Downsized

I try to imagine what you want to read about. “Not your real estate” one reader tells me emphatically. “What about the new truck at the Feed Mill?” a neighbor inquires. “Sotomayor!” another intones. “We love reading about your son and daughter,” say a couple. “No more about your son and daughter,” a chorus sings.

I am being downsized. This column, that I have written bi-weekly for many years, will go monthly hereafter. I am to blame, I think, for not pleasing everyone. I tell too much or see too little.

I think of all the people who are in this position—and much worse—in this economic collapse. What if cutting the work schedule in half meant going on food stamps instead of emotional ennui? What if it meant selling the house below value to pay the mortgage? Or not sending the girl to college? I shudder to think.

My economy will not collapse as a result of being downsized. But a vital life—life is not always gold-plated. This column has been an identity for me more than a job. I struggle to write it, but it always gets done. I’ve never missed a deadline, although I’ve come close. I write it on vacation or at home in the city in the deadly winter. Often, like now, I write about the things I most want to ignore.

After a recent column on abortion, I literally hung my head sheepishly in the supermarket, fearing a lashing that never came. It had been inspired by the murder of a doctor in Kansas. The murder horrified me, but not until I heard an abortion rights spokesperson say it was time for women to tell their stories, did I feel the need to tell mine. There is power in words that can equal firepower. More people than ever thanked me personally for that one. And I was grateful that the others, who also had strong feelings, did not attack me.

Of all the columns I have written, about family and friends, loss and love, religion and terrorism, this one is the one that stirs me to tears. Is it over, I wonder? Has everything been said? Is it time to move over or move on?

Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a month between deadlines? No. A month between deadlines is a slack rope. Without tension, nothing holds.

Writers write for lots of reasons. I write to find out what I think and feel. I admit that I am always conscious of the possibility of legacy. Thoughts evaporate when not written with craft. My children, who may be too busy to hear me now, will at least have this to review if they want to know me, later. I realize that may be more important to me than it is to them.

This column also gives me focus, a thing I desperately need. It sharpens my thoughts. I am always looking for it in each experience. The specific thing that will be universal. Because I don’t do it just for me. I do it for you and me. I don’t really enjoy conversation. I can never shape my thoughts or find the right words in a crowded room. Writing to you, I am secluded, intent. I am not thinking about my belly fat or if my eyebrows are askew. I am perfectly comfortable, usually in pajamas, with the river before me in a constant flow, and I am showing you my heart.

It will be hard to stop, when it comes time.