One woman’s ex-husband kidnapped their children, still very young, and sent the mother a chilling note saying, “You’ll never find us.” Others have dealt with addiction—their own or a family member’s—and for one, an inherited, disabling disease in her children.

I on the other hand, tend to view my life as Pollyanna. Oh, there were a few rough patches—a heartbreaking end to my first true love, forced on us by circumstance but something that neither of us wanted; a family disruption when I married out of my faith (seems old-fashioned now, fifty some years later); a bitter divorce; more recently, a patch where one illness followed another. But in each case, I moved on to what I see as a life in the sunshine—four wonderful children that I raised mostly as a single parent, a rewarding and mostly successful professional life both as a publisher and an author; a busy, productive and independent retirement; and, a host of good friends, some newish, some dating back to elementary school.

Regrets? Maybe a couple: one is that I fought an almost lifelong battle with anxiety, but it is mostly tamed now, and I have learned to avoid the few situations that can trigger it—no, I will not drive over that high bridge! The other is only a maybe—being single for half my adult life was a disappointment—I always thought I would live out Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra” with its lines, “Grow old along with me/The best is yet to be/The last of life/For which the first was made.” Didn’t happen. But, as I reflect, singleness has been a genuine benefit, giving me a great, selfish freedom. If I were childless, I probably wouldn’t like my single state so much, but as it is, I get lots of love and hugs, and there are people who listen to me when I need an ear.

The essay I read says that in memoir the writer is essentially telling the reader, “This is where my life went amuck. This is where I lost the plot, and here’s how I got it back together again.” My trouble is that I don’t think I ever really lost the plot. Just as I like linear storytelling, I view my life in linear terms, always curving upward.

Sometimes I think of this almost-daily blog as my memoir. I have even culled a few posts that I think reflect who I am and what matters to me. I keep them in a file titled “Memoir.” Maybe I’ll revisit that file, see if I can add to it.

But back to the essay I read. The most important point it made was that we don’t have to be rich and famous to write our memoirs. One of my goals was to leave the world a teensy bit better than I found it. I think my children are a contribution to that goal—and maybe my books are too. And maybe that’s the stuff of memoir.

Nothing to Say

Today was a delightfully ordinary day-no obligations took me out of the house, no home health care people interrupted my day. And I got a lot done at my desk. But such long, good days, don’t make fodder for a blog post. And I have too many such days. I had no inspiration, unless I would blot about the outrageousness of The Donald, but that’s getting old. Or the ongoing blind hatred for Hillary—but that too is getting old and tiresome.

In truth, I have no deep thoughts, no meaningful insights to blog about, so for a while I’m not going to try to blog every night. Just when I have something to say-and even as I write this I realize I could blog about the Book Ladies, so maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. But please don’t expect wisdom every night—that well has plumb run dry. (Watch, now I’ll have a flood of ideas, which is all good.)

If you have questions, ideas, etc. for my blog, please let me know at j.alter@tcu.edu. Meantime, sweet dreams.

Another birthday milestone--and some interesting thoughts

 

One year ago today, on my 77^th birthday, I embarked on a project of using this blog to chronicle my year. After a year I planned to review the year, reassess, and perhaps publish the blogs. I wrote that I was striding confidently into my 78^th year, in good health, with the blessings of family, home, career, wonderful dog. Little did I imagine how much would change in a year nor how I would be tested.

Notable in my mind is the fact that I can no longer claim to be in good health. I am officially disabled and taking advantage of Medicare’s home health services. Long story short: I fell in early May and ended up, through my own stubbornness, with an ankle that a trauma surgeon declared beyond surgical repair—a mixed blessing.

I have been non-weight-bearing on my right foot for five weeks, with no idea when things will change. I wear an orthopedic boot night and day. At first this threw me into a great depression, and I decided this would be the year that I aged. Pulled myself out, with the help of medication, because I knew I didn’t want to live that way.

To complicate matters, I have had troublesome stomach issues for about five weeks—far too long, and a physician’s assistant has ordered overdue tests. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this and correct it. I recognize that though my ankle/leg may get better, I may never walk gracefully and there may be canes, walkers, even wheelchairs in my future. That’s okay, better than a lot of alternatives.

My children have been really supportive. Jordan and her family will be moving into my house in late summer, but she has effectively moved her dogs and herself in already, my oldest son came and got me and took me to his house for a week to give Jordan a break, and this past week my oldest daughter has been here doing yeoman’s work, filling in for those chores I can’t do for myself as I scoot about the house riding on a walker. My younger son will spend a few days with me in August when Jordan goes out of town.

Some good things have happened: I published The Gilded Cage, a book that may be the pinnacle of my career. My chili book is a finalist in the cookbook category of the Will Rogers Medallion Award. Construction of a cottage for me—converting garage apartment—is nearing completion, and I hope to move in September.

Most of all I have had the loving support of a wide variety of people. Many have called me courageous, which is not a trait I’d assign to myself. I’d never, for instance, ride a roller coaster. Going down the ramp in a wheelchair is enough adventure for me. But there are different kinds of courage, and if people see my upbeat spirit as courage, good . It gives me a goal to meet.

My son-in-law said tonight I’ve been tested by my journey and come out of it a stronger person. I’d like to think that’s true.

Birthday grins from two adorable grandsons

I no longer make predictions about the coming year. Lord knows what it will bring, but I hope I’ll be ready to continue the journey in good spirits.

Publish my blogs of the past year? It looks like a lot of work. Maybe only if I can hire an assistant.

Thanks to each of you for love and support.

 

The first day of school--and some trivia

Actually, I think Jacob looks apprehensive,

and I look grim.

We both got over it.

 

Yesterday got away from me, what with welcome calls to make for the church, corrections on a manuscript I’m editing, a blog I forgot I had to write (which sent me scurrying to the kitchen this morning so I’d have a casserole to take a picture of), and an occasional spell with my work-in-progress. No Judy’s Stew.

But those of you who read this regularly know I wouldn’t forget the first day of school. I sent good wishes to all my grandchildren—have had responses from two families. Megan reported before the fact that her boys were really excited, and Jamie and Mel both reported that the girls were excited (though Maddie, at fourteen, pretended to be blasé) and ended up the first night fighting over space at the kitchen table to do homework. The year is under way.

Of course, I was most involved in Jacob’s first day. In fact, I had orders to be in the driveway, dressed and “cute,” by 7:50 yesterday morning. Trailed along while Jordan took Jacob to his new classroom—she would have forgotten to introduce me to the teacher as the afternoon pick-up person if I didn’t remind her. But all went well, and Jacob seemed quite happy in his classroom. He has a teacher we didn’t know, but she said she’d seen him in the halls and was delighted to have him in her class.

Maybe I forgot to write about it because I had to rush him home, shove a chocolate pudding into him, and make him brush his teeth, so he could head off to the dentist with his dad. Today it was less of a rush but still a time crunch to get him ready for Little League practice. Poor kid said, “I just want to quit everything but school.” I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “Amen.”

Today when he was changing clothes, Jacob had a bit of an attitude—okay, a lot of attitude. I’ll wait out the week but there’s going to be a new regime around here. Jordan keeps saying, “You’re were so tough as a mom. What happened to you?” I don’t think I was really that tough, but she seems to think it’s a good thing.

Meantime, I made progress today on the work-in-progress and even came up with a new title. How does Living with Secrets strike you? And I did make a good casserole—look for it Thursday on http://www.Chickletsinthekitchen.com. Yes, I’ll remind everyone. And the exterminator came—we sincerely hope he took care of the rats, but I’m pleased that he was extra careful of my dog’s safety. Final achievement—and this is Elizabeth’s—we ordered a case of our special tuna and a case of salmon from the Pisces cannery. My pocket book is depleted but my salivary anticipation is high. I’ll post about that special fish sometime.

Peace and a happy evening to all. I’m off to the Old Neighborhood Grill for neighbors’ night. Pork cutlets sound so good. Notice how often food crosses my mind?

Losing yourself in a fictional world

Writers should read--seems a simple enough thing. I learn a lot by reading other writers' mysteries--they give me ideas, they make me think of things I could do in my books, and they reveal some things I seriously want to avoid. But I don't read much these days--it's partly a matter of time and partly, as I think I've said before, that it's hard for me to move from one fictional world to another. So when I'm writing, I rarely read--though it would probably do me good to read non-fiction.
The last few days I've been caught up in novels--Julie Hyzy's Grace Takes Off, which smoothly does something I've worried about: she takes a series character out of her normal setting, at least for part of the novel. I've wondered--can I send Kelly out of Fairmount on a trip? I may just do it when I get back to the work in progress. Now I'm in the midst of The Little Black Book of Murder, by Nancy Martin, who has created the wackiest ever blueblood family of sisters from Bucks County, now fallen on hard times. Watch for a review, but it too is a good read, and I'm stealing time to go back to it. And thoroughly enjoying losing myself in someone else's fictional world.
I did take time to cook today, which always relaxes me--German potato salad, which will have hot dogs in it, for tomorrow night. I'll serve corn and baked cabbage--shh! Don't tell my guests about the latter. Cooked cabbage is coming back into vogue but some people may not react well. I changed the menu partly because one of the guests said he loves spinach salad, doesn't eat cooked spinach (I had a delicious dish of polenta with cooked spinach in mind). But I also changed because I'm pushing hot dog ideas in order to publicize Danger Comes Home, with its Bun Appetit haute cuisine hot dog café, and I need a picture of this dish for a blog. At least the appetizers--Gouda and crackers--and the dessert--ice cream with raspberry appertif/chocolate sauce--should be hits.

For myself tonight I made an abbreviated version of salade Nicoise--with hard-boiled egg, avocado, roasted green beans, and Tonnino tuna packed in garlic olive oil. Tonnino is a brand of tuna I've just discovered (and my pocketbook wishes I hadn't)--several interesting varieties, like one packed in olive oil with oregano. For tonight's salad, I sprinkled it with capers, drizzled a bit of the oil from the tuna over it, added a bit of salt and pepper, and squeezed lemon juice over all. So good. Sometimes it's fun to make an elegant meal just for you. First time I've roasted green beans, and they were great.
Happy weekend, everyone.