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.

 

Back in the world

I’m back! I have a computer—a new Lenovo, a new remote keyboard, and a large remote screen. I’m in business again and so glad to be!

Several years ago, I had a TIA (mini-stroke) and ended in the emergency room. The doctors mistakenly said I didn’t have a TIA (later demonstrated by MRI) but was in what they called a state of altered consciousness. I’m not certain what medical textbook they got that out of, but the phrase certainly describes how I felt this past week. Without a computer, I was useless and didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt isolated from the world, though I tried to keep up on my cell phone and iPad. But I can’t type fast or accurately on those gadgets, so it was a losing game.

Worst of all I had projects and deadlines that required a computer. My online class on creating a fictional chef began last Thursday with me missing in action; on Saturday I was on a Zoom panel for the Boerne (TX) Book Festival—managed that on Christian’s computer. A calendar note popped up reminding me I had a deadline for a guest post about Saving Irene—I did a rough draft on Christian’s computer. Jordan was a magician and set me up on that with my email account and Word program. Wonder of wonders, when I opened Word on the new computer, that file was there. The internet world continues to amaze me.

This morning, in addition to going to church online I played catch up—answered emails, apologized to some for my absence and failure to congratulate on some good news, thanked my youngest son who spent three hours last evening setting all this up. I wouldn’t have had the faintest idea where to begin. I have been working on a computer since they first came into common use—probably the late eighties. Remember those ancient slow machines with two big floppy disks? One for the program and one for the document you were working on? So give me thirty-plus years, and I’m still techy challenged. I think it’s less me than the fact that technology changes so rapidly. And I’m glad it does—today’s streamlined computers are such an improvement. And in a year, my new one will already be dated!

The grocery list was a big frustration of my week of isolation. I keep a running list on my computer—with items for both households, at least for our dinners. Thursday Jordan had to go to the store with a list reconstructed from memory and as we planned meals for this week, she kept a list by hand. I’m pleased to say we got most of what was on last week’s list, and I’ll send a new order to Central Market tonight.

I had a grand time on the book festival panel, talking with authors Sarah Bird (Daughter of a Daughter of a Queen) and Elizabeth Wetmore (Valentine) about strong Texas women. My first Zoom panel so I was a little intimidated, but I found I felt quite at ease—more so than when appearing onstage in person—and plenty to contribute to the discussion. A wonderful hour. Thanks to Caren Creech of the Patrick Hearth Public Library for putting the program together—and most of the festival, I think. We got good response online from people who had watched it. Zoom is going to be a good thing for me, enabling me to attend meetings that, if they were held in person, I couldn’t make. So this Thursday I’m going to “zoom attend” the meeting of the Tarrant County Historical Society.

In the category of it’s always something, a critter—probably rat or squirrel—has died under the kitchen of the main house, and the odor is apparently unbearable. So in a sudden reverse, Christian is not fixing us supper—who wants to cook in a kitchen that smells that foul? So I’ve fixed chicken pot pie—my own recipe and one of the few things I cook that Jacob really likes. I caught him once scraping up the last of the sauce with a strawberry.

I am certainly looking forward to this week as a change from last. Cheers, everyone!