An author producing new work is a lonely job. Some
writers are prolific and pound out hundreds of words each day. Others, like me,
manage to squeeze out a few paragraphs sporadically. I envy the likes of those
who can concentrate on their writing for hours on end. I’m retired, pushing
eighty, and live in a community that provides all outside-the-home maintenance.
You’d think I have nothing to do but write.
That ain’t the case, folks. Here’s a sample of my day:
1. Arise
early. Early is relative; now it’s around 8:00 AM.
2. Eat
a healthy, energy-producing breakfast; I’m married to a retired RN, and she is
adamant that I eat correctly.
3. Our
marriage is a partnership (at least that’s what I’m told), she cooks the
breakfast, and I clean up the dishes afterward.
4. I
head for the computer to begin my writing day, but “We have to go to the grocery
store,” she says. She has her purse over her shoulder and a list in hand. It’s
missing a few essentials like Ice Cream, Cookies, Beer, and other important
stuff. If I don’t go with her, that stuff won’t be here when I need it.
5. It’s
almost noon before we return home. Elderly couples fill the store while
strolling down the aisles, carefully reading each label and price tag while
their shopping cart sits dead-center, blocking passage in either direction. We’ve
scored a bonanza of specials and BOGOs. However, the cookies I like best were
in short supply. I had to settle for an alternate brand forty cents lower in
price. That’s a plus.
6. We
unload the groceries and put them away just in time to eat a light lunch. A minor
debate as to whether we have grapes and cheese or a small salad takes longer
than preparing either one.
7. Having
been on my feet for nearly three hours, I’m tired. I plop down in my recliner
as wifey sets the table for our lunch. It’s almost 1:30 PM when I finish my wilting
salad. It’s been sitting on the table for forty-five minutes, waiting for me to
finish my nap.
8. I’m
almost to my desk when the doorbell rings. It’s George, my neighbor, wanting to
borrow my stud finder. I know right where it is. We go into the garage, where
George spots my new rechargeable drill. “That’ll be handy for drilling the pilot
holes in the shelves,” he says, beginning a detailed explanation of what his
project entails. At 2:30 PM, George is on his way home carrying my stud finder,
drill, Skill saw, and a coffee can full of screw inserts for putting the screws
stashed in his pocket into virgin drywall.
9. I
dash to the restroom for a quick…, well, you know, and return for a spell at
the computer. The phone in my pocket rings; for a moment, I contemplate not
answering, but it’s too irritating to ignore, so I answer. “No, I’m not
interested in purchasing an extended warranty on my minivan.” I’m almost to the
desk when wifey says, “Honey?”
10. It’s
almost four o’clock when I finish untangling the ribbon from the rotating brush
of the vacuum cleaner. “Dinner’s almost ready, Dear. Don’t start anything right
now,” she says with that honey-dripping sweetness that can only come from her
Southern upbringing.
11. She’s
cooked a wonderful meal, with sweet potatoes and melted cheese topping a green
vegetable that must have been broccoli but could have been Brussel sprouts. You
got it. She cooked, and I cleaned up.
12. As
I hang up the last dish towel, the 6:00 evening news fills the television
screen. “Sit down and watch the news with me,” she says—my recliner beckons.
13. It’s
eight o’clock, and I’m just sitting in my chair in front of the computer. I
think, Have I balanced the checkbook yet this month?