Single Lady of a Certain Age at Thanksgiving Dinner

The big dark has me feeling blue. I talk to myself a fair bit these days; the most common topic, “What’s bothering you?” I have no small number of things on my mind – the job market, the attack on the health care exchange, why my back hurts, my aging dog’s well being, whether I have enough money saved to live out the rest of my life in safety and relative comfort, that’s all, no big deal, all of it playing out against a deeply troubling political landscape. Oh, yeah, and the seasonal depression, it’s a real thing.

What’s bothering me, indeed! What’s not bothering me would be a better question given the State of Things.

On this morning’s walk I thought, well, it is Thanksgiving, and it is not raining right now, and it is not particularly cold, and that maple is still looking so splendid with the full range of colors available to it, so. So.

Last night I baked a cake, a key accessory to my role as Single Lady of a Certain Age at the annual performance of Thanksgiving Dinner. I am grateful to be invited by friends who have cast me before to play this role. It will be cozy and bright and nourishing in all the best ways. It will feel so good to be welcomed at their table.

There have been long shadows over the year. I have not had proper income since May, which, in a terrible coincidence, was when Harley the Dog got so sick he had to be hospitalized multiple times. Harley is insured, and I pulled some money from my retirement accounts, but I also got help from friends and family and I am still overwhelmed with gratitude for the space that gave me to make the right choices. Harley had a lengthy but nearly complete recovery, though I think both of us were traumatized by the whole unfortunate event.

In August I hammered out a pitch for a book based on Canned, the podcast I launched with my producer/friend/creative enabler Amy. I sent 50 customized pitch letters to literary agents; I have received nine rejections and two expressions of interest that have netted exactly zero offers to represent me. Ask any working author, they will tell you the process requires the resilience and endurance of an Olympic athlete. You must wait months for a terse “Not for me, best of luck,” reply. I shut the process down last week, 50 seemed a good number and the beating my ego was taking wasn’t made easier by the ever-diminishing daylight hours.

Still, I have been so grateful to everyone who supported this project from the get-go, total strangers who were willing to tell me vulnerable stories, folks who pitched in to help cover the production costs, and to everyone who said, “OMG, that’s brilliant,” when I told them  about Canned. It has absolutely been a bright spot, which is ironically funny when you consider where these stories come from and how they play out in the bleakness of today’s job market.

In September, when I started pitching my book projects, I also started going to live story telling events. I have been trying to learn what makes a story interesting when it’s told off the cuff. What makes a person a natural storyteller and what makes a story feel labored? What’s the difference between a story that’s performed versus one that’s just told? In October I got up in front of a room of mostly strangers (there’s a friend who’s along for the ride on this adventure) and told a story about that one time I went to Indiana, and it was…  thrilling, actually. The rooms these events take place in are unfailingly kind, the stakes are low, and I’m grateful for the space to do some creative experimentation.

(I’m gonna stop you right there, I’m not, in fact, a natural in front of the room. I’m good on the keyboard, but to stand in front of a room, just you and a mic, nothing in your hands, is not a skill I have, thank you. I can put some words on a page, sure, but to move them from my brain to my voice with no keyboard In between is another story.)

I was pondering all this while walking Harley this morning. I was engaging in that seasonal practice at some dinner tables of saying what you are grateful for. It helped me shift to things I am looking forward to, as well – friends coming to visit, a much-needed sunbreak on the horizon, Thanksgiving leftovers, taking advantage of the time I have allotted to write this winter…

It is dark, I find it difficult, and as a person who has struggled with depression, feeling this particular weight has me scanning the perimeter for the black dog. I think he’s at a safe distance and the fences are secure enough. It is good to walk the dog when there is a break in the weather, and it is good to play the part of Single Lady of a Certain Age at Thankgiving Dinner, and there is much to be grateful for.