Category: Writing a Book

This is a writing accountability blog. I have committed to publishing a book by March, 2024. I invite you on the journey as I plough through the internal and external obstacles I face. As the great Bette David loosely said in the movie “All About Eve.” “Buckle your seatbelts. It’s (likely) going to be a bumpy (ride.)”

Sayin’ Ain’t Doin’

I heard “I love you” a lot when I was growing up. I wasn’t one of those who could complain their parents never told them they loved them. Quite the opposite. I heard those three words repeatedly.

As a consequence, I had a hard time knowing or showing love when I grew up. I guess I believed it was enough to say those three magic words to cement and support a relationship.

In spite of this conviction, my relationships kept falling apart. Friendships foundered. Romantic relationships sizzled for about three months and then fizzled out. I was a great sprinter but a poor marathoner. My education was just beginning.

I had no idea how to back up professions of love with action. It never occurred to me that three square meals on the table every day was love. Or that clean clothes washed, dried, folded and put away in my chest of drawers meant love.

That someone would stand up for you or step in for you when you were flailing and out of your depth was a show of caring. And protection. Which is a form of love.

I am not sure when the disconnect between “sayin’” and “doin’” started to become obvious. My family lauded my early accomplishments and were happy to associate and claim me as their own. Every scholarship I earned, every public show of support was backed up by my family 100%.

It all seemed to fall apart when I foundered. There wasn’t an iota of support from my family when I was hurt or vulnerable or – God forfend – if I failed.

In generous moments, I like to think that my family was “training” me to be successful. A sort of weird Pavlovian positive reinforcement thing. I came to realize it wasn’t that at all.

When friends would tell me my family was jealous of me, I couldn’t wrap my head around that. “Jealous of what?” I would wonder. I could never really put my finger on the source of the disconnect between how they said they felt and how they made me feel.

If I didn’t “feel” the love they clearly had for me, I was deficient. Not them. Then, one day, everything became clear. The learnings came hard and fast once I had a baby. Whatever else a woman may be and however strong and confident she is in life, a baby will make her vulnerable. Physically and emotionally.

I assume most families get that and support women through the process of pregnancy, birth and early infancy. Mine didn’t. It wasn’t built into our family mantra of external success and worldly accomplishments.

Having a baby was, after all, a common accomplishment almost any woman could achieve. (Fully knowing as I write that how heretical a statement that may be to women who have struggled to conceive.)

I don’t know if anyone is adequately prepared for the unrelenting and challenging needs of an infant. It is one of those “fine in theory” moments in life that becomes a stark, 24/7, non-stop arena of incessant demands that you ignore at your (and your infant’s) peril.

I remember the mantra I devised when my son was crying. “Is he hungry? Is he tired? Is he wet?” If I was pretty sure all those boxes had been checked, I too rarely made the obvious conclusion that the infant just needed to be cuddled, hugged, rocked and reassured that he was safe and not alone on the planet. That there would always be someone there for him to rely on.

I did not learn that at home. Dr. Benjamin Spock, the controversial baby doctor from the 50s, was no help either. Let them cry themselves to sleep,” he exhorted. “It builds self-sufficiency.”
I don’t agree.

It was another lightbulb moment when I realized my children needed little else from me BUT love. My presence and listening to them and my implicit support was pretty much the whole package. Plus the occasional twenty bucks now and then.

Sure, they needed constant material support when they were little. But I honestly believe, as I have read about some families, that if there was enough joy and love in their upbringing, their material situation didn’t matter all that much.

So I am wary now when I hear the words, “I love you” and more cautious when and to who I say them. The ones I say those words to frequently have earned them. The friends who hear those words have been there with and for me. There are friends who literally lived through thick and thin with me. There are some about whom I truly believe I would not still be here without them.

“Sayin’ ain’t doin’.” This rule has served me well in later life. Where I used to easily trust, I am now inclined to wait until people prove what I mean to them before I grant them access to my inner world. It was pretty junky in there for a while when I was awash in confusion, regrets and unmet promises – given or received.

Because life is a marathon and not a sprint. Once I recognized that, I was more inclined to rely on others who consistently showed up in the race with me than those who sat far away on the sidelines – cheering me on.

Listen Up

I like the piece below because it is sensible and realistic. Platitudes abound in society and they can be useful. For a minute or two.

But there are a few widely shared platitudes in life that are a little TOO optimistic. They prevent us from internalizing and accepting how life really is for us at any given age and stage.

There are platitudes that prevent us from taking full responsibility for our lives whatever situation we find ourselves in. Not doing do can open us up to crushing disappointment and regret. It is all up to us.

This is a helpful guide (I found) for adding perspective to those helpful comments people make that aren’t quite as easy to attain as they sound. Accept the reality of these prescriptions and you have a better than average chance of making it to the end of your life with your eyes wide open.

That is, having lived a real life based on the real opportunities and people you have had come into it and those you built your life around.

Only then do you really have a better than average chance of dying in peace and acceptance with minimal regrets. When you have only yourself to blame or thank for its outcome.

The older you get the more you realize that a lot of things you were taught in your youth are just plain wrong.

  1. You can be anything you want to be. No, no you can’t. There are tests you won’t score high enough on that will prevent you from being accepted into whatever program you desire. All this despite having the intelligence and skill needed to excel at whatever the profession may be. Even if you have the right credentials and experience, if they are not hiring for what you want to do…well…you may be out of luck. There are miles of reasons why you can’t be whatever you want to be.
    • But guess what? You can be the best at the opportunities life does present to you.
  2. Hard work is rewarded. No, not always. Sometimes the power of the universe conspires against hard working individuals and unfairly rewards our lazy, short cut seeking, less intelligent friends, co-workers, and acquaintances.
    • But if you knuckle down, and don’t let the unfairness of the world ruin your attitude, show up everyday, and do your best, then because of your hard work, you definitely increase the odds of having a fulfilling life.
  3. Money and wealth are your greatest asset. No, no they are not. They are important and provide security and freedom.
    • Your health is your greatest asset. If you have terminal cancer or some other horrible condition, all the money in the world does not matter. In fact, if you get type 2 diabetes or heart disease, what you can do is radically impacted. So invest in your health daily.
  4. That others care about your house, your clothes, your toys, and you in general. No, no they do not. We all think others are concerned with what we have or don’t have. They’re not. In fact the people we think are thinking about us, usually are not thinking about us at all. The world doesn’t really care about you.
    • But, if you are lucky, you have a few people who do truly care about you. It’s usually a very small number of people. They are the people that truly matter in your life and they probably could care less about all your toys.
  5. That we will all live forever. No, no you won’t. Sure, no one ever comes out and blatantly tells you that you will live forever. But every message we get on TV, social media, or culture in general seems to want us to believe we are immortal. Worse yet, our own minds seem to lead us around as if we are going to see the next two centuries.
    • But, you are going to die. Everyone you know is going to die. That should not scare us. It should free us. Free us to be present in every moment because this moment is all we really have. The past is gone. The future is not guaranteed. We have today. Embrace it and allow it to grow the love you have inside you. Then share that love.

Run The Dishwasher Twice

This story below didn’t just speak to me. It screamed.

I have been in the place of the protagonist in the story. Utterly spent with the seat out of the pants of my life and metaphorically mismatched shoes. No prospects. No hope. Ready to cash it all in.

I had two young kids. That was motivation to keep going. I wasn’t functioning well and had no support nearby. Caring friends or family or even professionals can provide a shoulder to lean on. It is often the most important job anyone can do for us.

Still I continued to place expectations of normalcy on myself. I needed to keep up the guise of “functioning.” I needed to tell myself I wasn’t beaten and could still perform my usual daily tasks. I was so kidding myself. It was like asking someone with two broken legs to run an obstacle course.

Just like the protagonist in this story, I sought validation from a counsellor or two seeking some reason for me to hang on. When the seat of the pants is out of your life, trust me, nobody wants to hear about it. Except maybe a paid professional.

It can take some time for us to figure out that we are the only ones who can come up with the answers we need to change and take charge of our life. It is a necessary emotional transition from dreamy adolescent to in-your-face-reality adult to do that.

Because figuring out whether, or if, to do the things required to save our lives is strictly up to us.

“When I was at one of my lowest (mental) points in life, I couldn’t get out of bed some days. I had no energy or motivation and was barely getting by.

I had therapy once per week, and on this particular week I didn’t have much to ‘bring’ to the session. He asked how my week was and I really had nothing to say.

“What are you struggling with?” he asked.

I gestured around me and said: “I dunno man. Life.”

Not satisfied with my answer, he said “No, what exactly are you worried about right now? What feels overwhelming? When you go home after this session, what issue will be staring at you?”

I knew the answer, but it was so ridiculous that I didn’t want to say it. I wanted to have something more substantial. Something more profound. But I didn’t. So I told him,

“Honestly? The dishes. It’s stupid, I know, but the more I look at them the more I CAN’T do them because I’ll have to scrub them before I put them in the dishwasher, because the dishwasher sucks, and I just can’t stand and scrub the dishes.”

I felt like an idiot even saying it. What kind of grown woman is undone by a stack of dishes? There are people out there with actual problems, and I’m whining to my therapist about dishes? But my therapist nodded in understanding and then said:

“RUN THE DISHWASHER TWICE.”

I began to tell him that you’re not supposed to, but he stopped me.

“Why the hell aren’t you supposed to? If you don’t want to scrub the dishes and your dishwasher sucks, run it twice. Run it three times, who cares? Rules do not exist, so stop giving yourself rules.”

It blew my mind in a way that I don’t think I can properly express.

That day, I went home and tossed my smelly dishes haphazardly into the dishwasher and ran it three times. I felt like I had conquered a dragon. The next day, I took a shower lying down. A few days later. I folded my laundry and put them wherever they fit. There were no longer arbitrary rules I had to follow, and it gave me the freedom to make accomplishments again.

Now that I’m in a healthier place, I rinse off my dishes and put them in the dishwasher properly. I shower standing up. I sort my laundry. But at a time when living was a struggle instead of a blessing, I learned an incredibly important lesson:

THERE ARE NO RULES. RUN THE DISHWASHER TWICE!

Patina

Ours is a mobile society. We flit from job to job and house to house without much forethought. It seems we are constantly chasing the “next big thing,” whatever that thing happens to be. For us.

It may be a new job across the country. Maybe acceptance into an academic program in a big city miles from home. It may be that our parents are getting older and we want to live closer, just in case. Adult children start having babies. Many grandparents want to live closer to their grandchildren. Adult children usually appreciate the child minding help.

Everything that is new soon becomes old. It is true that our lives cycle up and down through this unceasing transition. A gift arrives with attendant excitement. Several weeks or even days later, that gift is taken for granted.

Even we were once new and now we are older. Our utility and beauty isn’t as obvious as it once was.

I reflect on the consequences of this mobility in an age where expedience and disposability rule. I have some lovely antique furniture and family dishes. My children will likely have no interest in them. Yet among them, there are old pieces I adore.

My grandmother’s hand crocheted bedspreads. A small porcelain swan with gold tipped wings. I have a beautiful set of antique Korean cupboards. They are intricately carved in Asian designs and outfitted with brass hardware.

The design is complex and interesting. The inside of all the cupboards are papered in old Korean newspapers. Sadly without any dates.

Those cupboards exude an air of an older and more stable world. A patina. They exude the pride of the cabinet maker’s craft. They are sturdy and elegant. The finish is burnished and rich. In part due to the lacquer used but also thanks to the gentle effects of aging.

Old furniture often exudes this elegance. The wood is solid and strong. The joints are well made and reliable. The mirror-like finish has been buffed into a gleaming surface that reflects the image of any of its caretakers.

By contrast, elegant old pieces are 180 degrees away from any IKEA product I have ever owned. I recently did a massive decluttering of furniture and other detritus. Anything IKEA was easy to offload. It broke down without resistance. The cost of replacing it would be less than storing it. My friend Gerry likes to say: “The word IKEA means “junk” in Swedish.”

It is hard to imagine that hanging on to and passing down precious family keepsakes used to be the norm. Young women filled cedar hope chests with linens and special items they planned to use in their married lives.

I remember reading Sigmund Freud’s biography years ago. I was struck to discover, in amongst his many groundbreaking accomplishments, that he purchased an apartment in Vienna as a young married man. He fully expected when he bought it and ultimately lived in that very same building for most of the rest of his life.

That seems unbelievable today. Almost as unbelievable as someone “joining a firm” in their twenties and retiring from the same firm years later.

I am more comfortable living in a hybrid of the old and the new. I like the idea of repurposing old pieces for new uses. I like the comfort of knowing people who lived before me invested their time and talents into creating pieces of utility and beauty. It feels like that aesthetic has been replaced by the mantra of “new and improved.”

It also allows a new generation of young people to define and obtain what they need to fulfill their own preferences and aesthetic. I suppose that is a good thing.

I still cherish the few remaining old pieces I have and plan to hang on to them. My children may offload them when I shuffle off this mortal coil. In the meantime, they are mine to use and enjoy. I suppose there is something inherently healthy in a refusal to be tied to artifacts of the past.

Maybe this new way of managing old things is a practical and necessary response to living in an unstable society marked by easy and frequent mobility. But being older myself, I like to think I have a certain utility and unique patina acquired over many years of living.

I am a hybrid of sorts. Partly stuck in the context of my upbringing while navigating a new world with new rules and ideas. Personally, I feel I have even more value than I did when I was younger. It seems prudent to remind the world and young people about that before someone decides to cart me and my peers off to a landfill.

Sleepy Time

Writing Prompt: If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time?

I’d hate it. I love sleep so much. More accurately, I love the rituals of getting ready to sleep. I love the warmth and coziness of settling in between the covers. I just love the feeling of becoming warm and drowsy and drifting off into sleep.

Settling into that netherworld between the world of being awake and sleeping is seductive. It might be some weird psychological undertone about returning to the womb. But likely not. I don’t have particularly strong memories of being in the womb and the thought doesn’t much appeal to me.

I also enjoy dreaming. I love the topsy-turviness of dreams and how sometimes they confuse the hell out of me. At other times, my dreams work out some strange plot line with people I know or knew well at one time. Those people might do something in a dream I could never imagine them doing in real life.

They might reveal a hidden talent. They might shout in public or otherwise speak up assertively when we know them as mostly shy and reserved in daily life. I am most intrigued by those dreams which feel so real I feel trapped in them.

They push me to frantically work out solutions in my head about how I am going to manage a situation. Only to wake up to find it was all an elaborate fiction that almost instantly disappears.

Those kind of dreams can shake me up. It is as if the veil between reality and whatever the dream-state is diaphanous and almost transparent. Where does that world go when we wake up? And why is it so hard to recall the details of our dreams?

I’ve tried dream journalling. It never quite catches the complexity and nuance that a dream scenario presents. I am sure that is partly because dreams can evoke a range of emotions while they are unfolding with speed and meaning and nuance that are difficult to capture on paper.

But if I really didn’t need sleep, what would I do with all the extra time? Likely, nothing. I would do a lot more of nothing. I would sit more often in a forest on chunks of soft moss. I would listen to the forest sounds. I would watch insects and small animals doing what insects and small animals habitually do. I would deeply breathe in the fresh air surrounding me.

I would do this in an effort to transition away from my very important, very urgent real-world demands. I am held in sway daily like most adults by financial, physical, people and environmental obligations. I would like to let go of a lot of these demands without the bottom falling out of my life.

It is a delusion to believe more time would help me get more on top of my responsibilities. I let go of that fantasy a long time ago. The most efficient among us get everything they need to do done in the time allotted.

I hate those people.

The fault, it would seem, might be in me.

So while it is that I must sleep to get through my days, I am not sure more time would change my life dramatically. I think the secret to making my life richer or more efficient or meaningful or whatever emotional state it is I am going for, must be accomplished within the time parameters I’ve been given.

That is both the tragedy and the beauty of life. Just like everyone else, I have to figure out what to do with the precious amount of time I’ve been given.

Think I’ll sleep on that tonight.

99 And Counting

Superagers. People who live to 110 in relatively good health. The hype around pushing the “normal” chronological lifespan of most humans is high these days. Many new companies are devoted to unravelling the secrets of living a longer than average lifespan.

In 2022, I underwent something of an anti-aging program myself though my motives were more complex. AVIV Clinics in Wildwood, Florida offers a three month hyperbaric oxygen therapy (HBOT) program designed to combat a host of aging-related and other medical conditions.

HBOT has been commonly used in health care for years as an aid to healing stubborn wounds. AVIV is using the technology to “refresh” our aging bodies and brains which may have been damaged in the process of living. Participants like me engaged in five-days-a-week HBOT sessions for two hours a day.

I signed up for the program to address the impact of PTSD on my brain and years of cumulative emotional trauma. It is said that emotional trauma presents on an MRI in the same way as physical trauma does, just like concussions or other head injuries.

That intrigued me. What intrigued me more was the difference between my brain’s MRI after the program compared to when I started. Blood perfusion increased. Areas of my brain where there was diminished blood flow were quite evidently revived.

The most noticeable impact was the calming effect of the HBOT protocols on me. As a PTSD survivor, I was never really able to fully relax and often lived in a state of hyper-vigilance in what were otherwise normal social situations. Which is exhausting.

I suppose the feeling I would describe in the parlance after HBOT was that I felt more “grounded.” A year and a half later, a sense of calm and inner stability has persisted. That alone was worth the price of admission (admittedly high and not yet covered on any health plans.)

So I am naturally drawn to the promise of the new anti-aging movement that is developing. Living to 110 plus would only be worth it if the body plays along and stays healthy. That has never been more possible than it is today. People these days talk more about “healthspan” than “lifespan.” I am already a convert.

CNBC correspondent Dan Buettner investigated the habits of 263 centenarians around the world to see how they’ve done it. There are sensible prescriptions in here for all of us at whatever age we are.

Read Buettner’s article to learn about the “non-negotiable” rules for living that he discovered in 263 centenarians he talked to. https://www.cnbc.com/2023/11/24/i-talked-to-263-of-the-worlds-oldest-living-peoplehere-are-their-non-negotiables-for-a-long-happy-life.html

Good advice for any time of life in my view.

Working on heading in this direction myself.

Coming on Winter

I once spent a few winter months living in a cabin in the woods.

It was around this time of year that I moved in. It was late fall, nearly winter. Cold. Quiet.

The cabin was located near the edge of a large lake. There was a small house up the lane. But no trees or bushes to impede my view from the front door to the pebbly beach and beyond.

Looking from the beach across the wide, expansive lake – already half frozen though it was only November – there were cottages. Most were closed for the winter. Sensibly.

I still recall that winter as one of the calmest I’ve ever had.

The beauty of the place was not only the quiet and isolation. It had a lot to do with the quality and color of the light. The light was filtered through a gauzy land fog in the early morning.

In the late afternoon, driving down the lakeshore road showcased a light palette of golden hues in the sky. The long shadow of shoreline trees laid across the surface of the frozen lake.

Fortunately, there were just enough landlocked residents in the area to justify plowing local roads. If not, I would have been looking to rent a snowmobile for my shopping expeditions.

What I remember most fondly was the peace and quiet of that little cabin. It wasn’t what you would call luxurious. A better description would be utilitarian. Galley kitchen. Three small bedrooms. A bathroom and living room. And cold.

I started using the bedrooms as extra storage space. It was just about the right temperature for keeping produce fresh. I eschewed all three for sleeping and parked myself on the futon close to the heater. I would rather have died from carbon monoxide poisoning than hypothermia.

On one memorable occasion I took a bath in the blue cast iron bathtub. To make it tolerably warm, I heated two enormous spaghetti pots of water on the stove.

I threw the boiling water into the tub one after the other and heated up another two batches. The boiling water kept the tub warm just long enough to get an acceptable two inches of hot water out of the faucet. As you might imagine, the bath was soon abandoned for quick showers.

In the mornings, long, lazy days stretched out in front of me. The sun rose lazily across the lake and I followed suit. A hot cup of tea. A book to read. High density memory foam slippers to ward off frostbite. Wrapped in one of those ubiquitous afghan square throws. My lie-ins were part laziness and part self-preservation until the propane heater kicked in.

I felt safe enough to get up and move around the cabin once my breath stopped steaming in the crisp, morning air. What we may have experienced as something of a trial when it was happening can soften in recounting the experience. It is the lessons we take away from any challenging situation that we hold on to, if we’re lucky.

It is coming on winter. By contrast to times past, it is sunny and warm most days and so it will remain in the coming months. That has its own charm. I am no longer living alone but sharing my space and life with a special someone.

When I wake up these days, I am grateful for all that is available to me. What I can remember fondly about that winter of isolation was the solitude and beauty of the physical environment I was nestled in. I can hardly remember any details about the numbing cold and all the other cold weather living challenges.

After all, I survived them and landed here. It’s pleasant to have memories of that long, cold, beautiful winter to look back on. Even better is that it reminds me to create new and beautiful ones where I am now. These days will be what I will look back on years from now.

It reminds me to make today the best it can be so I can enjoy the memories I am able to recall in the future. That must be growth.

I don’t recall consciously thinking to much when I was younger that today I would be making my memories of yesterday to revisit.

I am much better about doing that now.

Off-Script: Author Ask

Flora, Fauna and Merryweather

Dear Expressive-Compulsive Readers/Subscribers;

Can you help me? First, can you read my latest story that was just published by Short Fiction Break literary magazine, and, if you like it, share it with your friends on social media? (Full disclosure: This story had already been published on my blog on October 31st, 2023.)

You can also vote for this story on the Short Fiction Break website as a contender for the Reader’s Choice award. My potential publishers tell me I need to do this to build street “cred.”That is code for testing whether I have enough readers to suggest I could sell a book or two in the marketplace.

Please read my 3 minute story here and let me know what you think in the comments.

And please vote for me as a favorite Short Fiction Break Reader’s Choice short story pick. As you will see on their website, I have plenty of competition. It’s worth a lot to me and I thank you in advance for your support.

And best of all, it costs you absolutely nothing! Well, five minutes of your time…. (How rare is that kind of ask these days??)

BIBBITY, BOBBITY, BOO

Child’s Play

Are there still parents out there focussed on firing up the imaginations of and nurturing their children’s artistic inclinations?

Does the school system still make room for developing the intuitive left brains of young people?

I am out of touch with how well children today are being set up for their lifelong search for actualization. But I do know funding for arts education has always been in peril.

North Americans seem to recognize the value of arts education, but obtaining consistent funding can be a different matter.

During my children’s years at high school, I lobbied to keep the arts coordinator on staff. Any arts educator fears budget cuts: dispensable, you know. Some people believe art is a frivolous pursuit and doesn’t prepare kids for the “real world.”

I oppose the assertion that arts are an education “add-on.” I believe talent and creativity need to be nurtured and developed.

While 88% of Americans agree that arts education is an essential component of a well-rounded education, there has been a persistent decline in support for arts education, particularly in communities that cannot finance it on their own.

In 2018, the American Academy of Arts & Sciences convened a Commission on the Arts…. The resulting report, Art for Life’s Sake: The Case for Arts Education, finds ample evidence for the attributes, values, and skills that come from arts education, including social and emotional development, improvements in school engagement, as well as more vital civic and social engagement. 

https://www.amacad.org/news/arts-education-report

Today’s political, social and economic reality often defies logic and sanity. There are a lot of days lately when the old adage has never been more apt: “Truth is stranger than fiction.” Even more apt: “No one can make this s— up.”

What an arts education teaches is discernment and analysis. Different ways of looking at a problem pr project. Today’s kids are going to need those skills when they grow up. When this generation takes over the world twenty years from now, let’s hope they have learned more complex skills than how to set up apps on their smartphones or record TikTok videos.

The artistic path has always been 10% inspiration and 90% inspiration. But let’s face it. Someone who has your back can grease the skids. A cheerleader who promotes and supports your creative ambitions (think arts patrons of old) is going to make your artistic path considerably easier. Perhaps even more meaningful and desirable.

We all need fellow travelers to validate and mirror us on our journey. That checks out whether you are an artist or not…. and we are all artists to varying degrees. We all long for and seek outlets for creative expression.

Would that every aspiring artist could be born into an arts-friendly environment like Marlon Brando. Would that every child with artistic ambition have similar luck on the home front.

Given how Brando turned out artistically, it’s hard to argue with the methods.

Alternatively pray the powers-that-be minding the arts purse see the wisdom of continued support for arts education as a line item. Not simply an afterthought.

“My mother’s name will only appear in texts or in conversations because she was my mother–the mother of a man who inexplicably became famous.

I want you to know, however, that my mother was a great artist, a powerful artist who poured creativity and ingenuity and brilliance into raising her children, infusing us all with imagination and the ability–with no paranormal influences–to remove ourselves, to lift our bodies and our minds, from locations and situations that were brutal.

That is art, and if we studied people like my mother, there would be shelves of books on her work with her children, her friends, her small circle of enchanted friends. Tennessee’s mother was like this. I bet yours is too.

“The artistic suicide is not only the drug-addicted actor; the alcoholic singer; the writer who makes bad choice after bad choice. Artistic suicide, like charity, begins at home. We kill the artists within ourselves in the quest to get by, to walk within the lines, to mind our manners.

“Write about that.”

–Marlon Brando/Interview with James Grissom

Comfort Food

I am craving a baked potato with butter and sour cream and chives. Sure sign I’m stressed. Special food cravings are one of the happier signs of stress in my life. And in my experience, food cravings beat booze cravings by a country mile.

I have a list of favorite foods. (Doesn’t everyone?) Pumpkin pie, which is timely. Molasses cookies (no one made them better or more often than my Nanny). My girlfriend Diane’s amazing trifle filled with fresh fruit (usually raspberries), fresh whipped cream, a cake base filled with something boozy and delicious but non-intoxicating and topped with slivered almonds. (And maraschino cherries? Or did I just add them in my mind’s eye?)

Special but sad as Diane’s trifle is usually only served at Christmas and other super special occasions during the year. Serving it more often would likely diminish the cachet. Sigh.

Then there is any kind of Chinese dim sum. Barbeque pork buns. Shrimp dumplings. Potstickers. If I was on a desert island with room service, my daily food order would be taken from an authentic Chinese food menu. No doughy sweet and sour chicken balls for this gal.

Or Indian. Anything cooked with curry and coconut milk gets high marks. That can be chicken, beef, goat, or vegetables. Some of the most delicious dishes I’ve ever tasted were some variety of vegetarian curry with nary a shred of meat.

Back here on the North American continent, a grilled cheese sandwich made with perennial, plastic, waxy, orange American cheese slices and bread and butter pickles on the side is my version of gastronomic heaven. I did say comfort food, not healthy food.

With American Thanksgiving tomorrow, I’ve been overwhelmed this past couple of weeks by unrelenting food come-ons. The allure of a scrumptious turkey dinner with all the trimmings is offered everywhere.

Images abound on TV, in store flyers, on store shelves of perfectly roasted golden brown turkey, bright red cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes (as opposed to mashed potatoes for a pop of color I believe) and sides. Apparently an American side favorite is green bean casserole. Never tried it so I don’t get it. Maybe one day.

My must-have, go-to, absolutely favorite turkey dinner side is stuffing. I would almost eat that as my Thanksgiving entree. I’ve rarely met a stuffing I didn’t love. It is a very hard dish to screw up.

Yet again, like Diane’s trifle, stuffing is best reserved for special occasions. Even I can see that too frequent consumption of a butter soaked, high carb, and high cholesterol dish isn’t medically advisable.

Grocery stores offer everything you need to celebrate Thanksgiving at home. Our favorite local restaurants offer an array of turkey dinner specials with all the trimmings.

We are lucky to have the choice. If we don’t want the hustle and hassle of making a turkey dinner that saddles us with three days worth of dirty dishes and leftover turkey until January, eat out.

Thanksgiving seems way too close to Christmas in the US anyway. Thanksgiving decorations sit side by side on the shelves with miniature Christmas trees. The marketing tsunami seems relentless from late September when the Halloween hype starts until we get through Thanksgiving and then Christmas.

Christmas is the one special day that shuts down our collective consumerism for about 24 hours. That’s just long enough to enjoy some sacred space and time with friends and loved ones before we hit the Boxing Day sales.

Make it through the festive New Year’s Eve/New Year’s Day dinners and voila!! Valentine’s Day is just around the corner.

If there is consolation to be found in bracing ourselves to prepare for all these non-stop fall celebrations, it is that food is usually abundant and delicious. I’ll take comfort in that.