All Play and No Work....

It's been 53 days since I got laid off. In that time, I've wrapped and unwrapped gifts for the holidays, gone to Las Vegas to see family and gone home again, put up and taken down a Christmas tree, and applied for jobs. I've cleaned closets and rearranged furniture, given away some clothes and mended others, revisited two half-finished novels, abandoned them, and started a new story, and applied for jobs. I've had countless lunches with friends, walked the dogs countless times through the bogs, done countless yoga postures, and applied for jobs.

Mostly, I've applied for jobs. 

As if my life depended upon it. Which it really doesn't. I could freelance for a living; lots of my fellow writers and editors do just that. Forgive me then, my compadres, when I say what I am going to say next: Freelancing doesn't feel like work to me. Perhaps it's the solitary nature of the job, or the feast or famine nature of the compensation, or the commute to work that begins and ends in my living room.

Or maybe I simply identify with poet Donald Hall when he says in the very first line of Life Work: “I have never worked a day in my life.”

http://www.amazon.com/Life-Work-Donald-Hall/dp/0807071331/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1328020585&sr=8-1

And not in a good way. 

The Pride of the Peacock

I want a real job. This is what I am thinking at yoga class on Sunday. My shoulders are tight, and I remember what my yoga guru always tells me, that we carry the expectations of others between our shoulder blades. I smile as I settle my forearms onto the floor for the dolphin series that is supposed to prepare us for Mayurasana, better known as the peacock pose. The only pose I hate more than dolphin is peacock.

As far as I know, I am not so worried about the expectations of others, as I have enough to handle with my own. I carry my stress in my shoulders the way others carry stress in their temples or their lower backs. The weight of my world is on my shoulders—and the postures that challenge my shoulders are the ones I struggle with the most. Holding myself up by my forearms alone puts enormous pressure on my shoulders—and my feelings of self-worth.

I make it through the class—just barely—and leave with the realization that my peacock needs work, on and off the mat.  William Blake said that “The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.”

I go home, make a pot of coffee, and work on my new novel.

And apply for jobs.

The Year of Giving Continues….

Day 24 of 365

I sent an autographed copy of my memoir Fixing Freddie to Ilana Krebs, daughter of my good friend and fellow writer Gary Krebs. Enjoy, Ilana!

Day 25 of 365

I gave my BFF John K. Waters my beloved Edgar Allan Poe bobble head, which I got as a favor at a Edgar Awards dinner for Mystery Writers of America a couple of years ago, and kept pristinely in the box ever since. You can take it out of the box, John.

Day 26 of 365

A writer friend serving in Afghanistan emailed me about his latest work, and I offered to read and edit it for him. God bless you, Andy.

Day 27 of 365

My cousin Did emailed me, telling me how much he enjoyed Fixing Freddie, and telling me a bit about his life. We have been out of touch for decades, but thanks to the gift of facebook we’re back in contact—and have discovered a  mutual interest in Buddhism and yoga. I’m sending him a copy of my latest book, 5-Minute Mindfulness.

Day 28 of 365

My next-door neighbor Steve, who lost his house in Hurricane Irene earlier this year, came by to check on his lot, where he is rebuilding. I gave him lemonade and homemade brownies straight from the oven.

Day 29 of 365

Today we gave the dogs a bath. Our big shaggy mutt Shakespeare, whom we adopted from a Las Vegas shelter back in 1999, is at least 14 now, and slowing down. (Yesterday he only lasted one mile on our walk—a bad sign.) Lately he’d rather we bathe him than go to the groomer, so as the weather was unseasonably fair and warm today, we indulged him. It took an entire bottle of Herbal Essence conditioner to render his tangled mane soft and shiny again.

Day 30 of 365

Today I took Shakespeare to see our wonderful vet, Dr. Barrow, who confirmed what we had suspected: Shakespeare has cancer, and there’s not much to be done about it given his advanced age. I bought red wine and chocolate and invited my friend Susan Reynolds over, and gave myself a pity party.

                                                

Day 31 of 365

It’s the last day of January, and I am giving myself the morning to write. No applying for jobs today, as I have a two-hour follow-up interview for a fine position this afternoon. Wish me luck.

The Discipline and Imagination of Giving

When I first started The Year of Giving—in which I pledged to give something away every day for 365 days—my friend Carolyn said she’d never have the discipline to pull something like that off. I didn’t necessarily understand what she meant by that; having just been laid off, I was more worried about not having the resources to give.

But nearly three weeks in, I am beginning to see what Carolyn meant by that. Doing anything every day requires discipline. And coming up with something new to give away every day requires imagination. Right now my day job is finding a new job—and it’s an exhausting effort that also demands discipline and imagination. As it turns out, each ambition—both giving and securing employment—feeds the other.

Day 13 of 365

As a yogini, I am a proselytizer of the worst kind. Wherever I am, whomever I’m with, whatever I’m doing, if anyone mentions an ache or a pain or a symptom, I pounce. “You know, yoga could help you with that.” I’ve got one friend whom I’ve yet to convert. Linda is a writer who, like many writers, suffers neck and shoulder pain from all that “computer asana” (as my yoga teacher trainer Michelle Fleming of Sanctuary Studios calls it). So I gave her my super-duper heating pad, the one made especially for the neck and shoulders. I got it when I got rear-ended by a kid driving and texting at the same time; the heating pad really helped my whiplash. But what cured the whiplash was yoga—and I don’t really need that heating pad any more. She can use it—until I get her back into the yoga studio.

Day 14 of 365

I finally took down my Christmas tree—and gave it to the birds. I dragged it outside to the backyard, down by the lake. This year winter has come late, and the unseasonably warm weather means more birds are out and about than usual. The spruce makes great ground cover for them—and gives me hours of bird-watching pleasure as well.

Day 15 of 365

My son Mikey has been home from college for the holidays. He and his best buds have been hanging out at the house, eating everything in sight and playing video games long into the night. We only have one television in the house, a big flat-screen in the living room (I know, I know, to hear my children talk, we’re practically Luddites). So I whipped up a huge platter of pasta, baked a chocolate cake, and went to bed early so they could feast on spaghetti, Game of Thrones reruns, and the latest Call of Duty in peace and privacy. In recognition of my sacrifice, Mikey proclaimed, “Whatever, Mom.”

Day 16 of 365

Some women collect jewelry. Some collect shoes. Me, I’m the queen of the party dress. For a woman who goes to maybe three soirees worthy of that moniker a year, I have way too many “dress-up” outfits. So I gave away a few of my favorites, including the little black number with the plunging back and the black velvet wrap scattered with deep red roses. I don’t need them, I can count the times I’ve worn them on one hand…but I miss them already!

Day 17 of 365

A writer friend called me today to tell me all about a new opportunity she has to debut her own weekly radio show. She wanted to brainstorm concepts, so I listened to her ideas, helped her zero in on the best of them, and then gave her what very writer needs most when pitching any new project: A Great Title.

Day 18 of 365

One of my many New Year’s resolutions this year is to get a handle on paperwork, once and for all. So I sat down and went through several boxes of old bills, receipts, manuscripts, notes for future manuscripts, cards, letters—you know the drill. Most of it I could just throw away, proving that Napoleon, who  supposedly opened his mail only once a year on the rationale that most of it was obsolete anyway, may have had a point. But I did find a few treasures in the piles of paper, including several postcards depicting famous writers I had intended to pin to my bulletin board for inspiration. But I decided to abandon that plan, and send them to my writer friends instead: 

• Graham Greene to Hallie Ephron and Brian Thornton; 
• Lillian Hellman to Susan Reynolds; 
• Lawrence Durrell to John K. Waters, 
• Pearl S. Buck to Hank Phillippi Ryan; 
• James Joyce to Greg Bergman;  
• Jamaica Kincaid to Judith Green.

To spread the inspiration around, as it were. 

P.S. I kept Colette for myself.