Sometimes a shadow creeps in. My writing seems stale, predictable, more habit than inspiration; and this is especially the case when I have a fixed plot line, as I do now. Because I know where the story is going, there are no surprises. And I love it when my characters surprise me.
Also, though projects such as sewing or closet-cleaning pull at me, the thought of being productive leaves me feeling exhausted and grumpy.
So I pass through this period of inertia by reading. Here are the novels that have recently entertained me:
Leviathan Awakes. Recommended by Sam. A sci-fi adventure about saving the universe, involving heroes, flawed and romantic; out-of-date spaceships; a dangerous mystery rooted in the past; and political manipulation. The TV show, The Expanse, is based on this series.
Station Eleven. Recommended by Curtis. I came across it a while back, but the description was too depressing to consider—it’s about a pandemic that kills off most of the world’s population. Who wants to read about that? But Curtis thought I’d like it, so I downloaded it and, to my surprise, enjoyed it immensely. It was compelling and thought-provoking. Surprising in its insights, uplifting rather than gloomy.
And News of the World, which I meant to read when it came out a few years ago, then never got around to—but then I saw that it’d been turned into a movie and I wanted to read the book first. A horse and wagon centric journey from Dallas to San Antonio during a time of upheaval in Texas; presenting an aging man with a noble mission, an innocent girl, and gun battles when ammunition’s running low—what’s not to enjoy?
I’ve just begun Anxious People, by Frederik Backman. It caught my attention on the first page, as his work always does. Bleh. It seems unfair that a Swede is so damn good at writing high-quality American best-sellers.
Does this reading help relieve this lethargy? It passes the time. And it’s always good to keep words and ideas churning through my noggin. But sometimes what I truly need is to get out of the house and out of town.
So David and I decide to have a day away. I’ve been informed most emphatically that I must go to Comfort, that I will love it there. After a pleasant hour-and-a-half drive between hilly ranches spotted with oaks and cattle, we arrive in Comfort, a small touristy town with quaint store fronts and a heavily German influence. And guess what they have here! An abundance of antique shops! This could entertain me for hours. All those things that’re no longer useful or relevant! Gray-haired people wandering through artfully arranged aisles as they mumble nostalgically over the stuff, stuff, stuff.
“I had a set like this when I was kid,” David says, pointing to a couple of child-sized pistols tucked into a double holster.
The price? Ninety-eight dollars! For a little boy’s toy! ABC building blocks—four dollars a block. On a high shelf sits a planter with the bottom rusted out. Three hundred and ninety dollars. A taxidermized mountain lion from nineteen-sixty—thirty-five hundred dollars. A fifty-count box of matchbooks for sixty-five dollars.
This is so absurd that David and I laugh out loud.
Around the next corner, a rack full of old sewing patterns. I thumb through. And look: A Vogue pattern, never opened, never used, from 1964, priced at a dollar. A new Vogue pattern these days costs thirty-four dollars. This is a great deal! Do I buy it? No. This pattern is a size twelve; and by today’s sizing, I wear a size twelve. But think about this: Marilyn Monroe was a size fourteen. These days she’d wear a size six. How considerate of the fashion industry to rename their sizes in order to make me feel smaller than I actually am.
There comes a time when we’ve wandered through three warehouse-sized antique malls. Beside me, David emits a disgruntled grunt. He’s getting hungry.
We find a delightful restaurant and order crab cakes on muffins. When we started out, the day was dreary and cold, but now the sun has come out and all is bright and warm. So we sit outside to eat. A trio of old women at the adjacent table discuss friends who have died, how they died, when they died. A knot of millennials pass by. One of them wears high spiked heels, foolish considering the cobbled streets; but she looks good and that’s what counts.
David’s been a good sport but he’s had enough. He hasn’t been seized by lassitude as I have been. He’s got stuff to do at home. But we’ve come this far and I’ve been told that I also need to visit a place called Camp Verde, which is only twenty minutes away.
Miles from the nearest town, just off the Banderas Highway, all there is to Camp Verde is a lavishly stocked gift shop and adjoining restaurant. So we go from looking at old stuff that’s over-priced to looking at new stuff that’s over-priced. Fifteen dollars for a jar of olives. Fourteen dollars for a jar of cherry cobbler—what’s that about? An A&M pillow, eighty-nine. A piece of polished wood that looks kind of like a fish—a hundred and ten.
In the restaurant we split warm peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream—absolutely delicious. And though we drive home feeling heavy-bellied, overall this was a rejuvenating experience. I’m ready to get back to work. It’s good to get away for a day.
Dry, right? Typically German. Daddy would have fit in beautifully in this part of Texas.
At only thirty-five hundred dollars, everyone needs one of these!
Apparently they raise armadillos in Comfort, and they’re for sale in this shop. Want one?
Oddly, a camel is the logo for Camp Verde.
As I said, a piece of wood that looks like a fish.
