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?
