The summer doldrums

 

A place where I can lost the summer doldrums
Colin's lake in Tomball. Note Sophie next to me. 

It’s hot, and I’m in the doldrums. Or am I just lazy? Or is age creeping up on me? I have a friend, slightly younger than me, who says she no longer has the focus for long projects--like novels--and she is considering other ways to keep writing. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me, but Missing Irene, the fifth adventure for my diva chef, is dragging along. For a while, it was going great, and I could see the road ahead for some distance. But now it’s ground to a crawl, and the road is murky. Oh, I know what’s going to happen, but I’m having trouble getting there. And I’ve only just begun.

I think if you’ve been writing long enough, you know when your writing sings—and you know when it doesn’t. Years ago, my then-agent asked me to do a proposal for a publisher who wanted a young-adult book about a girl in the American West. I wrote what I thought was an acceptable proposal and sent it off. It came back with one devastating comment from the publisher: “Frankly, we find Mrs. Alter’s writing pedestrian.” Pedestrian! What a devastating word! But it probably was spot on, and I was young and green enough not to recognize it. But now, with a long career behind me—forty-plus years and over a hundred books of various types, plus articles, reviews, columns, etc.—I am very aware when my writing “feels” pedestrian. And that’s where I’ve been the last couple of days.

Lately on a writing listserv I follow, there’s been a thread about how to tell a budding author what’s wrong with a manuscript, especially if everything’s wrong from syntax to plot to character. I remember once submitting a sixty-page manuscript, on assignment, to a pamphlet series about western authors. It came back with the first twelve pages so heavily edited I could hardly find my own words amidst the red pen notes. It was absolutely the best writing lesson I have ever had and much of it has stood me in good stead over the years. So maybe that’s what I need now—a heavy red pencil.

I know the best thing to do when a project seems stalled is walk away from it and let it sit for days, even weeks. Then go back to it with new eyes. But when I do that, I feel guilty for not writing, even though I set my own deadlines. No one else is telling me I must write a certain number of words a day or produce a finished manuscript by a certain date. It’s one of the big reasons I am an indie-published author.

I can put it aside because I have other interests and projects, principally cooking. With this hot weather, Jordan has challenged me to cook light meals, and I’ve been happy with my results. Like the open-faced sandwich (see last night’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”) or the old-fashioned layer salad I made last night and had for lunch today (probably see next Thursday’s “Gourmet on a Hot Plate”).

I so enjoy meal planning that my grocery bill is out of sight, but I have figured something out. I buy groceries for happy hour snacks (I limit happy hour these days to a few close friends who I know haven’t been traveling—call me cautious, but the cases of Covid I’ve known have almost all been people who’ve been traveling). And I buy groceries for dinner for the three of us—Jacob is now working at Joe T.s almost every night, so I don’t figure him in. That’s a lot of groceries, between Central Market and Albertson’s, but the thing I don’t do is go out to eat. I figure I save a whole bunch of money by cooking at home. Of course, because I experiment, I buy things I wouldn’t ordinarily, which increases my bill (I just ordered furikake—look it up if you’re puzzled).

I’ve been thinking, while my novel lingers in the doldrums, of doing another cookbook. I’ve learned a lot, found a lot of new dishes in the five years since Gourmet on a Hot Plate. And I have a thick file now of what I call “keepers.” I’d love any feedback on whether it would be a good idea or not to combine my food blogs into a book.

There’s one more thing that keeps me occupied, and that’s what I see as the state of our country and the need to speak out. I could blog about that every night, but I figure I’d begin to sound shrill and would become one of those with lots of indignation and no solutions. So I save such blogs for only occasionally, and only specific topics I consider crucial—hard to define that because so many are crucial.

And that’s where I am in the doldrums. I will appreciate any cheering words, advice, suggestions, jokes, and the like. This too shall pass, and I know it, but friends are gootd to have when you’re in the doldrums.

And now, I’m off to read an old Jessica Fletcher mystery set in my heart’s country, Scotland. I missed it the first time around. Stay cool.

The winter doldrums

 

January and February are, to me, the months of the winter doldrums. I love the way that word sounds like what it means—a period of calm, depression. It’s a seagoing term, from an area near the equator where the winds sometimes stop, marooning wind-powered sailboats for days, even weeks. It’s as though the world comes to a stop.

And that’s sometimes the way life feels in these winter months, even here in sunnier climes. Today for instance though chilly was sunny and pretty, enough to cheer the soul. But still I felt becalmed.

In the doldrums I sleep a lot—long winter naps that are both addictive and refreshing. Today, for instance, I got up, let Sophie out at her request, and when she came back inside, crawled back to my bed for another hour. I didn’t sleep, but I dozed. To my great joy, I had the glimmer of a few ideas.

I’ve read several posts from writers in recent days complaining about writer’s block, the inability to make themselves write—anything. The traditional cure of course is to write—anything, something, just write. It is of course easier said than done. But recently I’ve seen other advice which essentially advises “get yourself out of the way.” The more you worry about what to write, the less likely you are to have a clue. If you relax, stop fixing your mind frantically on the problem, and get out of the way, you might just find ideas coming your way. I think that’s part of the virtue of napping and dozing a lot—you kind of turn off your mind and thereby open it to ideas.

Not that I’m had a brainstorm—just a glimmer. But it’s enough to make me face the coming week with a tad more enthusiasm. Perhaps I can take that glimmer and twist and turn it into a plot—oh, oops, there I go again, getting in my own way.

In the cycle of life, I’m sure the doldrums have a purpose. They are not aimless, drifting, empty periods, but times of life designed to help us pull back, regroup, refresh. All that napping is healing, curative, ultimately stimulating.

It’s easy to feel guilt about doing nothing. I’m a past master at that. IF I’m not doing something productive what am I doing? And yet that very thought is as self-defeating as getting in your own way.

I guess it all comes back to those naps, that ability to be becalmed and accept it because it is a phase that will pass. The best advice is to get out of the way.

Ho hum! Day number seven.

Jacob, eating Ramen on the patio

By shopping at several stores, his mom managed to get

enough Ramen to keep him happy for a couple of weeks;

it's apparently a high-demand item.

No, I don’t intend to number every day or consciously count them. That way lies madness, I am sure. But today it strikes me that a week ago today I spoke at a women’s luncheon and had supper with a good friend—and I haven’t been away from the house since. Our world has changed remarkably in the short space of seven days.

Rain and thunder again in the night, only I slept through them. My only clues were that the sidewalks were wet and Sophie didn’t want to leave my side. I woke to a dull morning and a temporary bit of the doldrums, which didn’t improve when the sun came out in the late morning. By noon, I was unbearably sleepy and not interested in doing much except either sitting at my desk or crawling back into bed.

I worked—and did some piddly things—but didn’t accomplish as much as I would have liked. I am torn between my natural inclination toward being a compulsive and an underlying sense that there’s no hurry about anything I do—I will have months and months to accomplish it. Add to all that an acute awareness of the danger of lethargy, and I didn’t much like myself this morning. I took a nap about two and swore to wake up a new person.

One of the things I like about myself is that with stern talking to, I can almost always pull myself out of the doldrums. It’s how I got through the long, difficult post-operative period after my hip surgery, and that same attitude stood me in good stead today. I woke up refreshed—dealt with a few things on the computer (my 10-minute census form and cancelling a disputed credit card charge) and swore to fix myself a good supper.

By 4:30 rain was threatening again, and Jordan came out to ask if I wanted to sit on the patio a big before the storm hit. She is determined that I get some vitamin D every day. I did like the idea. (Our patio is growing green algae from all this rain!) Jacob joined us, and we probably stayed 15 minutes before the thunder and threatening skies drove us inside.

I fixed a cheesy/tomato/white bean baked recipe from the NYTimes—glad I cut it in half because it was okay but not great. To go with it, I fixed salmon croquettes, a favorite since childhood—only I make them as patties, rather than the log-shape my mom used to do. While I was cooking, Jordan sat at my desk and compiled a Central Market order, thinking maybe it would be Saturday before it would be ready. Yep—it will be a week from Saturday!

After dinner, despite the reading I already have on my desk, I started a new book: Erik Larson’s The Splendid and the Vile. I am a Larson fan, from reading The Devil in the White City, about the Columbian Exposition, set practically in the Chicago neighborhood in which I grew up, and Isaac’s Storm, about the 1900 hurricane that nearly wiped out the entire coastal city of Galveston. Larson’s new  book is about Churchill and the early days of WWII in England, the days some refer to as “the Gathering Storm.” I am particularly drawn to British history in that time and to Winston Churchill as a historic figure—an interest that makes me feel closer to my father, who was an inordinate fan of  Churchill.

So I salvaged what started out as a lost day and am feeling better about tomorrow. After all, we’ve got a long haul ahead of us—as did the Brits in 1940.