Meet Me on the Davenport
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| "Nap time is over, Carl." "Did you say something? There's a scarf over your mouth." |
14 January 2018
One day last month on the way home from IKEA, Linda turned to me and said, "You need to write a book about the glorious hellscape that is online dating."
"But I don't know how much more of this I can take! And I probably don't have enough material yet. It might kill me. It's only been two weeks!"
I gazed out the window, saw a hawk in a tree, a few crows, and the whole structure of a possible book just BOOM was there in my wee head.
So I turned back to her and said, "Okay, what if it looked like this...."
She laughed. "That took you less than a minute!
I don't whether I'll do it. But it was a great moment.
The day after I wrote this journal entry I was in the emergency room with an unprovoked acute pulmonary embolism. I wasn't in pain, so I was cheerful about it, not realizing that my life would be entirely changed.
I remember that nightmarish spring semester only vaguely. All the details are gone. At first my memory losses were deeply upsetting. But recently I've tried to take an oh, what a delightful surprise sort of attitude. Like that feeling you have when you dream that your house has a whole section of lovely rooms that you had no idea were there all the time.
Here's an example. Last fall someone asked me how my book proposal was going, and I had utterly, entirely forgotten that I'd written 40,000 words, several of them perfectly adequate. Oh! I wrote most of a book! How delightful!
I had spent the summer writing and resting, mostly, and coping with survivor's guilt and, possibly, some mild PTSD. In August I had ten glorious days in Sitka, Alaska, house-sitting and hammering out a draft of my book proposal. (And they're more complicated than you might guess, a "very formally defined animal," as my pal Rob explained.) My only responsibilities were feeding the cats and myself, which was easy, because so many delicious leftovers had been stashed for me by my host. I took walks, practiced my fiddle, wrote like a fiend, and listened to Gail Carriger novels. Heaven.
Foolishly, I had thought that a summer recovery would put me in shape to start strong with the new school year. We have had huge turnover in our department this past year, and problematic, bullying personalities were, poof, finally gone. Fresh start!
Ha! Within a month I was crying every day. My goal for a good work day was to not cry before noon. At the end of September, we hosted a national conference, important work, but a logistical nightmare. My dear colleague from the theatre department would call in the morning and say, "Have you cried yet today? If you can wait until two this afternoon, I'll be over and we can cry together." Bless his heart!
I survived the fall semester, but barely. I realized I had to rearrange my priorities, and, as graciously as I could, I withdrew from all my outside commitments, a board of directors, a performing group.
At the turn of the year, I got little hitch in my giddy-up, a six-week dance with migraine, out of the blue. Disappointing, because at the one-year point in my recovery, I thought I'd be on the mend, feeling a-okay.
But that, too, passed. They stopped as suddenly as they started.
And then!
We'd barely launched the new semester when the snow came. On day four of that February snowmaggedon, I had run out of TV shows, and I realized it was time. So I spread out the abandoned pages of the proposal and took it bird by bird, one section at a time, fixing all the problems. A week later, about 87% was perfectly adequate and ready for review, because only ten pages were absolute shit, which is better than a poke in the eye.
Now it's spring break, and the proposal is essentially done. My favorite former student (they're all my favorite) gave me some excellent feedback yesterday, and I will fix a few bits here and there, per her recommendations.
Over the last year the scope of the memoir evolved into something more tender and complicated than jokes about online dating misadventures. It is about finding oneself alone at fifty and, yes, sure, embarking on an online dating misadventure, but these stories are woven together with memories of my mother and grandmother, who taught me—for both better and worse—about what it means to love.
One day last month on the way home from IKEA, Linda turned to me and said, "You need to write a book about the glorious hellscape that is online dating."
"But I don't know how much more of this I can take! And I probably don't have enough material yet. It might kill me. It's only been two weeks!"
I gazed out the window, saw a hawk in a tree, a few crows, and the whole structure of a possible book just BOOM was there in my wee head.
So I turned back to her and said, "Okay, what if it looked like this...."
She laughed. "That took you less than a minute!
I don't whether I'll do it. But it was a great moment.
The day after I wrote this journal entry I was in the emergency room with an unprovoked acute pulmonary embolism. I wasn't in pain, so I was cheerful about it, not realizing that my life would be entirely changed.
I remember that nightmarish spring semester only vaguely. All the details are gone. At first my memory losses were deeply upsetting. But recently I've tried to take an oh, what a delightful surprise sort of attitude. Like that feeling you have when you dream that your house has a whole section of lovely rooms that you had no idea were there all the time.
Here's an example. Last fall someone asked me how my book proposal was going, and I had utterly, entirely forgotten that I'd written 40,000 words, several of them perfectly adequate. Oh! I wrote most of a book! How delightful!
I had spent the summer writing and resting, mostly, and coping with survivor's guilt and, possibly, some mild PTSD. In August I had ten glorious days in Sitka, Alaska, house-sitting and hammering out a draft of my book proposal. (And they're more complicated than you might guess, a "very formally defined animal," as my pal Rob explained.) My only responsibilities were feeding the cats and myself, which was easy, because so many delicious leftovers had been stashed for me by my host. I took walks, practiced my fiddle, wrote like a fiend, and listened to Gail Carriger novels. Heaven.
 |
| The view from Mount Verstovia, Sitka, Alaska. |
Foolishly, I had thought that a summer recovery would put me in shape to start strong with the new school year. We have had huge turnover in our department this past year, and problematic, bullying personalities were, poof, finally gone. Fresh start!
Ha! Within a month I was crying every day. My goal for a good work day was to not cry before noon. At the end of September, we hosted a national conference, important work, but a logistical nightmare. My dear colleague from the theatre department would call in the morning and say, "Have you cried yet today? If you can wait until two this afternoon, I'll be over and we can cry together." Bless his heart!
I survived the fall semester, but barely. I realized I had to rearrange my priorities, and, as graciously as I could, I withdrew from all my outside commitments, a board of directors, a performing group.
At the turn of the year, I got little hitch in my giddy-up, a six-week dance with migraine, out of the blue. Disappointing, because at the one-year point in my recovery, I thought I'd be on the mend, feeling a-okay.
But that, too, passed. They stopped as suddenly as they started.
And then!
We'd barely launched the new semester when the snow came. On day four of that February snowmaggedon, I had run out of TV shows, and I realized it was time. So I spread out the abandoned pages of the proposal and took it bird by bird, one section at a time, fixing all the problems. A week later, about 87% was perfectly adequate and ready for review, because only ten pages were absolute shit, which is better than a poke in the eye.
Now it's spring break, and the proposal is essentially done. My favorite former student (they're all my favorite) gave me some excellent feedback yesterday, and I will fix a few bits here and there, per her recommendations.
Over the last year the scope of the memoir evolved into something more tender and complicated than jokes about online dating misadventures. It is about finding oneself alone at fifty and, yes, sure, embarking on an online dating misadventure, but these stories are woven together with memories of my mother and grandmother, who taught me—for both better and worse—about what it means to love.
Generally, the consensus seems to be that No Thanks, Cupid would be the catchiest title. But I'm so very fond of Meet Me on the Davenport: Middle-Aged Dating and Other Deadly Pursuits, so that is the current working title.
(You'll remember, of course, my grandmother Audra enjoyed some quality time on the davenport during her courtship with Horace.)
We will see.
Tickled to have this done, and tickled to not be dead yet.
It is the equinox, and the garden is lovely, and we've had glorious weather.
Happy spring.
Happy spring.
I love both titles. I can't wait to read this.
ReplyDeleteI love it.
ReplyDelete