Inspired to Walk the Walk

Way back in October 2019, I published the historical novel The Reluctant Spy. A month later, I had a left knee replacement. The recuperation from that was both difficult and disappointing. It’s been fifteen months since then; problems persist. In addition, two of the three cats with whom I live have had health concerns that involved visits to the vet and my vigilant attention for six months.

Those health concerns coupled with two others—vision and Meniere’s—contributed to my not publishing in 2020. However, something more basic explains my not writing: I slipped—perhaps plunged—into a malaise accompanied by a hefty dose of self-pity. Throughout the past year, I stepped backward into the start-and-stop writing pattern of the years 1989-2016, when I wrote the memoir Prayer Wasn’t Enough.

 

To illustrate that pattern, I’ll share with you the on-again-off-again writing of those twenty-seven years. Right now, on this computer, I have the following:

·      a rough draft of a historical novel, which takes place in Bronze-Age Greece; 

·      a rough draft of a contemporary novel about four ex-nuns and the mystery tying them together;

·      partials of two cat books—one about the Stillwater cats and one about the cat saints who followed the teachings of Bastet-Net, the great god of cats, whom some of you may have met in The Gift of Nine Lives.

·      a series of prose poems in which angels comfort those of us living with the problems of simply being human;

·      two children’s stories—both about enterprising cats; 

·      partials of two memoirs: my childhood and the ten years after I left the convent. 

 

If I were a follow-through person who wasn’t easily bored when in the midst of a project, all the above, except for the memoirs, would be finished and published by now. But, once again, the truth is that I start things and don’t finish them. I move on to a new challenge. So, all those first drafts and partials await the work of completion: the final polish, the edit, copyedit, and publication.

 

I simply haven’t been equal to that in the past year or so. An old Chinese adage is that “the journey of a 1,000 miles begins with the first step,” but I simply haven’t been able to take that step forward. That’s the malaise speaking. And, perhaps, also the self-pity.

 

In the final week of 2020, however, I figuratively took myself by the scruff of my neck and asked, “Is this the way you want to live? You say you want to write—that it’s your passion. Yet you do nothing. You talk the talk; you neglect to walk the walk. Get with the program, Dee!”

 

The prompt for that admonishment? The ongoing journey with stage 4 cancer that my “adopted” grand-daughter Elisa is going through. She’s living her new life with courage and joy. She continues to work—at home—to earn a living. She continues to write her own books. She continues to play board games with her children, listen to them recount their school day, celebrate their lives.

 

Despite the prognosis given her by the cancer specialists, she hasn’t put her own life on hold. 

 

Her uplifting attitude prompted my letting go of the grip of that octopus we call “malaise/depression/down in the dumps/the blues.” She inspired me that last week of December; she inspires me still.

 

Since January 1, I have been writing at least a half hour each day. I’m working on a childhood memoir in which I explore the painful events that led to my emotional immaturity in the convent and beyond. Wish me luck!

 

Peace.