fbpx

Guilt, pints…pages!

Sitting in a pub writing. How have I gotten so lucky?

I truly love sitting by myself writing, anywhere is fine. During peak COVID I used to sit out on the sidewalk in a lawn chair with my laptop, intent on making the city my home office. But a laptop isn’t the coolest accessory. If I were at a typewriter, that’d be kick ass. Even better if I smoked while clacking away at the typewriter, each justifies the other. Alas, I don’t smoke.

Meanwhile, sitting in a pub by yourself with a pint is also wonderful. At a bar on my own I’d usually be reading a book, on my phone or half watching a game. Nothing wrong with any of that. It can feel a tad self indulgent though. This it has in common with writing. Surely there is something else I’m supposed to be doing? But combine the pub, a laptop, some half-written fiction, and a pint of Guinness and suddenly you’re Jaymes fucking Joyce! Extra credit if you wear a scarf. Let’s break down this state of bliss and duke it out with the inevitable sense of guilt lurking under the laptop, behind the pint of the black stuff.

Let’s break down this state of bliss and duke it out with the inevitable sense of guilt lurking under the laptop, behind the pint of the black stuff.

When last I wrote to you in early October it was in the wake of my mother dying. Since then, life has been a confusing combination of endless busy work, sudden stabs of despair, and also…happiness, even joy. And then guilt about the happiness and joy. It’s been appointments, account closures, funeral plots, probate requirements, long-deferred father maintenance—lots to do. Mostly it’s mundane busy work: driving to doctor’s offices, making calls, writing checks, throwing away mail. But then come the sucker punches, like discovering a dozen voicemails from my mother on my phone, from when she was calling repeatedly at odd hours in her last months. Christmas was mom’s favorite time of year, so sitting by our tree on Christmas Eve listening to those messages seemed like a good thing to do. No big revelations, but I was glad to hear her voice and have a cry. I know she would have wanted some tears for her on Christmas.

Mom, Dad and Ezra at the Nutcracker, 2014.

But while my to do list is longer and my calendar is more packed, my head is also clearer. Why? I’m worrying less. My mom required a lot of worry. She was a master worrier and naturally inspired worry in others. Now the things I have to do in the wake of her death are real, but they don’t really matter, she’s already gone. My dad, on the other hand, doesn’t worry about much of anything, After all the focus on caring for my mom for so long, he’s genuinely surprised when we do things for him now. So busy, yes, but worrying less.

Am I the only comic book writer at the Athenaeum? Possibly.

All this means that every couple weeks I get to have a writing day. I start at the Boston Athenaeum, a jewel of a library downtown, and write for four hours in the silent room on the top floor. Ethel and I are library junkies, and she puts it best, when we enter the Athenaeum, “my heart feels full.” If I’m there early enough I get table by a big window looking out on the city, hoping for a visit from the red tailed hawk that nests on a neighboring building. There is no talking, no electronic noise, just quiet people doing quiet things. Writing is easy here. By two or so I’m hungry and it’s off to Emmet’s, a classic Irish pub down the street, for a lunch of clam chowder and Guinness, and another hour or two of writing. It’s a little chilly there, so out comes the plaid scarf.

If it’s been a particularly productive day I might finish with an Irish coffee.

On these days, I feel I’m doing what I was meant to do, if but for the small problem of it not generating any income. But that’s okay, if writing were my livelihood it would be far more stressful. While I wish I could have more of these excellent days, I’m grateful I get to have them at all, I know I am lucky. Then the guilt will hit and I have a mini panic, stomach fluttering, until I run a mental check list of who needs me where and when. Then I take a breath and remind myself it’s okay, this is okay. I finish the page, settle up and walk to the bus for home.

Then I take a breath and remind myself it’s okay, this is okay.

At this point you get to ask, so what the hell have you been writing during these days, anyway? Where are my books? Fair question! Despite the ups and downs since September, I’m happy to report good progress on the comic books. I have a solid draft of By the Time I Get to Dallas #5 and Trinity Project #5, and I’m 15 pages into Trinity Project #6, with another nine or so to go. Then I have a skeletal By the Time I Get to Dallas #6 draft that will need a lot of surgery as I finish this story. My hope is to have these four books, the completion of the Dallas/Trinity arcs, to my editor and artists this spring for notes and revisions, with a plan to start art production in June. I’ve checked in with my editor, Claire Napier, and my artists, Ben Worrell (Dallas) and Greg Woronchak (Trinity) and they are on board with this schedule. When the books will be done and in your hands, I’m not going to hazard a guess, but having a plan for getting the rest of the story written and drawn feels like a good start to 2025.

Follow the writing progress here with the Pain Chart.

Colin is an emergency physician in Boston, Massachusetts. The seeds of his comics project were sown when he took a sabbatical from the ER for creative writing. His creative non-fiction has been published in the Journal of the American Medical Association.