“Plenty of Time”

 

            My days slipped into a routine without me even noticing it. I hog the bed as soon as David starts his morning ritual. By the time he heads out the door, I sit at my laptop to check out morning status posts, cute animal pictures, game requests, and jokes. I head over to check my email and peruse the news. Usually I multitask, running clothes through the washer and shifting them to the dryer when I return letters or write a blog post. By 9 AM, the dogs and I head for the back yard. Koi viciously snarls and snaps at the hose, tugging with all of his might to “help” me unwind this coiled snake. I slowly water each bush and hanging basket, all the while yearning for the blessing of rain upon our scorched world.

 

            By the time I reenter the house, the laundry’s dry. I hang, and fold, and put everything neatly away. Then I tackle another small chore—put away the clean dishes stacked so neatly in the dishwasher, vacuum and mop the floors, dust off the find layer that’s settled onto the furniture since the previous week, scrub the tubs and toilets. No matter what the task, I usually finish between 10:30 and 11:00.

            So I pull my hair back into a ponytail, don my Skechers, and head for the gym. Determined to regain my life, I push through thirty minutes of aerobics and another thirty minutes of weights. I mentally mark off the day of the week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday dedicated to upper body. Tuesdays and Thursdays focused on lower body. Weekly weigh-ins show no weight loss, but the tape measure’s become my best friend. I’ve honed almost eighteen inches off of during the last three months. Each half-inch shift gives me the push to head back to the cross trainer. Logic tells me that I spent a decade taking care of someone else, and I should allow myself time to regain my physical endurance. I arrive home sweating like a pig. No delicate “perspiration” for me! A quick soak to stretch out my muscles, and then the rest of the day remains open.

            And so I find myself with plenty of time, practically for the first time ever, to do anything I want (within budgetary reason). Some days, I’ll pick something on Netflix and do a marathon television session. Other days, the TV sits silent all day while I catch up on reading all of the books my favorite authors published over the last four years when Mom’s care shoved reading into an occasional luxury. I’ve even constructed a list of projects to do around the house—like painting the kitchen. Writing, the one thing I clung to tenaciously as HD demolished my mother, now shifts to a leisurely pleasure.

            Yesterday, I began researching some of those little details writers place into books. My curiosity queried on how long a horse can trot pulling a wagon, and how many miles per hour it would go. I needed to know what courses a nurse took going to John Sealy Hospital School of Nurses in the early 1900s. I spent my afternoon with Google and Bing (sounds like a vaudeville act).

            I find great pleasure in discovering the miracle of having plenty of time. I think I’ll luxuriate in it (and maybe brag about it) for quite a while.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

 

“A Lifetime Ago”

            A lifetime ago, I took one year off from teaching to play the role of homeroom mother—and to research and write a novel. I spent months hauling books to and from the library as I researched the setting for my story. Hour after hour, I took notes on the histories, cultures, religions and languages of my fictional characters. Eventually, I merged all of those notes into a plot. During the nine months of that long ago school year, I gave birth to characters and watched them grow and develop.

            When summer shifted into fall, I boxed the first draft of my novel and tucked it away on the corner of a footlocker. Its visibility often nagged at me to delve back into the pages and visit with my friends, but work and responsibilities made it easy for me to ignore my creation. During the next year, the box changed locations several times, and eventually I secured it on a shelf in my closet. I could still see it there, begging for me to return for a weekend or a holiday, but I ignored its pleas. Over the years, the box became buried under shoeboxes and bags filled with crafts I’ve started but never finished. It collected dust in my mind. Frankly, I totally forgot about it.

            Before we moved Mom in with us, I did a major overhaul of all of our closets. We were, after all, combining two households into one. I uncovered the novel one day and spent a couple of evenings rereading the yellowed manuscript. The 3.5 floppy disks tucked into the box reminded me that I’d written these words long ago.

            Resolutely, I began to revise and rewrite my story. I double checked all of that long ago research, this time in the comfort of my home using the miraculous Internet. I layered my more mature writing style into the book, but basically didn’t change the original structure of the plot, the color of the characters.

            My resolution to seek an agent faltered when Mom moved into our home, and I realized the amount of care she needed wouldn’t allow me the luxury of revisions or rewrites if my novel found a home. This time, though, I didn’t box my work away. Instead, I purchased a new, white three-ringed binder. This time, I kept my handiwork nearby for quick reads and editing. I even asked a friend to read and critique it.

            When Mom died, I moved the binder into my desk drawer and headed back into the classroom to clear my head of grief. This summer, one project after another seemed to demand my attention, and I avoided glancing at my neglected volume by shoving calendars and journals on top of it.

            A few weeks ago, I pledged to return to the path I started a lifetime ago. I Google searched for possible literary agents. I decided on a company and agent to approach, and I began the process of writing a query letter, and a synopsis, and selecting my best three chapters.

            Yesterday, I sent this story, first dreamed of a lifetime ago, off to an agent. I won’t get a response for three to six months, and I know the answer will read something like “Thank you, but . . .” However, that’s okay because I’ve accomplished such a major goal. I’ve taken a single idea, developed it into a wonderful story peopled with interesting characters. Even if it’s taken me years, I’ve wound my way through the long and convoluted writing process all the way to the final step.

            And today? I think I’ll start another novel because one’s been floating around in the background for a while. This time, I have no other responsibilities than seeing to the needs to these new characters as I give them lives, so maybe it won’t take another lifetime.    

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“New Recipes”

            After spending months salivating over different recipes posted (pictures included) on Facebook, I decided to copy and paste anything that appealed to me; and which I knew my family would also like to try. Over the last few weeks, I’ve cut, diced and chopped. I’ve stirred, boiled, and baked. I’ve tasted and savored, and delighted in new aromas and flavor combinations.

            We’ve enjoyed Chicken and Cheese Enchiladas, Cowboy Cornbread and Olive Garden’s Zuppa Toscana Soup. My husband has developed a love for Sticky Bun Breakfast Ring on weekend mornings instead of his usual pancakes. We’ve discovered that we all love strong flavors. If feta cheese is in the recipe, I know I’ll get raving reviews.

            Making changes in life can simply come from adding a new spice to the rack or finding a tasteful way to cook Kale. Little adjustments and experiments often lead to the most unexpected findings, both about cooking—and about life!

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The List”

            I keep a list of possible writing topics on the front of pages of a spiral notebook. I draft my poetry, personal narratives, and short stories on the remaining pages. When the papers become full of scratched out revisions, I move onto a new spiral. And I transfer the topic list, adding new ideas and deleting the ones that I’ve already tackled.

            My brainstorming list changes gradually. With some notions, I plan to write a story—only to have it evolve into a poem. I’ll mentally outline one concept into a poem, and when I sit down to write a nice narrative develops. A few of my subjects have transferred from spiral to spiral over a couple of years. Uncertain on how to approach these themes, I simply keep them on the list in the hopes that one day my muse will guide me through a dog’s life or how to walk away from lifelong dreams.

            When I cross through an issue on my list, satisfaction fills me. That bold stroke means I’ve accomplished another goal within my writing. Many of my friends who write strive for perfection within each creation. They struggle laboriously over word nuances and prefer to place within their blogs pieces approaching perfection. I admire their tremendous skill as they weave   texts together with flawlessness. My purpose for sharing my writing, though, doesn’t center around hewing brilliance out of a rough diamond, but instead focuses upon practice, practice, practice.

 

 

            Today, I’m pulling out a pretty purple spiral purchased at a sale at Target last week. I will sit down with my favorite pen in hand and transfer my list, and possible add a few more ideas into the mix.  

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Trigger Finger”

 

            Over the last couple of weeks, my ring finger on my left hand developed a horrible, and painful, tendency to pull down at the joint and stay stuck in this position. A quick Google search let me know I suffered from “trigger finger.” The first step to treat this malady depends on resting the finger through splinting it, and dosing up with Advil to reduce swelling.

            Obviously, this ailment curtailed my ability to write—either by hand or computer. When I attempted to type, the one finger or one hand approach frustrated me tremendously. I decided to utilize my time off from writing by feeding my addiction to Fringe until I watched the final episode. The stack of novels on my bedside table dwindled as I waited for my finger to recover.

            Yesterday, I removed the splint because I simply couldn’t cook with it on. Although the finger hasn’t reached total recovery, I believe I will now be able to spend small amounts of time back with my spiral and pen or on the keyboard.

            I grin as I press each word onto the page. Writing daily means so much to me, and to go ten days without journaling made me feel lost and a little depressed. I found out that exercising my skills as a writer leaves me calmer throughout the day.

            Funny how easy it is to take for granted the little joys of life. I never thought about how important scribbling my thoughts across the page had become until I’d lost my ability to write. Although my finger hasn’t reached full recovery, it has triggered a new need in me to luxuriate in the time I now have to devote to my craft.   

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman