Now What?

I’ve had many identities throughout my life. I’ve done various jobs and have finally retired.

The identities I’ve had include, daughter, wife, mother, sister, friend, teacher, cashier, telephone operator, proofreader, student helper, student . . . and I could go on and on. You get the idea.

At this point, I want to be known as a writer. I’ve been told by several people that I am prolific. I enjoy writing. I’ve tried to figure out how many words to write a day. One article I read said that Hemingway wrote 250 words a day. When he reached that point, he would stop. It didn’t matter if he was in the middle of a sentence or where it was. That doesn’t work for me.

I tend to want to at least rough draft all of what I plan to write.

I tend to edit as I write. I also know the value of letting written work “get cold” and then going back and editing it.

Sometimes I’ve cheated when I wrote. I took a creative writing class at NCSU years ago. It was a night class. The only requirements were that we write five pages each week and be prepared to share one page of that weekly writing with the class. We also were told to comment on what others wrote. We’d take turns standing up in front of the class and reading one of the pages we’d written. How did I cheat? I wrote poems. I wrote five pages of poetry each week. At the time that is what I was mostly writing . . . that and comments on various columns Dennis Rogers wrote for the News and Observer. Dennis often used the letters I’d send in with my comments in his Friday Letters and Leftovers columns.

But as I sit here identifying as a writer, I realize this is a lonely profession. I can share some of it with friends, but there’s only so much I want to show them.

That being said, the phrase, “If not now, when?” comes to mind.

These are my retirement years. I suppose it’s as good a way to spend those years as any other?

I have three blogs at this website. There’s this one (proudofeverywrinkle) that talks about being my current age. I am proud of my wrinkles and proud to have lived this long. I enjoy this age. A second blog is called Constanceasawriter, and I try to give writing tips or share things I’m working on or have had published. Then there’s the third blog, which believe it or not started as the first blog. And the name of it escapes me. . . Senior moment. brb . . .msplayful.wordpress.com  It’s my msplayful’s blog. That’s why on the other two blogs I see they were written by msplayful. I never said I was good with computers, although others have said “for my age” I am. . .

My youngest son often over-estimates my technological ability. (is that a term?) We skype once a week. He lives in China. One day he decided it would be good to put the number of steps app on my phone so I could keep up with how much walking I was doing daily. I told him that was a bad idea. (Do children ever listen to their parents?) He was sure we’d be done in ten minutes and I’d enjoy the app. Two hours later it was successfully installed on my phone. My phone and his phone are not just alike. Symbols he told me to click on may be on his phone, but they were not on mine. We worked on that the whole skype session, ha, ha.

I seem very capable of “drifting in my conversations now”.

That could be why I work on various writing projects. My interests drift.

But I am a writer and I love writing. What are some of the things others, who are retired, now do with their time? I’d love to find out.

Living May Be Over-Rated

I have never been able to fully interact with my “peers”. I don’t understand their ways of thinking or why they value what they value.

While on facebook this morning, I saw the quote about “everlasting life through Jesus Christ” . . .

I have read the posts about how wonderful it is to wake up every morning, no matter what your circumstances.

I’ve been told by a friend, who is a psychologist, that my worldly views are too close to the truth for most people and that’s why they get angry with me. ???

So is life to be lived with our heads in the sand while in denial of reality? What kind of life is that?

One of my greatest pleasures in life was teaching. I loved teaching, especially when I was able to teach a child everyone else had given up on. Now my health has pretty much ended that profession and I spend my time trying to decide if my dog has been out lately or if she is asking to go out. Sometimes I wonder what her qualify of life is. She’s 17 years old. She’ll be 18 in August. One day I wondered if I was confused when I was saying how long she’d lived . . . that maybe I’d mistakenly miscalculated. Dogs don’t live that long. But then I remembered (and I verified this by asking my son) that he was 12 years old when she was born. We had her mother. He is now 29 years old, almost 30. So yes, she is 17 years old and he’s had her over half his life. Except he’s in China and I have her.

That old dog and I take turns having bad days. Once in awhile we’ll both be having a bad day. When it’s her turn, I hover over her and try to help her up the steps. When it’s my turn, she stays close to my ankles and if I sit down, she’ll come lay her head on my knee.

I just don’t understand other people’s aversion to death. I mean, they act like it’s intolerable. Do they feel better than I do? Are they accomplishing more than me? What is the reason for their tenacity on life?

I have a very high IQ. One time I sat down and figured out that the span between my IQ and the “average” IQ is more than the span between the “average” IQ and the mentally deficient IQ.

“Mental deficiency used to be divided into the following sub-classifications, but these labels began to be abused by the public and are now largely obsolete: Borderline Deficiency (IQ 70-80), Moron (IQ 50-69), Imbecile (IQ 20-49) and Idiot (below 20). Mental deficiency is now generally called mentalretardation.”

http://www.assessmentpsychology.com/iqclassifications.htm

This may be why I have so much trouble with relationships. I just don’t “get it”.

People refusing to acknowledge reality will not change reality. That’s a quote from me that you can use. I doubt that anyone ever will.

I was probably a better writer than I was a teacher, although I was a pretty good teacher.

I refused to use big words when small ones would do. I was often not appreciated by the teachers who teach exactly like the manual directs and who could not think outside the box. When you’re in the box, you cannot appreciate what is outside of it.

I tried to be approachable. I was non-threatening. If I had to threaten or appear threatening to teach a child . . . I had no interest in doing that.

I have a ceramic cup that I value. On it is written “Better than a thousand days of diligent study is one day with a great teacher”.  It’s credited as a Japanese Proverb.

I tried to be a great teacher.

Now I will try to be a great writer.

My main problem is that I have such a finesse in angering people with my statements of truth that I fear I might not build a large readership.

Well, I can only try. That’s what we all can only do. . . our best, and to try. For as my grandmother told me over and over when I was a child, “You don’t know what you can do until you try”.

I have another blog on WordPress called “Constance as a Writer”.

There’s a third blog titled “Ms. Playful” . . .

But even with all the things I’ve yet to write, I cannot fathom not going peacefully into that good night, when the time comes. I do not know what there is to rage against. Leaving this world cannot be that bad when all my energy has been spent.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas, 1914 – 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Three Blogs Done

(hum tune to “Three Blind Mice” rhyme while you read this)

Three Blogs Done  by Constance Barr Corbett

Three blogs done,

Three blogs done,

See if they’re read,

See if they’re read,

They all ran off with some words on a page,

Some were funny, but some, they did rage,

Did you ever see words try to exit a cage?

Three blogs done.