Unfinished Business, or Living in the Moment

Each and every time I turn on my computer, I see all these unfinished projects on my desktop. There’s the endless WWII novel, the YA western, the food memoir, the lost doggie children’s book. And then there are all the ideas in the folder marked “magazine articles.” Have I become one of those wannabe writers now, who wishes to have written rather than having to actually DO the writing? What was it that caused me to lose my fire?

It used to be the purpose of my life, writing. Time was whatever writing project I had going consumed me completely, sleeping and waking. I lived and breathed it. And in some ways, lost my life to it. Now, I just don’t seem willing to give myself up to it with that intensity anymore. I have so many theories about why that is, but none of them seems to be exactly right. Maybe they’re cumulative.

It began after the completion of RIGHT FROM WRONG. I do know that I felt betrayal during the publication of that novel, felt that the publishing business had taken a bad turn on me, hadn’t lived up to what I had hoped it would be. I remember sitting in yet another book store with a pile of books stacked on the table, pens lined up for autographs, and nobody walking through the door. The futility of it crept in a little deeper. I had the thought: Is this all there is to it? All those lonely hours at my desk, sweating over each paragraph, each sentence, each word -- for this? And in such a little while, three months at most, the book would be off the shelves in all but the smallest of independent bookstores. A blip.

Also, life gets in the way. My dad began to grow older and to need me more than before. He had moved closer and those cloistered days of writing began to seem almost selfish with him so close and needing me. My grandson needed his Granna. My youngest son’s marriage began to disintegrate, and then my own marriage sounded its death knells. A whirlwind of change began. A new house, a new life, new friends. I was upset by the changes, by the political climate, by the ongoing war, by the buffoon of a president we had in the White House. I got active. I strung myself out too thin, obliging myself to this cause and that committee. Pretty soon, writing was the farthest thing from my mind. It seemed frivolous to sit down and make up love stories. It no longer interested me.

But I didn’t really stop writing. There were all the book reviews for the newspaper. There were the contests I judged, the monthly newsletter for the local Democrats. There were the journals I filled. And filled. And yes, these bits and pieces of things now sitting on my desktop. None of the writing in these book parts (I almost said body parts) is bad. Writing has become second nature to me, and for the most part, just putting down thoughts on paper (or more correctly on computer monitor) comes easily. I know how to make myself clear. I understand structure and tone. I know how and when I can break grammatical rules and get away with it (like right there!). In fact, I understand so much about writing I can hardly enjoy reading anymore. I’m unforgiving of weak stories, hypercritical of poor endings, always aware of devices and writerly cop-outs. Reading fiction is not as rewarding for me as it once was.

Truth is, I’m having too much fun just living these days. I’m in the moment, to use a cliche. If I self-analyze, I see that writing was my panacea. I realize now that I spent most of my life unfulfilled, under-whelmed by my love life, by the joys of motherhood and wifehood (OK, I’m allowed to make up words, too), and writing was my only outlet. I buried my unhappiness in it, made up more interesting lives than I was leading, more satisfying romances, more beautiful people, more heroic, more passionate scenarios. I played paper dolls.

Now, that no longer seems like enough. Yet any more feels beyond my capabilities. The thought of laying aside my real life to finish a play-pretty one on paper doesn’t interest me anymore. I wake up eager to see what each day holds in store. I love my man, my animals, our place, our travels, our friends, our habits. Nothing bores me more than the thought of sequestering myself away from all of this, mundane though my life might seem to an outsider, to arrange and rearrange words all day. It’s just not there anymore for me. And I really cannot explain it more fully than that.

Have I mentioned the wildflowers? The raccoons in the trap? The tomato blossoms in the garden? The bird’s nest in the baby’s breath hanging basket? The paper whites I transplanted from one bed to another? The gut-wrenching movie we watched on Saturday night? The family reunion or the coconut pie I made? The Christmas party I’m planning? Have I mentioned that we’re so busy we can’t find a free weekend to go see my son in DC this summer? Did I talk about the RV trip we’re taking to New Mexico? Or the long Father’s Day week at the Coast? Or the birthday bash for my SO’s mom? Did I write about the back-to-back luncheons last week or the quick trip to Seguin? See? I’m living too much in the moment to even keep up with this blog properly.

Maybe it’s just a phase -- my “me” phase, or rather “us” phase. I haven’t had a lot of true “us” moments in the last thirty years. I think I’ll go ahead and wallow in this one. I’m pretty sure I’ve only got this one life.

Onward ....