A book in a year, about a year

Another year gone and what have I done?

I once wrote a book in a year, about a year, 2017. That book about a year, wasn't only about that year. Past years insinuated themselves, as did dreams for future years. Now another year is done, another year begun.

​A strange-looking word, 'year,' or perhaps I'm spelling it wrong, or, it's the repetition factor, the way any word repeated often enough, becomes wonky, improbable, and you find yourself doubting, questioning something so simple as how to spell, pronounce, or properly use, words learned in childhood.

2020 withered much of what I thought I knew, believed I needed, imagined I was capable of. 2020 scrambled lives, livelihoods, plans and aspirations. Cancelled, suspended, moot. 2020, a toxic omelette that refused to congeal. 2020, four numbers that once meant perfect vision, now synonymous with fear, uncertainty, loss, disasters of mythic proportions.

It wasn't the fault of the year, or its numeric name. Human-made constructs for marking time, charting the earth's rotation, the march of days, the sun's rise and fall, the tug of the tides. 

2020 took my tongue. Thoughts popped and fizzled. Moot, irrelevant, obsolete. 2021 is but a baby year, a year that has yet to bare its teeth. I hesitate to plan, to aspire. Yet hope springs eternal. Baby steps in the first days of a brand-new, still fresh-smelling, baby year. I revisit 2017, the book about a year, written in a year, a year that like all years, offered time to make meaning of all the years, all the lives. 2017, the first year of Trump's presidency, though I hesitate to call it that, a year that ended with these words:

"I could blame the year. Trump. A tsunami of disasters of biblical proportions. Hurricanes, fires and famine. Mass shootings, genocide, the specter of nuclear war and the normalizing of white supremacy. Glaciers melting at an alarming rate. The apparent death of civility and decency, one tweet at a time. Trump."  

GRAY IS THE NEW BLACK (Otis Books, 2019), available from Small Press Distribution or your favorite independent bookstore (paperback) and Amazon Kindle (e-book)

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Excerpts from GRAY IS THE NEW BLACK

New Year's Eve, 2016
"That night, as I pulled on my pajama pants, I believed the annual last day of the year bout of unearned, unfounded optimism, of proclaiming lofty resolutions for the next 365 days, was a thing of the past. No sense wishing and hoping for the same things I’d wished and hoped for as far back as I could remember. To lose twenty, thirty, forty pounds. To be a better wife and mother. To finally write that damned mystery novel. 

I decided 2017 would be the year of accepting myself as I am. Grudging heart, double chins, chaffing thighs, practiced procrastinator, all that and more. The whole, full-fat enchilada. 

Such were my thoughts as I bedded down to dream in the new year. I was resolved not to resolve."

New Year's Day, 2017 
"I needed to figure this out. I needed a plan. Like every other year. But this time I meant it. I was too old to keep backsliding, to put things off another year. It only got harder. 

2017 would be the year to give it my all and not give up. To get healthy and make peace with my body and my marriage. To take pride in my accomplishments and to live life as if it mattered, as if I mattered. As if this might be my only chance. 

If not now, when? "

New Year's Eve, 2017
"I took a year to contemplate my inner navel. There is so much real suffering in the world, and here I stew in my tiny pot. I can say that, know it’s true, yet it’s still my reality. I can’t help but be who I am, with all the opportunities I was born into, the chances I’ve had, the choices I’ve made. Perhaps others will see themselves in my story. Those who never feel pretty, lovable or accomplished enough. Those who have suffered shame and found it hard to wash off. 

So, where am I? Metabolic age? Likely still 84, maybe more. Emotional maturity? I’d like to say I’m 63 going on 36. It has that synchronous, movie title ring to it. But 13 is more like it. Marriage? Enough said. That pile of jeans in the closet? Enough said. 

I could blame the year. Trump. A tsunami of disasters of biblical proportions. Hurricanes, fires and famine. Mass shootings, genocide, the specter of nuclear war and the normalizing of white supremacy. Glaciers melting at an alarming rate. The apparent death of civility and decency, one tweet at a time. Trump. 
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One last thing. No resolutions this year. Well, just the obvious. Avoid sugar. Be kind to all the animals. Oh, and maybe I’ll learn a new language. "