The Weekly Grind
Time empties from the day like water through a potted plant. On the other hand, when Friday rolls around, I’m right back at this Substack, riding the wave to one more chunk of carrot inside my stew of hoped for profundity.
Is all my hand wringing and emotional turmoil mandatory or masturbatory? After all that’s what much of my pain has proven to be. The act of writing these posts is a surprising and delightful way to mindfully reframe my existence. Give or take a few costume and setting changes, this is my process.
On Monday, I think about whether or not I can justify skipping a post this week. After over 100 of these, haven’t I said it all? But I sit and play with ideas anyway. I’ve learned the stubborn way that an idea I don’t flush out, eventually turns itself on me. It triggers lingering regrets. A rope not unraveled can morph into an obsession and remind me of what I could have accomplished, but didn’t.
It’s also a most incredible gift to alleviate my lifetime of silence, sacrifice and delayed gratification in 1,200 words.
It’s the beginning of the week and Friday is four hour filled days away. No rush. I do love my lunches and the dogs won’t walk themselves no matter how hard they try. And it is bike season.
On Tuesday, I’ll keep an open mind, maybe start to look at those ideas. Most of this search is still in the background. I’ll sit down at my instrument and begin typing. I’ll write in a burst about something and a topic will jump out. Ah. Maybe I have something here.
Then, a catbird will almost meow out the window and I’ll realize it’s time to feed them again. There is the garden to tend to and the rest of the day is spent in care of all the living things around me and maintenance of the inanimate ones. This sleepy life would sound like torture to the younger, New York version of me, but it is now the only place I can imagine myself.
Friday is moving closer, and often I have some place to be, so I’d like to get to it early. Or maybe a repeat? I flip through my memories of the pieces I’ve written. Better to save it for an emergency.
What the heck? I think. One more round.
On Wednesday I take a writing class. Some cycles I work on that long loved and never finished novel. Recently I’ve been pre-sharing these posts, hoping to get a jump on the Friday deadline. So far, so good. Headed by our fearless bestseller for years, we are a wonderful band of brilliant writers. With sharp critiques, they bring my work to the next level and alleviate some of the innate solitude of the writing way of life.
This is a useful deadline to have.
Please keep in mind, my actual life is happening someplace in between. I make some money sometimes. Wonderful guests come and go, dinners are made, children and the husband are loved on, parties thrown and attended, songs are sung and gardens are nurtured. Did I mention it’s bike season? As much as I need this constant cogitation in order to make sense of this world, I need the rest from that even more.
On Thursday, I start to get nervous. In theory I’d be able to begin next week’s piece at my Thursday night workshop, but Friday is relentlessly on the way. When all goes well on Thursday, I polish up, I add in some funny, or work out the grammar with my oldest writing buddy. Last week I missed that. And it showed.
My life of procrastination begins to bare down on me in a rush. My confidence plummets. My plans become gelatinous. I’ll run a repeat.
First, I’ll take one more crack at it.
On Friday, panic blossoms even when I like what I’ve written. I talk myself down. Sometimes I ambush an unsuspecting friend or a son to listen to me read. It’s time. Now or…?
At the microphone, I drink excessive amounts of water because I’m paranoid that I destroyed my lungs smoking in my youth. By youth, I mean my forties. I hit, record.
When all goes well, I’m done by 11:00 and looking at a whole day until it comes out at 4:15. Instantly, the obsession and knee jerk imposter syndrome kick in.
Is it possible to be derivative of oneself? If so, I am. I mean, how many ways can I say, my often well meaning parents were sadly, sometimes cruelly flawed and it messed me up? Apparently, weekly for over 100 posts.
I must get something out of the constant, nagging thought that I should have spent my life doing something else, that what I’m working on is the worst thing I’ve ever written and Alzheimer's has kicked in. What that is, I cannot tell. Not to worry, when I figure it out, you’ll be among the first to know.
On Saturday I sleep and entertain, bake and putter about the house some more. I do my best to stay off the doom scroll and observe an extraordinarily lenient Shabbat with whomever is home. We pretend to get into the pool, but mostly wind up walking with the dogs and spending time with friends because we’re too lazy to get into bathing suits.
It feels good to have the story out. In my effort to regain my sanity, I stay off the phone on Saturday. Mostly. I do peek, and I cannot say how much it means to me when I hear from some of you, or the likes start coming in. It surprises me every time--an unexpected, but totally needed, hug.
On Sunday I start to panic that the post didn’t get enough of a response, that I need to push something and do more and be more and find some place in my heart to sell myself, to take a risk, to make some money from this gift. I talk myself down. I hop on my bike. Sometimes I overdo the weekend munchies and the booze, but come Monday I’m back at it again.
There’s a part of me that believes that because writing has proven the antidote to my neuroses, it must also be the source. But maybe the years of studying and practice of writing, have made this exploration possible. Could it be, I’ve earned it?
This time I wanted to relax my way into it. I got curious about my patterns and it helped me to quiet the negativity as soon as I spotted it. I wasn’t as successful as I hoped, but I’m going easy on myself these days. If “they” are right, awareness is the first step. What do you say? Same time next week?