Four days til Christmas. This year, I decided to paint a few directional signs for kicks. I did it last summer and really enjoyed it and people loved getting them. Painting, when it’s sunny and when I have no other responsibilities, is relaxing. I doodled around imagining how maybe I could paint a hundred more or so of these and make a little money. I envisioned all of the other people who might like one and thought about mailing them around to my friends with the names of their favorite places: Truro; Rangely, ME; Misquamicut Beach, Fishing Hole. But that was July. One hundred and forty something shopping days til Christmas.
Now, it’s dark as I squint over the letters. I’m nearly out of black paint and hate the idea of heading anywhere near the mall to get more. Meanwhile, LL Bean is taking its time sending my last few gifts. I haven’t sent out one card. Not one. One of my daughters has so many stocking stuffers, I’m going to have to pile them on the floor while her sisters have a giftcard and a Chapstick apiece. Not like they’ll compare or anything. So much to do for a holiday where there is so much already — food, stuff, errands, traveling, potential to disappoint.
Oh. And I’m writing a new story. One I’m really excited about which doesn’t happen often in my friction-filled relationship with writing fiction. The new ideas distract me. I’ve taken to recording scenes on my IPhone as I cook dinner or feed the cats or scribble to-do lists.
Also, the late game is a good one. If Pittsburgh wins today (and it’s HARD to root for the goddamned Steelers), the Pats clinch home field throughout the playoffs. So I’m watching, yelling at the screen, trying to curb my innate hatred of the gold and black. The usual.
If you’re keeping score: I’m trying to write this blog entry, add to my new story, figure out how to finish up the Christmas errands tomorrow, keep track of third down conversions, and paint a very long name on a sign free hand since I can’t find the stencils I made last summer (I prayed to Saint Anthony to help me find them, but he is mad at me because I yelled at my dog, and I don’t blame him, but isn’t that Saint Francis’s job, birds and other creatures?).
Instead of coming up with writing advice on my own, I asked my husband, Dennis, instead.
I might add here that, last week as he led a middle distance workout for the high school track team he coaches, he fell in a mud puddle and bruised several ribs so he offers this, between groans: “Keep at it, and don’t listen to the voice that tells you you suck.”
Not bad. He winces and continues: “It’s kind of like running. You have to keep doing it every day. In fact, writing is a lot like running. Sometimes on the days you don’t feel like doing it, you get your best stuff.”
Very true. Low expectations can free you. And what a welcome surprise those days are. How they sustain us through much darker days battling the page.
Of course, some days, you also feel pretty damn good about yourself and end up tripping and falling into a mud puddle while your adolescent charges stand around you either horrified, or, as in the case of your own daughter, laughing hard enough to pee their pants. You do finally manage to stand again, coated in muck, soggy and cold, struggling to draw a breath, but you know you’re in for it. You’re not young, you know. You can’t recover as quickly as you used to.
Oh, and your loved ones are so busy, they have precious few moments to spare for sympathy.