But Still They Sing

The Long-awaited Nervous Breakdown

/ J. F. Riordan / 32 Comments

Yesterday I never got out of my pajamas. I walked the dogs in my down coat, so no one could have known it was covering pajamas. I knew, however, and it made me inexplicably happy.

I took a very long scented bath.

I did not put on mascara.

I did not write.

I also did not drink. (Oh, Dry January, get thee behind me.)

I did not cook, other than the avocado toast with poached eggs which we all ate for breakfast. (Except the dogs, who do not like avocado, but just had their poached eggs on toast with rice and ground beef and pumpkin and goat yogurt. They were happy.)

I lay around and read a book.

I searched online for vintage houses in unlikely places and concluded that people who watch HGTV should be prohibited from remodeling any house built before 1970.

I annoyed friends and husband with texted listings of vintage houses in unlikely places. Husband promised to send postcards.

I did not mop the floor.

I did not take down the small tree in the library.

I did not run to the local co-op for any missing pantry item.

I achieved Genius level in a NYTimes word puzzle. Even the venerable NYT has succumbed to grade inflation.

I actually did not nap, but I snuggled my big dogs while they dozed in the sunshine. Auggie purred. Eli snored.

I watched British Antiques Roadshow on the new tv in the library.

I bored myself, which, I think, is something we all need now and then.

This morning I had a full hour more of essential REM sleep than previously, even though I thought I was awake all night.

Oh. And I woke up with a new idea for the book.

No more excuses

/ J. F. Riordan / 28 Comments

It’s back to work day, an idea our French family members find ridiculous. January 2nd?? The day after New Year’s? It’s too soon!

They’re not wrong.

I suppose I should take down the Christmas tree, which has reached the death rattle phase of balsams. One touch and all the needles fall off the branch.

But I won’t.

Back to work day means back to writing the novel day. No excuses. Not even the fire hazard in the living room. Because somehow I have to discover the link between the beginning of the book and the end.

I recently encountered two different films in which the characters tell the author what to write. In one, people look at one another over the author’s head in a mutual understanding that he is quite mad. But, I must tell you, that is precisely the process: the characters do take over. It’s apparently a common—if not universal—experience of novelists, which, honestly, I find reassuring. So far as I can tell, I may be slightly silly, but not actually insane. At least, not yet.

So, today will be spent listening as much as writing.

Meanwhile, the owls are saying their good nights to one another, and the sunrise is brilliant orange against the blue night sky. I can just see the silhouettes of the roosting turkeys. Auggie snores nearby on the couch. Eli has gone back to bed without me.

My cleared desk awaits.

Off to work.

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