I stood in the dim light of this night kitchen, eating leftover chicken salad from a Tupperware container that was probably older than I was.
“We have a problem.” I said, addressing what remained of my dinner. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” And by ‘you’ of course, I meant ‘me.’
While this statement could be applied in a broader sense to my life as a whole, really, tonight, it’s about what I’m doing with my writing. I’ve compared my entree into the world of independent publications to rushing out of the house without my pants on. The feeling has only grown more intense as I prepare to edit draft work for my third–and much better planned–book.
“What are we doing? What’s the Plan? What’s next?” I ask the Tupperware. The chicken salad withholds commentary for the present, being annoyingly food-like and not at all a good sounding board.
My need to do a good job on this book is counterbalanced with a decided need to finish it up. It’s about dogs, my dog in particular. If you’ve kept abreast of recent posts, you know that she isn’t faring well. If I don’t have the rough edits finished before she passes away, I know I will be too broken to coherently write–much less be the Chooser of the Slain that we have to be in order to edit any work. It’s a matter of balancing many essentials, all clamoring for undivided attention, I suppose.
Again, I look down at the container. The chicken salad commiserates with my dilemma, but has nothing useful to add. Grumbling, I finish eating my stoic and unhelpful dinner, set the container in the sink, and turn out the light, no wiser for my encounter.