I know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
I think I realized what retirement was when I was on the wrong end of town with two hours to kill before a lunch date. Rather than run back home (for what – ninety minutes?) or run some compressed errands, I hung out in a coffee shop with a book (Infinite Jest, but hey, I had to get that mother read). The thing is, I’m learning this new phase in my life.
When I thought about it last year, I thought I’d be writing every structured day. Not so, it seems. There are cycle rides with idle friends, books to read, naps to snooze, and a storage room to clear a lifetime of crap from. So writing, submitting, publishing, that’s all in the air now. I keep at Dog Ear to ensure that I don’t drop my backbone altogether.
Still writing, of course. Besides this piece, I’ve got book reviews (they are stacking up) and model train ops reviews (I’m doing those a lot – I can now go to the weekday events some retirees hold). I still chat on bases with writers, review their efforts, offer suggestions. And I still submit online to small contests and occasionally win.
I’ve been worried about writing, though. I am ad-hocking this a bit too much right now. Hopefully I’ll work something out.
But I was reminded of the writer I am when I went to lunch with my admin friend, fresh needle tracks on our arms*. We sat in a kinda-anti-gay restaurant (you know, the chicken place) and she asked me questions about getting a childrens book published. I had all sorts of experience in that and offered sound, methodical advice on the tricks of this. And while I did it, I realized that yes, like it or not, I’m a writer. I still write (the evidence is right here, right now, I’m effing typing it, you know?). But yes, I’ll work things out and try to carve out time. I’ll see what happens.
Writers are writers, regardless as to how methodical they are in their writing.
I’ll keep you readers in the loop as I work this out.
* We donated blood together.