Writing… Even When the Kitchen is Calling for Help

Trying to close in on finishing something like a first draft of my book in the next few weeks, I’m finding myself more aware than usual of the difference between writing and more quotidian matters.

As he prepared to start his day the other morning, with the prospect of designing three different Easter weekend sermons on his mind, my husband said to me, “You may have noticed that the refrigerator door isn’t closing right.”

What a guy. He made mental room for the problems with our kitchen appliances, cropping up with some regularity of late, even at his most intellectually demanding time of the year.

A few months ago, we discovered that the front right burner on the stove didn’t do “low” anymore—preferring to get hot very quickly, brazenly. That was annoying, and had the potential to be dangerous with everything sizzling and smoking right away, but it wasn’t enough to call the man; we had the left front one, besides. Then that one, too, started the same behavior. Now just the two back small burners can be relied upon to produce a slow, steady heat. Right after he discovered that the refrigerator door needed a stronger push to be shut, Rob also was disappointed to find that his breakfast plans featuring a couple of pieces of good bread were unrealized because the toaster was apparently on strike.

And we all know that whenever we are really looking forward to toast, nothing else will quite do.

Maybe after Easter, and then after my draft is turned in, we can both look our kitchen squarely in the face and say, “What seems to be the problem here?”

At every time of year, writing is an integral part of my husband’s profession. He writes often for print too, but his words are mostly absorbed through the ears of each congregation he visits. Right this moment, he’s looking over the sermon he will present on Easter morning. I don’t need to tell you that this one, each March or April as the case may be, takes even more scrutiny than usual.

I, on the other hand, am engaged in a different kind of enterprise. Sometimes I think it can be pictured like this:

Yes, that’s right— it’s a pie in the sky.

On certain days, certain moments within certain days, I think that what I’m trying to do is quite ridiculous. My project might fail, with a thud. Nobody really will really need my nicely bound (by whom, I have no idea yet) memoir; there are many other ways in which I can truly be of service to people. Besides, some of my paragraphs could come out sounding about as clear as what’s out back right now.

All of the above is likely true.

And yet, I must press on. I’ve come too far to turn back now, for one thing. And for another, some kind of motor started me down this road, and it’s not kaput yet.

It’s entirely possible that sections of my story will be “meh” (learned this term in our weekly workshops), but some might actually, eventually, become slightly better than OK, even in a certain way, pleasing or at least bearing the glow of truth.

As we head into this combination Passover/ Easter/ April Fool’s weekend, I wish my readers a spring full of blossoms and nice surprises. If our kitchen appliances continue to act up once my manuscript is turned in, I’m making a beeline for the outdoors with my dog Rocky, who doesn’t choose to write at all.