On Not Writing

Who is not writing? Me.

When a writer is not writing, it’s generally because she’s doing Other Things. I’ve been not writing. It’s awful. But yes, I’ve been doing other things.

1. Taking a long weekend with Sue by the lake. Sue’s husband was out of town seeing his grandkids, so I motored up to see her. We spent the weekend thrifting, bingeing two series (The Essex Serpent, Department Q), eating good food and drinking good coffee, watching her work her fabric artistry, and enjoying the lake from her gorgeous deck. Sue and I had a blast. I also got to have lunch in person with Adrienne, who I haven’t seen in something like nine years. She’s as wonderful as ever.
2. Having two weekends in Medford and Ashland to see plays at the Shakespeare Festival. My husband I and stayed in Medford, visited April and Lewis, and saw “Into the Woods”, “Jitney”, and “Quixote Nuevo”. Then, a month later, I went back and stayed with April and Lewis, and April and I went to see “Shane” and “Merry Wives of Windsor”. You will note that of all those five plays, only one is Shakespeare. I can’t account for it, but loved the shows I saw so much that I have no complaints.
3. Helping my daughter and grandson move into their new apartment, which is wonderful for them, in part because my grandson is able to join a pack of apartment complex kids after school. My own kids did that until we moved here, to this house that sits in a child drought for some reason. He’s having a blast. I miss them both and see them oh, every day, more or less.
4. Returning my guest room to guest room status so I can have people stay here.
5. Settling in my office after about twenty years of wishing I could. If you come over to my house and I allow you to see this room (I might not), please have compassion for the introverted girl who moved constantly throughout her childhood and as a result, held onto every scrap of everything she ever owned, every book and bear and doodad and doll, and as she aged still kept these things and thought, “Someday I’ll put that in my office,” and after she stopped moving, she still accumulated things with the thought of putting them “in my office,” and whenever a shelf of doodads got too full, packed it away, to put “in my office.” What I mean is that there is a LOT of stuff in here, and I am as embarrassed by it as I am pleased with it. So be kind.
6. Integrating into my home (and office!) the things I took from my sister’s apartment. I thought I was choosy and sparing. I guess I was, but it’s still an enormous amount of stuff to figure out. Right now I am attempting to restore a tiny beanbag kitten she had for her entire life, having gotten it wet, not realizing that in 1957 the beans were made of compressed sawdust instead of plastic, so I had to open a tiny seam and empty out clods of sixty-eight year-old wet sawdust, but I did it and now the dingy, tattered fabric shell of this kitten is soaking in a coffee cup by the sink. This is a tremendous waste of time and effort, but she had it her entire life, through all her moves and losses, and I can’t let it go.
7. Watching “Too Much” and finding it moving and beautiful and hilarious.
8. Handling enormous feelings of grief and loneliness for my brother and sister, triggered by all the items I have been unpacking and handling. My brother’s only finished novel (it’s in drafts, on paper) is by my desk (I finally get to read it), as are his ashes (I still need to deal with those). My nephew came over and went through the last of what my sister had stored in my garage and took it all away.
9. Missing my parents. Mom would have turned 89 this year, so I am finally accepting that she wouldn’t be here even if the cancer hadn’t taken her 21 years ago. Dad would have so much to say about today’s America. I miss them both, and I miss my birth father, who would have had some piercing insights on what this is doing to farmers, especially those who raise soybeans. I miss them and need them and they are not here.
10. Cleaning stuff. Sorting stuff. Planning trips with my husband. Seeing local friends.
11. Laying down rugs for the first time in a minute. One in the dining room, one in the TV room. We watched my oldest daughter’s dog for a few days so she and her husband could get away for their anniversary, and they warned me that he might mark the rugs. I am proud to announce that he did NOT. What a fine little guy he is.
12. Wondering when I’ll start writing again. I miss it.