Shelf Unbound Notable Indie 2020

The Empty Calendar

/ J. F. Riordan / 11 Comments

There is a phenomenon I experience which may or may not be common among writers. It is the cultivation of an empty calendar.

This means that when I am trying to get the wheels turning with my writing, I cannot have appointments. I cannot have repairmen coming to the house. (Yes, I know, but in my experience, they’re all men.) I can’t have the cleaning lady. I can’t schedule lunches. I can’t schedule coffees. I only very reluctantly schedule dental appointments and haircuts, but this is mostly only so I don’t lose all my teeth and depress myself looking in the mirror.

This does not mean that I can never do these things. But it means that I can only do them spontaneously—the social things, anyway—after the day’s work is finished and I have exhausted my capacity for further writing. If I schedule something, it haunts me, and even when I try not to allow it, the little voice that plans what to wear and when I should leave interferes with the freedom of mind I need.

Like today, for instance, I have no intention of getting out of my pajamas until I am finished with my work. If I knew I had to go somewhere for lunch, it would ruin my morning. Because by 8 am I would be thinking: I have to stop at 10 so I can wash my hair, and figure out where my black jeans are, and is that new paisley blouse clean. Then I would have to stop, locate the jeans, and most likely dig the blouse out of the hamper to throw it in the fifteen minute cycle of the washer, and set the timer so I remember to put it in the dryer… And by then my concentration is ruined and the day is lost.

This can make friendships difficult, and I’m not sure everyone completely understands. I’m not even sure I understand. But at times like this, I tend to go dark, and although I will respond to texts or emails, and eventually return calls, I don’t cheerfully answer calls. Usually my phone isn’t even anywhere near me.

And I try never to schedule anything. Particularly not on Mondays.

On the other hand, on most writing days, by noon I am ready to venture forth, and I spend a happy afternoon rambling around doing errands, wandering the aisles of the grocery store, then coming home and arranging the new flowers and making something for dinner. If someone is available for a spontaneous something, that’s a bonus. But it’s not essential.

The end result of all this is a somewhat messy house, a somewhat frowsy personal appearance, a long list of needed repairs, and trying the patience of my very lovely friends.

It’s not ideal, but I have learned that writing a book requires several kinds of ruthlessness. And this is only one.

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.

Things to Remember for Next Christmas

/ J. F. Riordan / 14 Comments

You won’t get any work done.

If you can’t find a tree, don’t panic. It’s Wisconsin.

Open car doors when attaching tree to roof.

Buy favorite champagne early.

Always drink champagne before shopping for tree.

Get lots of fresh air.

Balsams smell amazing, but don’t last as long as frasiers.

Go to at least one concert.

Buy and wrap presents early. HAHAHAHAHA

Listen to husband when he says tree looks great without ornaments.

Taking down the tree is a miserable job. But worth it.

Chex Mix.

Brown Thumb

/ J. F. Riordan / 11 Comments

I suppose I should begin by saying that although my gardens thrive, I am terrible with houseplants. I am so terrible, in fact, that my husband makes little “Help me” voices when I bring one home. My friend, Julie, after yet another botanical demise, recently told me that she would never give me a plant again. But a few years ago, I was inspired by my niece’s spectacular living room trees, and was determined to try once more.

So I bought two of the same variety, and remarkably, after three years, they are not dead. One, in fact, is a beautiful, lush, tree. The other is a pathetic stick with a couple of leaves sticking out.

They live in our sunny bedroom, and in the summer I put them out on the patio to soak up the sun and rain. From the first summer, the one immediately thrived and grew. The other languished. I tried switching their positions outside—no mean task because they are in big, heavy pots—but it made no difference. I brought them in for the winter, and the healthy one kept getting healthier, and the listless one continued its malingering.

Last summer, though, things took a turn. The healthy one grew spectacularly. The wan one kept falling over because it somehow collected water in the pot, and no matter what I did the soil kept turning into a marshy soup. Since they were only about five feet from one another, theoretically receiving the same rainfall and not under a drain pipe or anything, it was puzzling. And since we were mostly at the lake, I lost track, and the poor thing nearly drowned.

By the time I was paying attention again, plant one was spectacular, but plant two was in dire straits. I stood it up, added rocks and more soil, and brought them both inside. They both got fertilizer—probably at the wrong time of year—and as life became busy, I resumed my pattern of neglect.

About three weeks ago, I noticed that plant two had three teeny leaves growing valiantly from its spiral trunk. I was doubtful, so every day I have double-checked. They continue to grow, and so far, seem determined to persist. I am being careful to pay attention, not to over or under water, and I switched positions of the two plants so the desperate one gets the benefit of whatever the healthy one had last winter. The healthy one is…healthy. It’s getting so big, I’m not quite sure what to do with it.

But maybe now the pathetic one will grow, too. My New Year’s resolution is for it to match its boisterous friend.

Hoping for advice, I asked my niece about her beautiful living room trees. They died.

Silence

/ J. F. Riordan / 20 Comments

It is quiet in the house. Auggie snoozes on the couch nearby. Eli has discovered the new bed in his favorite corner of the living room. The fireplace has one log burning, and above it I have lit my favorite scented candle. Outside, the sky has the specifically blue clouds that foretell snow. A hawk is flying low, on the hunt, and now, a very faint, fine snow has begun to fall.

Yesterday, I took a long nap, and didn’t feel any urgent need to get up to do anything. We went shopping, bought a television that actually works to fit in the bookcase, and braved the frantic grocery store to buy smoked salmon and shrimp for our New Year’s Eve. The dogs came with us in the car, and enjoyed the scents from open windows.

Today I will make soup, take another nap, and reclaim my office in preparation for my work. Later, we will talk of the future, and drink champagne.

This will be a busy year of work.

I feel ready.

This is an illustrative, rather than gratuitous, dog photo.

Last day

/ J. F. Riordan / 24 Comments

Our adventure with our eldest grandson began August 26th, and now we’re down to our last day. We had a quite splendid Christmas holiday together with his little brother and mom. As my daughter said, we are lucky to be a family who all like one another. Not everyone has that.

This morning we are going out to breakfast at a place our grandson likes, and the afternoon will be spent doing laundry and packing, and resting for the thirty-plus hour trip home. The boys’ dad is planning a big welcome home party for New Year’s Eve. I hope the boys can stay awake for it.

Tomorrow morning we will take them to the airport, and when we come home, the house will have an emptiness that even Auggie and Eli can’t fill. I’m not quite sure how it will feel. But it will take me a few days to recover from the mad energy of boys.

And then will begin the slow un-Christmasing of the house, which, depending, can be either depressing, or a fresh new beginning.

I used to have a cleaning lady who took down the Christmas tree for me. Oh, how I miss her.

And now for your gratuitous dog photo.

Read the Beginning of J.F. Riordan’s new novel, *A Small Earnest Question*

/ J. F. Riordan / 6 Comments
Book Four in the Award-winning North of the Tension Line series

The telephone rang in the sleek, city office of Victor Eldridge. As he reached to answer the pain came again with a deep, resounding blow that made it difficult to breathe. He braced his hands against his desk, waiting for it to pass as it always did. The ringing phone, mixed in the wake of his agony, was almost beyond bearing.

Victor Eldridge was not a religious man, but what he experienced now was as much of a prayer as he would ever utter. Please, let this be the end of it. Please let the pain stop.

He did not care how.

The ringing and the pain faded at the same moment, and it seemed as if the room echoed with both. He stayed frozen in position, his breathing shallow.

He straightened slowly and leaned back in his chair. There. His breath became deeper and he could feel his heartbeat slowing to its normal pace. His reason returning from the chaos of suffering, he began to think. He had much to do but very little time. The pain was gone. For now. But he knew it would come again.

And again.

***

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