Today is my birthday. I usually love my birthday. I celebrate for the whole month. And I tell everybody I come across what day it is so they’ll have an opportunity to tell me that they’re glad I was born. I’ve been known to throw myself a party. But I haven’t felt like celebrating lately. For one thing, it turns out that someone I thought liked me doesn’t like me at all, which is always demoralizing. But this sort of revelation occurs, it happens to everyone, relationships are tricky, and blah, blah, blah—though knowing and believing these truisms doesn’t make it any less hurtful.
Also, the writing isn’t going well. In the last year-and-a-half I’ve completed two novels which I regard as my best work—family dramas with endearing characters and, of course, humor. And my agent’s trying to sell a quirky and charming mystery series which, if a publisher ever buys it, will most certainly take off. The problem is that what I’m currently working on isn’t any fun. Ordinarily, in my morning writing session, when I produce something that’s meaningful or evocative, or when I put words together in an imaginative or witty way, I get a surge of endorphins that puts me in a good mood that’ll last all day. But with this book I’m just not feeling it. I suppose I could drop it and start something that does inspire, but with no manuscripts selling, and nobody reading the stories that I write for the specific purpose of being enjoyed, what’s the point? This begs the most depressing question of all—have I fallen out of love with writing?
So yeah, I’m feeling low and dwelling on morbid things like this: Both my parents had Alzheimer’s—my father began doing and saying inexplicable things when he was in his seventies; and my mother started showing signs of it in her late sixties which, frankly, isn’t that far off for me. Being closer to my mother than my father, I witnessed each step of her decline. At first she repeated herself—and the time between repeats grew steadily shorter until she said the same thing every fifteen seconds. One time she got it in her head to tell me, “This is the fattest you’ve ever been.” And she said it again and again and again. I couldn’t decide between screaming at her or crying. And she began to laugh when everyone else laughed, pretending that she knew what everyone was laughing about. She lost words every day—first the names of things, then the ability to voice her needs—until there simply were no more words left. Thinking that there might come a time when I can no longer play with words is scary as hell. And every so often I’ll forget the name of something. Or I’ll find myself in a room and wonder why I’m there. Also, I sometimes become disoriented. I worry about Alzheimer’s to the point of obsession.
And why am I thinking about this crap today, when ordinarily I’d be dancing around the house singing Happy Birthday? I’m stopping it right now by putting something upbeat on my screen.
I had a great conversation with my son, Sam, this morning. He and his wife, Julia, work and live in London. They just bought a flat in Greenwich, which we will get to see when we visit over the Christmas holidays. He told me a funny story about his job, which is that the people he works with are all named Sam—six or eight of them. And we discussed plans for David’s and my upcoming trip. I love Harrod’s and plan to spend a day there. Also, we’re going to the caroling at Royal Albert Hall, which I recall as being glorious. We’ll spend Christmas in Plymouth with Julia’s parents—so nice of them to invite us—and then do some sightseeing in Cornwall, home of two of my favorite literary writers, Daphne Du Maurier and Virginia Woolf. So there’s something to look forward to, and thinking about it has indeed made me feel better.
Another uplifting thing is that, even when I’m feeling unappreciated and disheartened, people come through. I got a wonderful gift from a friend that I didn’t expect—and a surprise is always nice. And I’ve had many well-wishing texts, cards, emails, and phone calls to remind me that, in my life, I have people who do like me and who care enough to let me know it. So thanks, everyone, for giving me happy thoughts to hang on to when I’m feeling sad.
The card I got from Curtis. Inside was a nice note and a gift card from a very nice spa, Milk and Honey—Yay! Will I have a facial or a massage?
