Writing During Retirement

After struggling with an unexpected, early retirement for years, I am finally looking forward to each day. 

Each day, I’m calling mine.

“I couldn’t possibly write during retirement,” said one “expert” who is a self-published author, college professor and writing coach.

Oh yeah?  When I heard this woman say this at a writing seminar, I shut down and could no longer take her seriously.  As usual, I don’t fit the norm.  In my opinion, writing during retirement is the best time to write.

When it comes to writing for money, I didn’t enjoy it.  I worked odd jobs while I attended Sac State.  I worked as a reporter, photographer and a magazine writer.  As a graphic artist without any art training, I winged it.  I remember making signs for a conference and was given a week to do it.  I finished the project over the weekend and had my hand out for payment early Monday morning.

My brother and I tried our hand at submitting magazine articles long before we were teenagers.  We didn’t know anything about queries and pitching ideas.  We wrote the articles and submitted them.  I remember getting stacks of rejection letters.  Some of them were polite and wished us luck.  Some of them were the industry standard--form letters stuffed into our self-addressed, stamped envelopes along with our manuscripts.

If you’re established as a writer, you can write your ticket as a magazine writer.  I didn’t enjoy magazine work back then, and I certainly don’t enjoy it now.  Magazine writing means pitching your ideas and it’s the editor who calls the shots.  I don’t like waiting on anyone.  Magazine editors take their sweet time and can take months to get back to you.

Deadlines never bothered me.  I remember being the intern at a city newspaper.  No one took me seriously until I wrote 300 wedding announcements in less than a week.  In the features department, it was a longtime joke among the editors and reporters when I completed the wedding announcements and kept up with them because writing wedding announcements was beneath them.  But once I completed those wedding announcements, the features editor let me choose my assignments.  I found out that a lot of business owners wrote the editor and invited her to visit, and she only picked the stories which interested her.  She sent me, instead.  I was given the option of taking photos or brought along the disgruntled staff photographer who didn't want to be seen with the rookie reporter.

I remember working for an editor whose favorite line was, “You write the way I want you to write because I’m the editor.”  To me, it sounded like, "Because I'm the Mommy, that's why!"  He had invested his life savings in the publication, but it folded in three months.  I was glad to jump that sinking ship.

I worked for a magazine editor who kept three Wham-O Superballs on her desk.  Whenever her boss left the room and closed the door behind him, she threw the Superballs at the door and let them bounce all over her office.  Superballs were hard enough to kill you.  I learned to stay away from her office whenever the Big Boss was around.    

Unlike a lot of people these days, my 23 years of mostly working jobs I hated or being around people I couldn’t stand has finally paid off.  I do have a pension, which helps with the bills.  I'm not struggling to make ends meet or living off a steady diet of Top Ramen and peanut butter sandwiches.  If I make an effort, I can put some money aside and invest in my hobbies.  I’m not like a lot of retirees I know.  I don’t stick to one interest.  I am always willing to try something new, and if it doesn’t work out, I move on. 

These days, I’m back to my writing.  It is my passion.  Sure, I pursue other things, but when you work for a living, a lot of things which bring you joy get pushed aside.  My case of Writer’s Block was simply letting my day jobs consume me.   

I don’t know a lot of people who love their jobs for years.  I only know that when you start a job, there’s so much promise.  But as the years go by, there’s a good chance you’ll slip into a routine and become bored and bitter. 

After a few false starts, I write every day.  If I’m not writing, I’m jotting things down in my writer’s journal.  I usually keep the journal with me.  In my waking hours and in my dreams, I am always getting ideas.

This past year, I’ve tried my hand at freelancing.  I also tried online writing for money.  For 7 months, I had a writing project assigned to me.   I slipped into my workaholic ways and did nothing but write from 7:30 a.m. to 11:30 p.m.  I didn’t move from my laptop, and my left leg became swollen from inactivity. 

I told my husband I was suffering from the Little Lotta syndrome.  Do you remember Little Lotta?  She was a cartoon character whose best friends were Dot Polka and Richie Rich.

Jack is 11 years younger than me, so when I mentioned Little Lotta—well, it showed the difference in our ages.  He never heard of Little Lotta and her friends.    For months, I had a swollen left leg which was triple the size of my right leg.

“This could be an indication of a stroke down the road,” said my doctor.  He sent me in for blood tests, but the results were negative. 

When I quit the online work and stopped living my days in front of my laptop, the swelling disappeared.

I know plenty of writers who are willing to support themselves doing online work.  I don’t know how they do it because online work does not pay the living expenses.  For the time you put it, online work pays pennies.  I don't know where these people get the idea that writers make tons of money with online work.  On the Internet, everyone can be an expert.  

Usually, you aren’t given a byline.  I’ve been out of the writing loop for years, and I could not understand why all these writers and editors with years of training and experience settle for way less than scale. 

Being retired has given me the luxury of writing for the pure joy of it.  My retirement was not planned, but I live with it.  I still have a mortgage and bills, but the freedom of writing for me is mine.  I write what I feel like writing, and I make my own deadlines.  I’ve worked with editors who feel a need to change my work.  Writers write and editors edit.   

Now, if I don’t like what an editor is doing with my work and decides to change most of it, I walk.  I never respected anyone who insists “My way or the highway”.  I don’t care for perfectionists, control freaks or anyone who must follow a rigid path.  This does not work with me. When it comes down to it, I am the boss.  In retirement, I am the boss of my writing and my life.

As a writer and as Arlene, I certainly am not a people pleaser.  No one is going to get out their little red pen and tell me how to write.  I don't worship money or material things, and I'm not desperate to put food in my mouth or pay a utility bill.  I know an experienced editor who is willing to accept $2 for each 300-word article she edits.  With that kind of pay, you might as well volunteer your work or do it for free.  

So, in retirement, I am the boss of my life.  When it comes to my writing, I write for me.  I don’t worry about getting paid for my work, getting millions for a best seller or a big fat contract for my next book.  After all those years of answering to editors in the name of money, I feel truly blessed and grateful that I am now working for my favorite boss.

I find it a pleasure to work for me.

       

     

The Cowboy at Denny's

The Fourth of July and Christmas are Jack's favorite holidays.

It was March 28, 2001 at the Denny’s along I-80.  For the dinner hour, the place was deserted.

The waitress was a skinny thing with pale skin and a bright yellow, cotton candy textured bob in a shade that was probably invented by her hairdresser.  As a woman who spent time shopping for boxed blue black or soft black hair dye, I already know you could not possibly find that shade of blond anywhere in nature.

   

She brought me a plate of fried chicken wings and other samples of grease, refilled my extra-large glass of Mountain Dew and left me with a glass of ice before sliding across the room to the trucker who took a seat in a booth by the window.  The afternoon light is harsh on anyone over the age of 20, but this man was good looking in a haggard sort of way.  He stretched his long legs into the aisle to reveal tight black jeans over brand new steel-toed boots.  I think black jeans went out of style about ten years ago, but he had short hair under his ball cap and sported two days’ worth of beard.

 

If you were about to be newly single past the age of 40, sometimes any man in tight jeans can look like a fashion model.  Sometimes, a man can be like a mirage and actually look attractive from across the room.

  

I had just started my new job a month ago, and I had already put in for a month’s vacation.  I didn’t want to admit it so early in the game, but I hated my job.  Although I had attended the academy for six weeks, I was not prepared for the job.  To my surprise, my new employer went along with my vacation wishes and arranged people to fill in while I was gone.  I couldn’t lie to myself.  I had taken the vacation because I thought I would like the new job when I returned.  I was hoping my vacation would give me an attitude adjustment.

I was all wrong for the job.  I was still married, but was determined to get a divorce.  My soon-to-be ex did me a favor and moved to another state.  In his pea brain, he expected me to drop everything and work a joint in Florida.  I found a lawyer in a small town to represent me and shouldn’t be paying more than a grand for my divorce.   He was a short man as tall as me, and with his legal assistant, they worked hard at getting my divorce in less than a year’s time.

I had a caseload of youthful offenders that I didn’t really know what to do with.  I never had children, so learning how to deal with their lies and manipulation tactics was a learning experience.  I was new, and I gave them all of my attention.  In my eyes, they were a needy group of children who had committed the worst of crimes as sexual offenders.  They were going to remain in the system.  From my experience, I already knew that.  They knew that.  But in my heart, I was frustrated.  There was nothing I could do to change this.  My boys were going to prison, no matter what I did.

I found myself crying on the way to work and crying all the way home at the end of the shift.  When I reached the workplace, I wanted to floor it.  The thought of ending up in Tulare, Turlock or Merced wouldn’t bother me at all.

So as I sat at the counter with a plate of grease and a drink with enough sugar and caffeine to bring on the pounds and other ailments, I worked on a lesson plan.  I thought the boys would enjoy a fairy tale.  I would read them a fairy tale, but something with a modern twist.  At the counter, I was making notes as I skimmed through Bruno Bettelheim’s book on fairy tales.

What was I thinking back then?  None of them had a childhood, so how could they understand fairy tales?  None of them had mothers who sang to them or read to them like I did.  I had to deal with their parents, too.  Most of them were barely existing on an Oregon mountaintop on meth or were already incarcerated in a California prison.  They weren’t mothers who put on aprons and baked cookies or fathers who took their boys fishing.  Anytime you leave your child in an institution, for whatever reason, you are basically throwing them away.

“Will you please give Arthur and extra blanket tonight?” one mother asked me.  “I read it’s going to be cold in Stockton.”

Sometimes, it took all I could not to tell these parents to shove it.  I couldn’t see past the fact that if you had kids and brought them into this world, weren’t you the one responsible for them?  As it turns out, Arthur is a great kid.  His is a little slow, but should benefit from years of therapy and education.  They all could.

But what would I know?  I was only on the job for a month and already hated it.  I was making the most money I had made in my life.

A spectacular view of Lake Tahoe and the casinos from the Heavenly Valley Gondola.

From across the room, I could hear the waitress laughing this horsey type of laugh.  She stood near the trucker and was twirling a short strand of her hair.  Her pen and pad were in the front pocket of her apron.

At the entrance of the restaurant, I saw this tall man in a black cowboy hat.  He took off his hat and had to duck.  He probably had to spend his days ducking through doorways.  He was that tall.

He nodded at the waitress and sat next to me.

Just Heavenly in July 2011.

“Hiyadoin,” he said softly.  “Hiyadoin.”  His voice was low, his eyes a soft shade of brown.  When the waitress strolled over, he ordered a salad with ranch dressing on the side.  She returned with water and iced tea.  Most likely, he was a regular.

“Are you a student?” he asked.

I wasn’t expecting company and felt I needed to entertain him.  I was forty, and you could say I was a student.  I was married so long, and now I was now forced to catch up on life.  About six months ago, I had looked into the eyes of my ex and told him that I didn’t want him in my life.  I was pleased that the fight to make me miserable was no longer his priority.  To my surprised, he backed up, didn't fight me and shortly after, he left the state.

I found myself talking about Bruno Bettelheim and incarcerated California inmates and wards.  This had been my life for 14 years.  I remained in California, but was away from my hometown of Sacramento for over a decade.  He was born in Sacramento like me, but never ventured out. 

     

“I’m leaving for a Caribbean cruise tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah?”  He seemed amused that I was going alone.  “When are you coming back?”

“Late next Saturday night.  Maybe around midnight.”

“Give me your email, and I’ll write you,” he said with confidence.

“Really?”  I scribbled my email address on a piece of paper and pushed it towards him.

If he pays for my plate of grease, I’m that’s a very good sign, I thought.  Lots of cheap guys out there.

He pulled out some bills from his wallet and left them under his water glass to pay for our snacks.

When I got home from the cruise, I turned on the computer and saw his message.  I wasn't expecting to hear from him again, and I was pleasantly surprised.

“Hello,” the IM from The Cowboy immediately appeared onscreen. 

I dropped all my bags and sat down at my computer.

“Well, hello.”  My hands were shaking as I typed, but we’ve been together since.

Our first date?  Tahoe the following week.  We constructed a snow bunny because we didn’t have enough snow for a snow man.

It is understood.  We will always have some memorable times in Tahoe.

And we celebrate two wedding anniversaries:  March 28 and June 28.  Only because I wanted to know what it was like to be a June bride.

A Stick Tree and a Second Try

It was the time of year when the stores in Sacramento brought in trees and plants, and you could not go anywhere  without seeing rows of greenery, bags of bulbs, bare root trees, and lawn seed.  I know a lot of these items look good in the store and are purchased by people who know nothing about gardening.  But, their intentions as gardeners are good, so you have to give them credit for that.  Due to most of the stores’ return policies, I’ve seen plenty of dead and dying plants sitting in carts parked near Customer Service and waiting for a final trip to the dumpster.  I also know there are plenty of disappointed gardeners out there who wanted landscaping right out of Sunset and Home and Garden.

As I shopped for what I had written on my shopping list, my then boyfriend caught up with me and placed a plastic bag with dirt and twigs into the cart.  I began to laugh.  It was a loud, snorting laugh which had other shoppers pausing to stare at me. 

   

“Are you serious?  Those are twigs, and they’ll never grow.  You get that in the ground, and it’s gonna die.”  I added cruelly, “What a waste of money,” I didn’t see any buds or signs of new growth.  The stick tree didn’t stand a chance because to me, it was dead.

He shrugged, and we continued shopping.  I knew that shrug.  It meant he had made up his mind and was keeping the tree.  He wasn’t going to be talked out of it.

Once we were home, I watched him pick a place in the front yard as a new home to the stick tree.  As he dug a hole in the front yard and planted the stick tree, I could have picked up a shovel and help him dig, but I didn’t offer to help because I wasn’t going to invest my time in something dead.  As the year went by, he faithfully watered the stick tree, and by the following summer, there were three plums on the tree.

I admit I am not a Master Gardener, but I thought I could pick out a dead tree when I saw one.  I guess bare root can fool you.  I didn’t expect the tree to live, but it did.  It seemed to thrive in the Sacramento weather.  Before long, its branches stretched over the corner of the house and towards the fence separating our front yard from the neighbor’s. 

“Fooled you, Farm Girl,” it seemed to say as its branches pushed towards the sky.

For the next two years, the tree put out enough fruit to give away.  Each year, before the Fourth of July, our guests brought home paper sacks filled with plums.  The birds got their share.  I remember picking plums off the ground so the snails wouldn’t get them.  I still do.  As I counted, there were as much plums on the ground as the ones harvested.

 

I didn’t care for the taste of the fruit until last year, but we recruited my mom, and she came over every Fourth of July and made plum jam.  I liked to use the jam in a mixture of orange juice and mango chutney, and then poured it over the Easter ham when I baked it.  Sometimes, I poured the same mixture over roast chicken.  It was too good for toast.

So the tree continues to grow, and the branches tower over me.  Sometimes, I’ll prune it, but this year, I went with his wishes and let it grow. 

No matter what season it is, I look at that tree and see nothing but growth.  And I think of the guy I finally married 4 years ago after 7 years of indecision.  He had put a lot of faith in a stick tree and stuck to what he believed in.  But there was something more than that.  I noticed he was the one who takes the time to look at the sky, the clouds and the mountains in the distance.  He appreciates a lot of things people take for granted.

I finally decided to get over myself and this insecurity about giving marriage a second try.  Who wants to admit the growth of a stick tree was one of reasons?

   

Happy Anniversary, Jack.  And Happy Fourth of July.