It wasn’t like my life was so gloriously big before.
I’m not a world traveler or famous author. I’m not an elected official or corporate executive suddenly working from my kitchen.
I’m an old woman who gets ten texts a day from the Biden campaign. Between when the texts come, taking the dogs to the dog park, and watching the delicious but extremely slow process of my orchid coming back from certain death to blooming sometime in my lifetime, I could be writing a book. I certainly have time.
Don’t start in on me. I’m doing other stuff but listing it means I buy in to the axiom that you are what you do, which I do buy into, but never mind.
So I waver between appreciative gazing of my budding orchid which, if you were familiar with my sordid history as a gardener or caretaker of houseplants, you would understand more deeply, and thinking I should enroll in a MFA program. So, this morning, I researched low-residency MFA programs hoping I could find one that would let me stay with my orchid, not require me to go anywhere at all, and underpinning all the programs seemed to be the presumption that prospective students would come with a book idea or project or draft. Then all the coursework could be woven into the book project and, at the end, voila! a book would be born.
I have two thoughts about that. I’m too dull-witted and I wish I had some gum.
I can overcome the dull-wittedness in short spurts. Having a blog is perfect for me in terms of attention span and continuity of thought requirements. Both are minimal. Writing a book, though, seems to require more higher-order thought that I have in my wee armory at the moment. It would require vision, tactical ability, and discipline as unimaginable to me now as an elephant swinging his trunk on my front porch. Holding a banana.
And the gum. Well, it just seems ridiculous to order gum on Amazon, don’t you think? And I’m not walking into some teeming Covid hive to buy a pack of gum. As if you can buy a pack of gum anymore. A jar of gum is what you have to buy. I have just, in this last sentence, aged ten years.
I will keep writing my blog even though I am dull-witted and wish I had some gum because what the blog demands of me is what I have even though oftentimes it feels that what I have is lint in my pockets. So what, right? My orchid is blooming.