How I Spent my Non-Vacation

It snowed. We haven’t had a good snowstorm here for several years, but two weeks ago, my urban corner of the world received bushels of the stuff. Pristine, fluffy white powder of the sort that skiers covet and children delight in. Eight to twelve inches of the stuff, and it had the grace to fall on a Sunday morning. We awoke to a snowy landscape and watched all morning as it drifted higher. 

Then, it sleeted. More frozen stuff than I personally have ever seen at one time. It began to pour down a little after lunch and continued long after dark. The effect of all that ice on the morning’s foot of powder was amazing. It simply laid atop the powder, bearing down on it relentlessly and compressing it into a sheet of something or other that was only a couple of inches deep. This arrangement was impressive. When you look outside, the streets are plowed and salted but the grass and lawns look almost as pristine as they had appeared a week and a half ago. 

I’ve been on vacation. I haven’t left my apartment a single time.

I’m retired, and I’m not agile enough to cope with bits of ice in my way as I walk. One definition of old age is that when you take a pratfall, people begin to run toward you in alarm rather than laughing uproariously at you. I’m certainly in the “Oh my Lord, are you okay?” category. It would be foolhardy to leave home with those icy sidewalks, invisible transit stops, and piles of slush in front of the handicapped ramps at the corners. 

My hands got bored. I noticed that first. Very bored. By Monday I was knitting and crocheting an entire wardrobe of winter hats. I have a hat with faux fur, a hat and scarf with pompoms, and one of the new “Sophie” scarves that everyone is making. Just a few days ago, I began a protest hat in a vivid red with a tassel. The entire world seems to be knitting these, and I am looking forward to flaunting it when I finally get out of here. Then I’ll make a few more for non-knitters. 

My sleep patterns were completely screwed up by Day 3. The New York Times publishes a word puzzle every day, and I am addicted to it. It’s called “Queen Bee” and is hard. Really difficult. You can achieve two levels—Genius and Queen Bee, and every day I try to achieve one or the other. Queen Bee is published at 3 a.m. Eastern time, and my custom had been to do it online over my morning coffee. Not now. I just stay awake until 3, do the puzzle, and go to bed at 4 a.m. And of course, I get up at noon. I’m suddenly a layabout. 

A healthy diet. I spent the first half of the ordeal living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and big glasses of milk. There is a freezer full of nutritious food, but I want to get on with my knitting. Forget about brewing up big, appetizing batches of delicious homemade soup. Too much trouble. Coffee would do just as well, and I drank tons of it. 

Doomscrolling: I’ll just say there’s a lot of doom out there to scroll through. My problem is that my basic and underlying optimism makes it difficult for me to present myself as an effective doom scroller. 

Eureka! People who hang around with me know that I have had a terminal attack of writer’s block that has lasted for a couple of years—or more. It was largely due to a person who is a fine beta reader and a terrible writer, who decided they were qualified to take the book I was working on and re-mold it in their own image. Or else. I never figured that part out, but coupled with a bunch of health stuff, I lost interest quickly. I’m very, very happy to announce that a remedy to the stumbling block has now been found. I’ve been testing it, it’s working well so far, and I’ve been writing again. 

It looks to me as though “The Mudlark” could be finished in draft by summer and perhaps ready for publication a year from now. It’ll need thorough scurrifunging, but I suspect after the vacation where I overate, overslept, and never set foot outdoors, I should be up to the task. Wish me luck.