When I told someone today that I had written my first book when I was nine, she said, "Oh, you are published?"
I guess I shouldn't have said "my first book." So it was also my last book. Sixty pages. The working title was "The Butler Did It." It was a Nancy Drewesque novella. At night, I would sit on the floor in the kitchen and read my next chapter to my mother while she was cooking dinner.
I haven't been writing. It is easier to not do something than to not do something perfectly. Procrastination and Perfectionism are evil twins that tag-team my best intentions. Or my best dreams.
My life has had a lot of sadness in it and I have been reluctant to write because if I write the sadness will seep out no matter how hard I try to dress it in ribbons and wryness.
Last August, my Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The big PC. I feel like it is everywhere. Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Patrick Swayze. It's like when you get a new car and suddenly everywhere you look - there is your car. And you rarely ever saw that car before.
Dad is amazing. He is Superman. At least in his mind, and that is great. He had cancer in 1983 the first time. Melanoma. Doctor told him not to take out a mortgage on a house he and Mom were looking at then. He got the mortgage, went to Duke for some crazy treatment involving the injection of tuberculin germs into his body and he beat it. At least for 26 years.
I've spent a lot of time in hospitals this year. UVa is an amazing hospital, but it is intimidating. Everybody speaks English as a second language. And when you don't understand what is going on in the first place, it is even harder to try to figure things out when you are also trying to decide if the word was a medical word or just an English word with a Korean twist.
The Medical Center is quite a melting pot. Heck, even the hospital in Covington has mostly doctors from beyond our borders. I don't mean to sound xenophobic. I enjoy being around people from different cultures. I am always bugging my Puerto Rican colleague at work to tell me about the island. It's just that no matter how doctors come in like white knights to the rescue, there is still a moat between us and them.
If my Mom feels this way, she doesn't show it. And she doesn't let language barriers or doctorocity intimidate her. I have felt sorry for more than one doc who did not answer questions to her liking. Mom can eviscerate with her sharp tongue and keep a smile on her face at the same time.
Unless she is too tired. And she is too tired. Since August, she has been too tired.
And I am overwhelmed. And scared. And sad. And, did I mention scared?
It's wrong for me not to write. I know this. I just haven't done anything about it lately. And when that lady asked me if I was published, I immediately said no. And then I thought, well I have been published. I wrote stories for 20 years for one newspaper or the other. I have had this blog for a couple of years, even if the first ones were more prolific.
At work, I sometimes get the chance to dance with my writing muse. Most of the time, however, she is off wandering around in the woods behind the office, listening to squirrels chatter and decorating her hair with hydrangea petals.
I have invited her to tea - I don't drink it very often, but I imagine a muse would like tea very much. And crumpets. Or ladyfingers. And if I am more sad than happy, maybe she can help me find a way to write it out. And maybe you will read it and remind me that I need to keep doing this.
