Kind of phoning it in this week. (If I only post every other week, do I say I'm phoning it in this biweek? This semimonth? This payday??) At any given time, I might have one to four draft posts going, because whenever an idea pops into my head about something that might be a good topic I jot it down before it slips from my colander brain. The problem is, I didn't feel like finishing any of them this week. The last several weeks have been…challenging, to significantly understate it.
Everything has been adding up, from the constant deluge of atrocities in the world to some things in my personal life to even an email from an online florist celebrating my first anniversary as a customer. Because I bought those flowers from them for my sister on the occasion of our father's death, so it wasn’t exactly a cute, fun reminder and 30 percent off coupon. (I have to wonder how many people they accidentally upset every year by reminding them of some sad event.)
It's not even the reminder of his death that upsets me, so much as the reminder of…everything before that. Long time twitter pals may remember some of the wilder stories about my Bad Dad—the condo! the mistress! using the mistress's daughter as realtor and renter! deciphering the address of the apartment he had with the mistress because he wrote it on the top page of his checkbook carbon copies! (that last one did mileage as a Nicole Cliffe Prompt Thread™ as everyone shared their stories of dumb ways they discovered someone's cheating)—but I'm not sure I told the story of how it all started. And if I did, too bad, it's my blog.
The year was 2014. My dad wasn't feeling well and decided to take a nap. Pretty typical, not really a cause for concern. My mom was reading a book, and she was not happy with it. (I'm not going to tell you what the book is [not here, anyway, but TOTALLY UNRELATEDLY if you reply to the substack email it comes to me], but you've probably read it.) While I didn't hate the plot as much as others, it didn't feel as well done as the author's earlier work, and I do see why people feel like the author cut the knot that they couldn't untie.
Anyway, mom hated the book, and she needed to vent about it before she exploded. So she woke dad up so she could complain at/to him about it. Except something was clearly off. He wasn't making sense, couldn't button his shirt. So she took him to the hospital and it turned out he had had a massive stroke. According to the doctor, if they'd been there even a few minutes later, he would have died. (This, we would come to learn, would probably have been a mercy for everyone, including him, but that is at least five different stories.)
My mom 100% blames attributes his survival to that book. So you see, books can save a life! I mean, usually it’s good books, books where people with marginalized or minority identities can see themselves represented, books of hope and encouragement. But not always!! Sometimes a bad book is a literal lifesaver!
Speaking of speaking about bad books, I got to chat with a friend recently about some underwhelming reads and okay, it didn't save a life, but it definitely improved mine. It was nice to be candidly critical about books with someone else who had read them! (My husband will listen, sure, but he doesn't know; I only read him the good ones!!) It's easy to shout about good books online, to give five stars and post rave reviews. But I don't want to be actively mean on main, so sometimes I keep all my quibbles and petty complaints bottled up, and it was good to air them out a little.
Here we are at the conclusion, a thing I do not excel at even in the best of times. I know a lot of people are struggling right now. The physical cold and dark are descending on many of us, and the metaphorical cold and dark are not bound by season and geography. I hope you can get what you need to keep you going, even if that's just someone to yell with you about annoying things.