When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
I gave a reading today. During the q&a, there’s always one person who asks what you’re writing next. I’m working on not getting depressed. I’m working on my waistline. I’m working on my attitude. I’m working on my sleep. My flossing is already tip top. I’m working on my hair. I’m working on my vocabulary. I’m working on my self-esteem. I’m detoxing from social media, I’m working on my Bridge game, I’m working on being a kinder, gentler nation. I’m working on two pages a day if we are going to be completely honest is two pages a week if we are going to be completely honest is a page a month.
What are you working on?
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Betsy Lerner 
Well, since I was already here answering that other post…
Hair. Don’t get me going on hair. Matter of fact, don’t get me started on that, working out, or the fact that when I try to take a selfie (like everyone else seems to do) I look like I’m looking in a door knob, with warped features and a mouth that turns down. (I sure as shit don’t look happy – flashback to other post)
I’m working on a new project while waiting for the other one to go out to the editor. I’m trying to outline it, and I’ve been stuck (as Averil knows) for weeks – with regard to the antagonist. I can’t even think pages yet.
“What are you working on?”
Attaining and maintaining a certain elusive weight goal.
An exercise program.
Not panicking about my employment situation.
Keeping up with my reading.
Making some sort of realizable progress with my Spanish language studies.
Not complaining so effing much (not to complain about it . . .).
Tight rationing of web time (that is working well; FB, we were once so close, and now we seem such strangers).
The crafting of a book-length work of fiction. The writing used to flow from me sometimes like water from a hose (less-appealing metaphors spring to mind). Too much spewing went forth. That part of my accursed gift, well . . . shall we say, it dried up? Writing for me now is like painting. Could that be because I gave up painting? Could be. Don’t care. It’s like painting. Study the canvas, apply a touch of paint here, a line there, fill this part in, rub that part out. Stand back. Go do something else. Come back later. Look again, afresh — another brushstroke, or maybe finish this hand or that foot, or the nose or eye or the cloud scudding along the ridgeline.
I’m working on not raving about your wise, funny, sensitive book to everyone I know. It should be required reading for all daughters!
(My brother and his family lived on Milan Rd, too)
Thank you for sharing~
Linda
Linda, thank you so much. Your kind and generous words mean more to me than you could know.
What am I working on? The story of how I became a foster girl. It took five days. Writing the story will take a bit longer I think.
Today I’m working on too little sleep. I’m working on storing up the things I want to share with my “counselor” (because having a therapist sounds so needy). I’m working on not losing my gourd with people who really should stop talking sh*t. I’m working on trying to find the wonder more, trying to see the beauty more, trying to get some balance. Yeah, balance.
I’m working through post-op fatigue following a knee replacement, and an overdue article. Guess which is coming along better.
At the moment I’ve got two fiction projects spinning along. Don’t want to jinx them, but yeah, it’s good.
I’m working on organizing my life. Laugh/cry
I’m working on, getting back to working on, my fiction WIP while non-fiction keeps nipping at my ears. God it’s hard to focus just on one.
You’re pretty hard on yourself, Betsy. You’re also working on putting out a livey entertaining blog.
I’m always working on living and loving life. Nature fills me up. I’m always working on relationships…kids, husband (exasperation!), some people. I very consciously respect my health. What I do find hard, however, is working on working. But when I do settle down and face the beckoning, taunting page, to draw something out of nowhere, accumulating words, lines, paragraphs, then deleting, re-fashioning them, the gratification is almost always, but not necessarily, there.
I’m working on defeating the demon of self-sabotage. He’s a tough SOB.
I’m also working on prodding the work of others into the light. There is some wonderful stuff not getting the exposure it needs and tilting at those windmills seems to be a calling. Every time I hear “I’m not sure it’s good enough yet” I want to scream “You, author, do not have the perspective to decide. Readers decide. Your. Future. Readers. Your editor. Your agent. You craft. They judge. Give them the chance.”
I’m pretty damn ugly for a cheerleader. I’m not going to wear a skirt, either.
Working on understanding why I’m a Jets fan. I think it has to do with Joe Namath back in 1969.
A railing for an upstairs landing. This is actually very exciting, precision cuts and carefully drilled holes and still debating how to connect the posts to the floor with minimum evidence of how it’s done. A lag bolt up through the floor and into the base of the post would be the best bet, but there’s too much in the way — the downstairs ceiling — to do that, so….
A story about working in the post office before and after the deaths of the previous two postmasters. This morning’s walking epiphany involved alternating between the narrative and some postal history. I’m kind of scattered anyway, so if I mix things up a bit and it still makes sense, I might be on to something.
Working on my golf game. Going out this afternoon to play in remembrance of a good friend who died 17 years ago. He liked to smoke pot. We’ll do the same. Today’s his birthday. Happy Birthday, Snake!
The Hummingbird Hotel. This is a guest cottage my daughter and I are designing. The location will be near a patch of Bee Balm that the hummingbirds love. My daughter has big plans for the place so I need to get cracking to at least get a rudimentary foundation in this year.
Power washing the rich man’s dock and deck. Better get it done before the snow flies so I’ll have enough money to start on the Hummingbird Hotel.
I’m working on that 10 minutes everyone is talking about. Just walk for 10 minutes or write for 10 minutes or breathe, meditate, review your bank statement, do crunches, eat kale, or scream in a pillow for 10 minutes. Apparently, to change your life, you just need 10 minutes a day. I’d rather spend it here or watching Stranger Things, so not a whole lot is getting worked on.
Two freakin’ episodes of Luther. They call it season 4 but in all honesty…that guy never lasts long.