Musings & Thoughts for Thursday, July 20, 2023, or: Grief, Stress, and Writing

Early Afternoon, Thursday, July 20, 2023, Lithia, Florida

Hi, there, Dear Reader.

Well, it looks like today is going to be one of the hottest days of the still young summer; as I write this, the temperature (outside, of course) is 91°F/33°C under mostly cloudy conditions. With humidity at 64% and a barely moving (3 MPH/4 KPH) westerly breeze, the heat index is already at 102°F/39°C. I can only imagine how brutal the feels-like factor will be when the temperature reaches its predicted high of 95°F/34°C. Surely, the heat index will be in the low 100s/low 40s.

At least there are no showers or thunderstorms in the forecast. Yesterday afternoon – in a perfect match for my mood during the Dreaded Anniversary – it stayed partly sunny long enough for me to get some work done on Chapter 10, Scene Two, but then the scattered showers morphed into thunderstorms just as I was finally getting into my “writer’s zone” and writing halfway decent prose. (See the next section below.)

Of course, weather forecasts can be – and often are – somewhat inexact, so there’s always a possibility that we’ll see either rain showers or thunderstorms later today.

On Writing & Storytelling: Pushing Forward on a Most Difficult Day

As you know, yesterday was not an easy day for me; it was the eighth anniversary of Mom’s death, and I had to use every ounce of inner strength to overcome the grief, uncertainty, and – yes – even anger that I felt over the loss of the only parent I got to know. I wished – and still do – that my half-sister and I could have gotten along well enough for me to stay “home.” Alas. That was not possible, given the circumstances.

I also felt a great deal of sorrow that my mother suffered a great deal – near-permanent confinement to one small room that she did not like, pain from the surgery she underwent to repair her spine, the onset of dementia that started manifesting itself not long after her operation in June 2010, and near-constant pain from pressure ulcers despite everyone’s best efforts to make sure she wasn’t “stuck” in one position all day – before she passed away.  We can’t choose the manner of our deaths, but I would not wish for anyone to die the way Mom did.

I did my best to work through the emotional miasma of grief, resentment, and anxiety and focus on the Reunion: Coda manuscript, and I eventually succeeded. I finished the first segment of Chapter 10, Scene Two, and – just as the weather here began to deteriorate – started on the second one.

However, because it took me so freaking long to clear my head – I was also hindered by my computer’s Amazon Music app’s failure to work properly, so until I decided to turn to my 4K UHD TV set (which is also linked to Amazon Music and plays the same content), I had to write in almost total silence – I only wrote the “setup” for the bulk of the second segment of Chapter 10, Scene Two.

For those of you who are remotely interested in the progress of the manuscript, this is what I’ve managed to write so far this week:

Professor James K. Garraty’s Office, Columbia University/Fayerweather Hall

5:15 PM, March 1, 2000

As I step into my office, the air hangs heavy with the scent of old books and a palpable sense of academic gravitas. Fayerweather Hall embraces me with its historic charm, and I feel a surge of intellectual energy coursing through my veins.

To the right, sturdy bookcases tower against the walls, crammed with volumes that hold the weight of history. They are my battlefield, my treasure trove of knowledge. Amongst the ranks of military history tomes, my three books stand tall and proud: “Triumph in the Pacific,” “Lost Victory: Desert Storm 1991,” and “Uncertain Trumpets: Operation Market-Garden.” Their spines, worn and weathered like battle scars, share the stage with other revered works, a testament to my lifelong pursuit of understanding.

The shelves reach for the heavens, an endless expanse of stories waiting to be unearthed. The fading sunlight filters through the windows, casting dim ethereal rays that illuminate the meticulously arranged rows of titles. Dust particles dance in the silvery-gray beams, hinting at the ancient tales they carry.

Behind the worn wooden desk, an organized chaos reigns. Piles of papers and notebooks teeter precariously, bearing the weight of my research and intellectual musings. The leather chair that cradles me, worn with time, has embraced countless historians before me, its armrests etched with their collective wisdom.

As I settle into the familiar seat, my gaze sweeps across the office, absorbing the artifacts and remnants of history that adorn the walls. Framed maps, battlefields frozen in ink, hang alongside photographs capturing the faces of those who shaped the past. A weathered globe, perched atop a steadfast bookcase, reminds me of the interconnectedness of our world and the vastness of human experience.

A soft, warm glow emanates from the brass desk lamp, casting its spell over the desk. Amidst scattered notes and reference books, my faithful computer hums with the promise of digital exploration. It is a bridge between old and new, a portal to expand the boundaries of historical inquiry.

Beyond the office walls, muffled voices mingle, a chorus of youthful enthusiasm echoing through the hallowed halls of Columbia University. Within these four walls, time seems to slow, allowing me to immerse myself in the depths of history, to traverse the corridors of the past with every turn of a page.

My office is a sanctuary, a testament to my unyielding passion for unraveling the tapestry of human events. Here, the world becomes my canvas, and I am the storyteller, weaving narratives that breathe life into forgotten heroes and lost battles.

At the moment, however, my attention is not focused on the triumphs and tragedies of the past, but on the minutiae of a university professor’s day-to-day routine. There are stacks of exams and students’ essays to grade, dozens of interdepartmental memoranda to read and reply to, a plethora of correspondence – both electronic and old-fashioned letters, though the former is now more common than the latter – to attend to, and scheduled meetings with students to discuss their grades, check on the progress of their research papers, or address any problems they might have in my classes. It’s mostly unromantic – surely, no one is ever going to make a blockbuster movie based on A Day in the Life of Professor James Garraty – but, to a dedicated educator, it’s an important (if not glamourous) aspect of my chosen career.

“Okay,” I mutter as I turn my attention to my personal computer’s Windows 98 Calendar application and, with a quick mouse click, select Wednesday, March 1, 2000.“Let’s see. ‘Prepare notes for lecture on the aftermath of Market-Garden for Friday.’ That’s mostly done….”

***

7:30 PM, March 1, 2000

It’s dark outside now; according to my YoWindow weather app, the sun set at 5:49 Eastern Standard Time. I, of course, haven’t noticed the passage of time because I’ve been so busy, but now my office is bathed in an eerie transformation. The fluorescent lights, once a stark contrast to the warm, nostalgic glow of the brass desk lamp, have become the sole source of illumination. Their cold, unyielding beams cast long, angular shadows across the room, making the artifacts and remnants of history on the walls appear almost haunting.

As my tired eyes flicker between stacks of exams and research papers, the buzzing of the fluorescent tubes seems to grow louder, an unrelenting reminder of the advancing hours. The organized chaos on my desk now looks slightly disheveled under the harsh lights, and my computer screen emits a faint, bluish hue, tiring my eyes even more.

With the subtle shift in lighting, the sanctuary of my office no longer feels as inviting and comforting as before. It’s as if the very essence of time is now embodied in these fluorescent tubes, relentlessly marching forward, making me realize how much time has elapsed since I first settled into my worn leather chair.

I rub my eyes, feeling the weight of the day and the somberness of the anniversary. The walls seem to close in on me, and the once grand narratives of history now feel distant and elusive. My office, once a bridge between old and new, now resembles a battleground where the ghosts of the past and the demands of the present collide.

I stand up, stretching my weary limbs, and take a deep breath, trying to shake off the fatigue that has settled over me. Two hours have passed since I began my work, but it feels like both a fleeting moment and an eternity. The fluorescent lights, relentless in their glow, are a stark reminder of how swiftly time can escape us, even amidst the treasures of history.

In this shifting illumination, I gather my belongings and prepare to leave my sanctuary, carrying with me both the weight of the past and the responsibilities of the present. The darkness outside mirrors the emotions within, and as I step out into the night, I know that the echoes of my mother’s memory will continue to accompany me, even in the changing lights of time.

As I prepare to shut down my computer, a sudden interruption jolts me from my contemplative state. The fluorescent lights flicker momentarily, and then, a familiar tune cuts through the silence of my office. It’s my Nokia cellphone, vibrating insistently on the desk. I reach for it, wondering who could be calling at this hour.

“Hey, hi! What a nice surprise!” I answer with genuine delight as I see the name “Maddie” flashing on the screen. Her call comes as a welcomed interruption, a beam of warmth amidst the cool fluorescent glow that engulfs my office.

Her voice, sweet and soft, fills my ear, and I can’t help but smile. “To what do I owe this pleasant call?”

Maddie’s laughter echoes through the line, like a melody that I’ve come to cherish. “I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow to talk more,” she replies, her British accent adding a touch of charm to every word.

Keep in mind that this is from the file “Scratch Sheet for Reunion Coda” and still has not been fully copy-edited or revised in a major way. The final version will be different – which is why I can afford to share this version on my blog.

Action This Day

Today is, of course, a “writing day,” so my mission plan for today is the same as yesterday’s: publish a blog post, take a rest break, then write for several hours – and hope the weather cooperates.

I don’t believe that today’s writing session will be dedicated to pressing forward with the narrative in “rough draft” mode. I woke up this morning with aches and pains all over the place, especially in my neck and upper back. The soreness has faded since 7:30 AM, otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing all that well now. But it is still there, and it is a major distraction. And unless I figure out a way to relieve it – maybe a longer than usual rest break – I will focus more on fixing what I wrote on Tuesday and yesterday rather than coming up with new material.

Sure, it will slow down the forward momentum of the story. And yes, that means that my “First Draft Will Be Finished by Mid-August” goal might be overly optimistic. I would like to meet that deadline so I can focus on revisions and prepping the manuscript for a Fall/December release, but that will take either a miracle or several “good days” where everything comes together, all cylinders a-clicking, and I can produce 20-30 pages a week from now till August 15 or so.

I don’t trust the whole miracles thing, so that means I must place all my bets – as it were – on having several good writing days when my mind is clear enough to be both creative and productive. I understand that I have to do my best to achieve this and have a “positive” attitude.

That’s a tall order, though. I thrive creatively when I am not stressed out or unhappy. I think that’s true of many people who work in the field of creative arts. I think that “suffering for the sake of art” is bullshit, because I know, from personal experience, that although painful experiences can be a source of inspiration for creatives, working while you’re going through a “rough patch” in life is often difficult if not outright impossible. I can’t write well when I’m worried, sad, or scared, and I’ve been feeling all three of those emotions lately.

I will do my best and work through whatever issues I have on the emotional front so I can do some good work today. That’s about as well as anyone can do, I guess. So, wish me luck, and we’ll see what happens.