The joy of being compulsive

 

My first cookbook.
Now I'm part of a larger project.

I’m writing the foreword to a recipe collection from Story Circle Network. It’s going to be a neat book—each recipe is accompanied by a backstory from the writer who submitted it, and most of the stories are fascinating. Plus many recipes seemed to call my name. The collection will be called Kitchen Table Stories II and will be available in November.

I had roughed out a foreword and was waiting for the text of the stories and recipes. Yesterday I received an email with all that, and last night I read through it with a a great deal of enjoyment. But the manuscript came with a request to have the finished essay in by the end of the week. Nothing I like better than a deadline-not. I made notes as I read and by the time I went to bed (midnight) I pretty much knew what I wanted to say.

Here's the compulsive part: I was awake from four to six-thirty in the morning, writing and rewriting that essay in my head. I’d try to focus on something else, but my mind would go right back to kuchen and pierogi and wartime rarebit, radish sandwiches and Hungarian baked cauliflower. Finally just before six-thirty, Sophie woke up. Letting her out and feeding her broke the cycle, and I went back to bed and slept soundly for another two hours.

Those early morning hours are my witching hours. That’s when my brain gets stuck in a cycle, and I rethink and rethink the same problem or idea. Sort of good for writing—I was able to write the foreword easily this morning—but not good for peace of mind or sleep. Someone sent me a link to the National Geographic special on 9/11, and I want to watch it tonight, but does that mean I’ll re-live that day over and over in the early hours of tomorrow?

Mary V. came for supper tonight, and we had a good catch-up visit, talking about everything from food and restaurants to the Queen’s death and politics from national to state. Mary being a political scientist, she always gives me new information and new insight. I’m able to update her on restaurant news, but I don’t think she’s much on cooking, so I don’t offer to share recipes. She’s getting ready to go on a National Geographic trip to the Galapagos, and her travel consultant—that would be Jordan—just happened to be here, so that was fortuitous. Mary had some kind of problem (I tuned out) that Jordan promised to take care of it tomorrow.

I fixed a chicken casserole. It’s always nice when company likes your cooking, so I hope Mary won’t mind if I say that she had three helpings. She really liked it, and so did I though I contented myself with two servings. Served with small green salads as a side on the plate. Mary doesn’t do sweets and always turns down desserts, but I surprised her with fortune cookies tonight. Her fortune was better than mine, which was something to the effect that adversity is good for you. I guess that helps now because I feel I have plenty of adversity. Good to know that it’s working to some good end.

The saturation of all things royal continues on TV, and I have gotten so I only keep one eye on the set. I was glad though to see Harry and William walk out at Balmoral with their wives—not reconciliation but maybe a first step. I am still upset by criticism of the Queen. One woman wrote that the Queen had lived off the spoils of colonialism, even if she hadn’t fostered it. Since Elizabeth was the only royal ever to volunteer for military service, I thought that specious—she repaired military vehicles during WWII. And running the monarchy is not exactly eating bon bons and reading Silver Screen all day, but I shall give up that argument. Most people are genuinely mourning Her Majesty and praising all things good about her. To the critics, I repeat: separate the Queen from the 400-year-history of the Monarchy and see her as an individual.

King Charles is off to a good start, according to an article I read today. He has already been much more public—and touchable (literally)—than his “beloved Mama.” He is expected to travel between now and the state funeral—I didn’t quite understand if he will visit former colonies or what, but I have read several times that several colonies, tied to the empire by loyalty to the Queen, are now considering status as republics. I wonder if that isn’t part of what Charles had in mind when he talked of a slimmed down monarchy. We certainly live in interesting times.

And if I’m going to mention interesting times, I cannot omit the Ukrainian victories on the battlefield. It’s like David and Goliath, except that the Ukrainians have paid an awful price in human lives and destruction of the infrastructure for these victories . God love their spirit and determination.

My ideal outcome: Donald J. Trump in prison for life for treason (okay, no firing squads anymore) and Vladmir Putin tried in the Hague for crimes against humanity.

Not problems we have to solve tonight. Sweet dreams, everyone.

The compulsions of a writer

 

   

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.

 

How to answer a grandson, an episode with Sophie, and my compulsive nature

When a grandchild comes to you and says, “I need a favor,” the proper answer is not, “What?” or “Why?” or “How much?” When Jacob made that announcement this morning, I said, “Okay.”

“Stand up,” he commanded. “I’m going to take your picture.” And he did, saying it was for school. I never got more clarity than that. When he showed it to me, my thought was that, except for the quarantine haircut, I don’t look like I’m suffering in this life of isolation. And then I remembered a time way back, when he was maybe five, that he insisted on taking a picture of me. So here are Jacob’s two pictures. I’m considerably younger in the early one but maybe not quite as full of smiles.

The problem with Sophie, I decided today, is that while I think of her as a medium-sized dog—thirty pounds—when excited, she has the shrill bark of a small dog. And she was excited today: the yard guys came. She always barks, and it didn’t used to be a huge problem, because they came in the late afternoon, and I just kept her in the cottage and endured the barking for twenty or thirty minutes. But now they come right when I want to nap.

Today I had a brilliant idea: I locked her in the bedroom with me. Fail! That just meant that I was confined with a barking dog in a small room that acted as an echo chamber. Then she decided she could best protect me if she got on the bed, which was okay for a few minutes because she was still. But when a slight noise alarmed her, she stood on the bed and barked, which rocked the whole bed. Then for a blessed short while, she lay quietly on my feet, and I dared not move.

I was dozing, happily plotting a scene in my mind (napping is when I do my best thinking about whatever I’m writing). Then she came unglued again I gave up and let her out of the bedroom. She proceeded to bark frantically for about twenty minutes.

Suddenly there was quiet. I tried to recapture the plotting moment, but it didn’t work. Got up reluctantly and began a different kind of plotting—grocery lists with Jordan.

Tonight a good friend of Jordan’s, someone I’m fond of, came for a distanced happy hour, but I begged off, pleading that I had promised to make German potato salad (Christian’s favorite) to go with our burgers tonight and I had a lot to do.

That sense of having so much to do has only come over me recently, but I find it puzzling. Yes, I am working on a new mystery, but I have no deadline. I am in every sense self-employed. But today I wanted to finish up my newsletter, do grocery lists with Jordan, write a blog, make the potato salad, and, I wish, make progress on the novel. None of it must be done today—except that in my old compulsive mind it does.

Jordan wanted to talk grocery lists this morning, and I put her off with the explanation that I was doing something I really wanted to do. It occurred to me that, yes, the urgency is in my own mind, but it’s not because I’m compulsive. It’s because I have it in my head where these projects are going, what I want to say, and I want to commit it to the computer before it leaves my brain. Could I call it inspiraton?

A lot of people would still say I’m compulsive. Writers will understand.