Cathy C. Hall Writes

checklist-composition-handwriting-1226398 There is something special about marking off tasks on my To Do List.

I mean, I’m not dancing in the streets, popping champagne, and wearing a party hat to celebrate, but at the end of the day, I do get a kick out of striking through each done chore. Which is why it often takes me a while to realize that my busyness isn’t necessarily productive.

If I’m being perfectly honest, I can be quite busy and simultaneously lazy. Because I sometimes use busyness to keep from doing the things I oughta. Stuff like getting my hair cut and colored or cleaning up the spilled engine oil in the basement (and how did that engine oil spill, anyway? Or even end up in my basement, dripping down a shelf and into every nook and cranny on its way to the floor?)…I simply don’t have time to deal with those chores when I have bills to pay or an icemaker that’s on the fritz or a book that’s a corkin’ good mystery due in two days.

51EyIzsPEVL._SY346_ (Sidebar: The mystery is Bats in the Belfry, written by E. C. R. Lorac; it’s a London mystery, from the 1930’s, and the dialogue is fascinating and downright obscure. Which explains why I just said “on the fritz” and “corking.” Expressions which may or may not be in the book. But I’ll tell you what is in the book: a confoundedly twisted mystery that, with just a few chapters left, I still have not figured out. What the deuce?)

But there’s another kind of busy that I’m occasionally afflicted with and that’s the kind that keeps me distracted when I don’t want to deal with something…like when I hired the workers to rebuild the deck, fix the basement hole-in-the-wall, and put wood floors in Mister Man’s office–all within a couple months after the man died.

And now, I’m exceedingly busy (see above re: bills, icemaker, and mystery) and I’m thinking that possibly, just possibly, I’m trying to distract myself from dealing with my writing malaise.

Well, you can read all about it over at The Muffin in The Busy Trap. Because I suspect that I’m not the only writer who goes through something like this every once in a while. And I also suspect that once I figure it out–and that blasted jolly good mystery isn’t keeping me awake at night!–I’ll find my way to whatever I decide is next and then I’ll be busy writing.

Oh! And then I’ll have “writing” to mark off on my To Do List. I’ll probably fit in a couple more tasks to mark off, too, because one really needs a handful of chores if one is going to get that giddy feeling of accomplishment. But I am not cleaning up that engine oil.

A view from my desk at the beach. Not that I work, just showing you the view.

So when I head to the beach, it’s quite the ordeal. That’s probably why I need so many naps once I get there… Anyway, the point is, preparing to leave one house for another for weeks at a time is a whole thing for me. It’s worth it, but still. A whole big thing:

I have to remember to hold the mail and cancel the paper. (Yes, I have to cancel it because the AJC will hold the paper but I am still charged for the paper. Back in the day, my account was credited when the paper was held. And it just goes against everything I believe in–well, almost everything–to pay for a paper that I’m not reading. So I cancel the paper and wait until I’m home for good and then start the paper again. Yes, it’s a lot of trouble to go to for twenty-three bucks but it’s the principle, y’all.)

I have to pack up my entire summer wardrobe even though I wear the same shorts and t-shirts for most of the time. I always think I’ll have to attend a sudden formal soiree or that a rogue snowstorm will hit the coast and what if I don’t have my jeans, sweaters, and long-sleeved shirts, not to mention my good black dress and my fancy high-heeled shoes? (I don’t bring my boots to the beach; that would be ridiculous.)

And don’t get me started on the food and such that I pack. Because despite the fact that there is a grocery store literally three blocks from me and a Publix (just like I have here) only a few miles down the Tybee road, I MUST BRING GROCERIES FROM HOME.

That last one I’ll admit is kinda crazy. But what is not crazy is that I hide all the Really Important Stuff in my house that I don’t bring to the beach just in case bad men (or women, let’s be fair here) break into my home and abscond with the family jewels (I feel I should mention here, just in case any of these scofflaws have read this far, that the family jewels aren’t much. We’re not even sure if they’re genuine. And when I say “they” I really mean just the one. Which is probably fake.).

Anyway, one year, I hid my Really Important Flashdrive and I still haven’t found it. So now, I had the brilliant idea to write myself notes–in code, of course–on my calendar to tell me where I’ve hidden stuff. Except this year, by the time I returned, all rested and oh-so-refreshed, I’d forgotten I’d hidden my Really Important Stuff or that I’d written helpful little notes to remind me where I’d hidden stuff. So every time I looked at my calendar and saw a particularly weird and cryptic note, I wondered what in the world it possibly meant.

And then I needed my checkbook (which is, after all, Really Important Stuff) and you can probably see where this is going. I COULD NOT FIND MY CHECKBOOK. At some point, it occurred to me that I’d hidden the checkbook but WHERE? WHERE? WHERE? If only I’d had sense enough to leave a trail of bread crumbs to my checkbook!

After tearing up the house, I finally found the checkbook. Exactly where I’d carefully hidden it. And then I happened to glance over at the calendar where the weirdly cryptic note suddenly made perfect sense.

I’m not sure where I hid my extra laptop and there are no more cryptic notes. I feel like when I go to hide the next Really Important Thing in my house, there will be the laptop, covered in dust, wondering where I’ve been. In the meantime, it’s back to writing for me and you can read the latest over at the Muffin in “What’s the Big Idea?”

(Just FYI, it has nothing to do with the particular bright idea I had to write myself coded notes; it’s a whole different idea. But it’s the same old lesson when it comes to pride.)