My weekly newsletter comes out every Friday at 3 pm. I started writing it when my youngest son Louie was about three years old and he is now pushing thirty-nine. So I guess I’ve written a couple of thousand. My columns used to run about 900 words, but over the decades – along with our decreased attention spans – my word count has adapted – shrinking to a more succinct 600 words.
Usually, my brain regenerates over the weekend and, by Sunday night, I have an idea for the upcoming week’s column.
This week that didn’t happen.
Usually, on Monday, I sit down and enthusiastically crank out a few key points I’m mulling over for the upcoming newsletter.
That didn’t happen either.
On Tuesday, I became entirely enmeshed in figuring out the pricing of my pouches and purses for my upcoming (and totally terrifying, as I have repeatedly mentioned before in this column) dive into the world of crafts fairs. And Tuesday night, I literally descended into “Shear Madness” watching the play by the same name at our local performing arts center. It was delightful. (184 words)
I awoke Wednesday morning – no words had yet sprinkled onto my computer screen. No biggie. I went out to lunch with my buddies and twiddled around with the ten-by-ten-foot layout I had chalked on my garage floor to see how my crafts booth would look. (I’d classify it as a work in progress and that is being overly generous.)
By Wednesday night, I was buzzed with controllable anxiety over the contents of this week’s newsletter, or lack of one. I had a few ideas:
Does the self-care world and all its myriad of choices excite you or exhaust you?
Do I really now have to tip the guy at the counter who gives me a pre-packaged box of miniature cupcakes? (I didn’t tip and my 16-year-old granddaughter was appalled)
Is it really a good idea at age 75 – with arthritic knees riddled with bursitis – to take up Pickleball?
I wake up Thursday morning sweating. My anxiety is now inching toward out of control.
What if have nothing to say?
What if I have nothing to say ever again??????
How can I ever replace the euphoria I feel when I finish my column each week and press the Save key? (391 words)
It’s Thursday night. The house is quiet. I brew myself a very strong and large cup of coffee, pop a handful of Doritos into my mouth (I don’t even like them), and ignore the e-mail that just popped into my inbox from my social media person. I already know what it says: WHAT THE HELL? WHERE’S THE COPY?
I’m hoping the caffeine will blast away my lethargy, and my growing sense of panic and provide me with ingenious insights.
That doesn’t happen either.
It’s now 10:13 pm. All I can think of is everything in my life that I have habitually pushed aside, relegated to another time, or neglected all together:
Doing my taxes is at the top of the list
A close second is, of course, losing five pounds
And then, there’s learning Canasta
And mastering all those hidden little camera features on my I Phone. (I paid for an online course, but never finished it. Actually, I gave up after the first lecture.)
Organizing my toiletries (that will never happen – much easier to just buy new than actually wade through the boxes of half-filled moisturizers, flaky eye shadows, sticky mascara, and dried-up lipsticks. (588 words.)
Aha! Finally, an idea for a column pops into my head – but now I’m just too tired to pursue it. Just recently I passed a rainy Thursday afternoon browsing about at the famous Strand Bookstore in New York City. Noticing a large rectangular table featuring “Banned Books,” I scurried over. The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein was prominently displayed. I stared in utter amazement. How could The Giving Tree possibly be considered offensive?
Since I’m now too tired to write a coherent column about my new idea and my deadline is looming, I will leave it to Siri to provide you with the answer:
https://bannedbooks.library.cmu.edu/shel-silverstein-the-giving-tree/
It’s 11:04 pm. (689 words).
I’m going to bed.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
