True Confessions

This morning, the wind was so cold that my hand holding Charley's leash ached, even though it was swathed in Martin's huge rag mitten.  You'd never guess, from where I sit now, looking out over the towering pines and trees just at the edge of buds--all against a creamy blue sky--that the county issued a freeze advisory for today.

As I stepped out for a walk this morning, I lifted my cell phone to snap a photo of the mountains--stunning, shining brightly with ice and snow.  Of course that photo didn't turn out--my dinky camera reduced magnificent mountains to vague shapes shrouded by telephone wires.  I tried again but my hands began to throb with the cold.  By the time Charley and I came over the hill, we were trotting; as soon as we hit the neighborhood, we were sprinting for home.  I threw off my coat; my head swam with sudden warmth; I eked out a reply to a text with stiff fingers; I reheated a cup of tea.

Today I long to look forward to a cleared schedule where I might write, write, and write yet more.  I feel as though I am on the cusp of taking this book I've been working on, "The Solemn Vows of Margaret Engel," and shaking some sense into it.  I think about it in the shower and as I walk; I find myself adrift in plot points and dialogue until a child inevitably hooks me out of my reverie with a vital concern such as, "Bea got more M&Ms than I did this weekend and that's really unfair and can I have one of those candy hearts you bought for that baby shower this weekend. . .on a cupcake?"

My lack of engagement with my book is one part my fault and two parts just life-reality.  Martin is terribly busy; this weekend he worked all day Saturday; that night I helped with a baby shower; the next morning we did all the music at church (with our team); followed by a trip across the water to watch the Superbowl, (which turned out rather well, I might add); and last night Martin worked all night until midnight.  This morning he was up, out of bed, and on his computer with no time for breakfast, and tonight he will return after eight, ravenous for the supper he has not yet eaten.

I've lots more excuses for why my writing is not happening, but the last third, which is my third, is rather guilt-inducing, since it consists of aimless evenings, books and TV and. . .shamefully, a Kindle game called CandyCrush that I find relaxing, addicting, and totally consuming.  Sometimes when I close my eyes I see those rows of sweeties--red beans, blue gobstoppers, tart lemons, and sweet boiled oranges--exploding--POOF!--and falling--CRUSH!--and oh, so satisfying when I pass a level and the addled cartoon character waves congratulations at me.  Congratulations on your sense of victory that has yielded you nothing and stolen 30 minutes from your life--30 minutes and counting [cloying, maniacal laughter here].  

I am not alone!  For a really great reflection of one person's salvation from this insidious game, click HERE.

"I passed another level!"  I'll yell from the next room, and Martin will reply dryly, "Congratulations."  As I open another window in the sea of chocolate, my better self chides, Good for you!  You've accomplished absolutely nothing of significance.  Just think, you could have rewritten a story by now.

I haven't played video games since I obsessed over Tetris on my brother's old Gameboy.  I try to analyze why this game--not unlike Tetris--makes me feel so good, and I think I've concluded this: I have control over this tiny world of candy.  A swipe of my finger and a row of lemons disappears.  It's contained and simple and yet just a little forethought yields great rewards.


Not so in my books, where the rewriting is endless and the results seemingly unreachable.  Not so in my career, where I feel as though I reap next to no tangible, bankable rewards.  Not so in my life, where I can't keep my schedule straight, where I get lost behind the wheel, feel as though I'm doing well to ferry around the kids and keep the household running in a semblance of order, and double-book appointments.

photo: about.king.com

But for a few minutes every night, it's just me and rows of candy.  I crush it, I smash it, I obliterate it until I am.  . . .THE CANDY CRUSH QUEEN.

I console myself: for the first time, I'll have something concrete to yield for Lent--not just excess, or being grumpy, or whatever nebulous thing I've tried to give up in the past, but a real, ridiculous obsession.

And now I've shared my deep, dark, guilty secret.  The day can only be edifying from here.