The Hours

Midnight:
The two hardest things in life: falling asleep and waking up. Wedge of Brie cheese in one hand, glass of fake champagne (sparking wine, they call it, but we know what it is: cheap, fizzy, but at least dry)—in the other. Phone at my ear, listening to girlfriend talk about her kid’s prom preparation earlier in the day. Can’t decide whether I am envious or not–wouldn’t it have been great to have raised a beautiful daughter right from the start, given how much I loved even the bit-player part I had in my two step-sons’ lives?–but decide, once again, that I wouldn’t have done the sort of terrific job she’s done. I remember when she was toilet training her kids; it amazed me that we, as adults, are not all walking around in Pampers. That our parents, our mothers, took the time just to teach us continence is astonishing. They should get paid just for THAT. “Successful toilet training”= $2500 instant stipend. Like a scratch-off lottery ticket. Sort of. 

12:45 a.m.
Off the phone with girlfriend who was falling asleep on the other end of the phone as she describes a phenomenon new to me: The Prom Bus. Decide I should let her sleep; she has earned it. Not sure I have, however. Eat the rest of cheese. Nice husband (as opposed to what, exactly? Like I have a harem?  Polygamy is NOT a temptation for women) asleep in the next room. Cats draped over my lap and computer. Decide I should do an op-ed piece on why there are NO religious cults where women marry forty men all the same time. Write emails to op-ed editors suggesting this and feel a sense of accomplishment. Permit myself to get to sleep.

4:15 a.m.
Shut bedroom and bathroom windows because woken up by massive thunderstorm. Husband still asleep, as if bludgeoned, even when I make a show of getting up and doing virtuous house-saving activities. Decide to envy husband.

6:30 a.m.
Get up to pee, having woken from terrible dream where rich people living in a house made of quartz (why?)make me iron their linen napkins. I cannot iron and fear them. Decide recently watched wealthy-domestic-bliss movie has given me class-based nightmare. Is true I cannot iron but have never considered employment where that would be revealed.

7:30 a.m.
Officially wake up. Let cats into bedroom. All three dance on our pillows around as if auditioning for Rockettes–turn, turn, kick, turn. Husband puts television news on mute. I play with cats, annoying them into false and adorable attacks, from under the covers. They purr and attack husband’s ankle to my amusement.

7:45 a.m.
Get dressed. Brush teeth. Put on mascara and lipstick, no other make-up, just like my mother used to; choose which plastic glasses on which beaded string to wear. Such are the accessorizing joys of 52.

8 a.m.
Go to kitchen downstairs. Get out pills: Fibercon, vitamin, Lexapro, Synthroid, a purple-pill antacid, and estrogen; I preferred when I wore a patch on my ass and had a song in my heart but the pharmaceutical company changed the adhesive and I started to itch more than it was worth, thus the estrogen pill. Take these with seltzer. Yesterday’s coffee goes into microwave, in cup, for husband. (Not for me; have more or less given up coffee unless made by others.) Decide to make eggs for both of us. Lots of cheese in mine (no more brie left; reduced to supermarket cheddar) and less for him (he worries about health). Orange juice, seltzer, and yes, fried potato pancakes (he’s not THAT worried). Read paper over breakfast. Smaller cat attacks catnip (“Kitty crack”) mouse while we read of the downfall of world economies. I look for the section with “Ask Amy.” I love “Ask Amy.”

9 a.m.
Back upstairs. Put foam goop on hair in hopes of not looking like BEFORE picture. Look like an extra from the bar scene in MONSTER. Not even good enough to look like lead. Decide not to care. Didn’t get any emails from op-ed editors, either, and decide not to care about that. Hair is even less important. (Actually look more like a cross between Janis Joplin and Connie Francis; look more like the mom in EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND than I care to admit. But do have nice smile and good legs.) Yell good-bye to husband who tells me, in a ritual fashion as he does every morning, not to speed. I take this as sign of love, which, wonderfully enough, it is.

9:45
Drive 6 minutes to work. Don’t speed. If I were a Better Human Being I would walk. Know that I will never be better human being.

10
Park behind the Agriculture School, about 3 minutes from my own building. Get sand in shoes walking across parking lot and am bitter about this.

10:04
Two assistants, godblessthem, are already in basement office; we all look up to see people’s feet as they pass. Have spent whole life in offices without views, first in NYC where such things were expected, but in CT? Continue to shake sand from shoes, trying to make sure it goes into wastepaper basket. Assistants laugh at my expense and quite right, too. They are Doing Things. Start making phone calls to op-ed people, attempting to sound intellectually provocative in a pop-culture way. Worry I will never write again for another newspaper. Think I am a loser. Worry that I should have stayed home and raised 16 children rather than get advanced degree, professorial job, and writerly experience. Could have had kid at the prom, after all. Could have been a contender. Realize that I will NEVER publish enough (17 books don’t count; I only actually wrote 8 cover-to-cover and only edited the others) to feel REAL. REAL writers surely don’t feel like this. REAL writers get called back. Youngest assistant points out that being professor counts as “real.” Reply that word “real” and phrase “professor of English literature” are rarely linked in world outside academics. Remind self, however, of good fortune in having job and having tenure. Knock wood.

12:30
One editor, yesjesus, calls back from his cell phone and says okay to piece. Feel slightly better. Now need to come up with piece by tomorrow. 704 words. Worry. But feel okay. Relieved.

Assistants and I have lunch, meaning one has a power bar, one has chicken soup, and I have a Slimfast because I feel guilty about intake of fats in last twelve hours. What of health, risks, danger? It’s only cheese, laughs assistant, not unsafe sex with strangers. Talk with assistants about guilt and work; they have their own troubles that are more significant than mine. I shut up and listen. About time, too.

1:30
Leave for home where I tell myself I will begin writing instantly.

1:35
Home. Read last week’s issue of PEOPLE. Who the hell ARE these people? They are both little itsy-bitsy creatures–how can you tell who has the eating disorder? Glad not to be eighteen. Drink Diet Coke and feel decidedly hypocritical. Eat potato chips to balance score.

2
Husband upstairs, rearranging his office. We decide to take nap, just for two minutes.

3:30
Wake up from nap. Husband watches Weather Channel. I play with cats who have napped with us. Cat attacks my ankle. Husband amused.

4
Get up and actually sit ass in front of computer. Cats follow. Husband is revising book; his deadline is in a couple of weeks. We call this work. One cat is on his desk, one on mine, one wanders between the two rooms; I am glad they do not speak. Glad husband isn’t speaking, either , so can begin work. Work, work, work, that’s me. Decide to answer emails before beginning real work.

4:12
Worry whether BITTER will go into a second printing. Wonder if it would be considered tacky to email any/everyone I’ve ever met to inform them of new book. Wonder why other writers feel real.

4:14
Friend from NYC in identical state
of professional despair sends the following glorious note, reprinted below verbatim and in its entirety:

MARY MCCARTHY (She is writing to Hannah Arendt)
writes of her endless bad reviews and lambasting in the press: “You don’t understand why I should mind being on the receiving end of so much hostility.  Well, it would be better, clearly, if I didn’t mind, but I do and I find it deeply discouraging.  The sense that one is not “getting through” to one’s imagined listeners, it is like making a transatlantic telephone call with a bad connection.  The fact that this keeps happening to me (the worst was probably Birds of America, which nearly ‘cured’ me of writing novels) adds a ghostly element of repetition, as though I were condemned to this punishment throughout eternity…And the punishment is somehow mysteriously, arcanely, related to my eternal self: the bars of the cell are, so to speak, my own ribs.”

And I am thinking, MY GOD, Mary McCarthy – bestseller – literary icon – writer of so many novels and books – SHE felt this way??

Xx
P.

Am grateful to friend.

4:30
Seltzer with fresh lemon slice, as inspiration to really, really begin work. Decide to write to publisher and list all upcoming conferences where I will be speaking by way of showing that I am not useless. Fear sounding huffy but decide it is better than sounding whipped. Pleased with self for sending email. Now feel absolutely ready to write.

4:45
Finish looking up on Google a girl I resented in college. Envy the fact that she has written novels. Comfort self by the fact that, according to Amazon, she has sold a total of maybe six copies. Decide I am mean, mean, mean, and will be punished. Decide to work, seriously.

4:40
Husband, who has not been writing his own book, presents possible flights he has researched for trip to Colorado where we get to see the elder of two kids. Delighted at prospect of seeing son and daughter-in-law. Not so delighted to hear from husband about flights. Remind myself that my fear of flying was once much worse. Mouth gets dry. Foot wiggles. Still scared to fly even though now flying about every fifteen minutes. Husband kept his part of the deal–typing his own books–and I have to keep mine: traveling without hysteria. Hard to do. Agree to change planes in Chicago rather than leave for Boston at 4 a.m.. Decide this makes me mature. Hope they will put “very mature” in obituary. Worry about even thinking such an evil thing. Knock wood.

5:10
Work. Write, write, write.
 

7:25
Sitting out on the deck, the husband and I. Cigarettes (2 a piece) and real champagne. Delight in our own illicit behavior. Fabulous evening. Water heating for nice fresh ravioli, Gorgonzola and plain cheese, basil and tomato sauce, once again seltzer.  Listening to Dean Martin, of call people, while having dinner. Robins and cardinals gather all around feeder. Cool evening, nice breeze, and Dean.

8:30
Should be writing again now. Doing dishes instead and watching LAW AND ORDER from next room. Also put clothes in the wash because they smell of  (Evil! Evil!) smoke. But thinking about what I need to write–and thinking is a BIG PART of writing. Right? Decide to start at 9 sharp.

9:03
The next LAW AND ORDER starts and we decide to get up really early tomorrow and start WORK at 6 a.m.

10:00
Despite nap, rather tired. Have scribbled ideas for tomorrow’s article on old notepad next to bed. Feel ready to begin tomorrow at dawn. Have never missed deadline yet–am amazed by this, given how lazy day appears in these notes–but know it will get done when it needs to get done. Decide I have nobody in the world to envy; life is good. Ashamed of self for every doubting good fortune.

10:30
Cats asleep in my office, house closed up for the night. Knock wood: so far so good.