That morning I felt content as one can sometimes, with very little rhyme or reason. I even embraced the first snow of the season, as it makes December feel official in the northeast. The quietude of snow, a blank white canvas, the untrodden clean whiteness. Outside, a welcome absence of cars, cyclists, bikers, walkers, as they careen down, or chug up the mountain.
I’d leapt (my senior version of leapt) out of bed in the morning having watched a quick recipe video for bagels presented by a perky young woman with a cute upsweep. Charging into the kitchen with purpose, I gathered 2 cups flour, 2 cups Greek yogurt, 2 tsps. baking powder, salt. How could anything that simple be labeled a bagel? It cannot, truly. I was a bit hampered by the maple yogurt I had instead of the usual plain Greek yogurt, but I forged ahead, topping them with sesame, poppy, and everything sprinkles. Bake at 375 for 15-20 minutes. Mine needed 25+ minutes to brown them a bit.
Result? Make Believe Bagels.
Nevertheless, a feeling of accomplishment settled on me as I sat in a slice of sunlight at the counter, eating my make-believe bagel with avocado, and began to read Look Homeward Angel, by Thomas Wolfe. Leastwise I got through the lengthy introduction pages by his publisher Maxwell Perkins. I read how Wolfe believed that “all serious work in fiction is autobiographical.”
I wonder about “What Happened to Harry?” the cozy mystery I wrote, (unpublished to date) since I have never been a sleuth or lived in a converted motel with four friends (though some characters may bear an autobiographical resemblance.)
And I’ve read, and do not fully understand, the scientific facts and excavation of the memory process, how memory is fluid and selective and changes as we age, and our experiences expand. I wonder about Tablecloth Nights, a memoir, in which I recounted many vivid memories about my life. Are we to believe that fiction is often autobiographical, and memoir, inherently autobiographical, could actually be somewhat fictional? Oh my.
I’ll probably stick to writing and not explore the complexities of the mind, though I’ve been painting and not writing in the past six months, what does that say? I paint, I glue, I construct, I make a mess, I have fun. I focus on expression and experimentation and have been lucky for my work to be shown in three galleries recently.
Yet winter, and that quiet feeling, as white and blank and soft as last night’s snow, draws me to the words, the fingers on the keys, the effort to pull thoughts up and juggle them around and come out with a story. Maybe I’ll write more blogs. Maybe I’ll publish some excerpts of ‘Harry’ on this site. Maybe I’ll make more Make Believe Bagels.
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