I confess to writer’s block. I miss my manuscript, always waiting for me here in my study, beckoning me to sit, concentrate, and create as well as recreate, rewrite, edit, and try different phrases on for size and feel.
On what shall I focus now? she asks. Shorter things. Different things? How can I when writing is part and parcel of me—the way I learn what I feel and think. When bemused, befuddled, and out of focus, I need words to write by hand to talk to myself, as I do frequently in my journal. That journal lasts a year, perhaps, and then is shelved—and often not consulted again because it is the very process of writing that informs me.
I wrote a review myself for Loving the Enemy, because I felt satisfied that I had done my best. It isn’t perfect. I still spot phrases I wish I had spent more time on. But nearly 10 years!? Really. I wrote it in fits and starts among the three or four positions I held since 1999.
The beginnings were reflections on how to cope with the decline in my oh-so independent parents, suddenly claiming weakness, and, in my dad’s case, falling prey to a UTI (urinary tract infection). Read all about it in Loving the Enemy: When the favorite parent dies first.
I’d love for you to read it. You will find the benefit of seeing a family approach a crisis no one had prepared for, whose patriarch refused intervention until he could no longer refuse. A move to a nursing home completely unanticipated in their children’s minds. The need for decisions no one had considered with both parents. It was as if what my parents waited for was fate. Neither made any decisions ahead of time. No plans. And I suspect they would have waved off any attempt at planning! So shortsighted.
Clearly, writing about how I feel about my book is the thing to do. I’d love to know what you think, especially if it gives you any wise ideas.