Angela Amman

stories of choices and consequences

Musings

books or kindle or phones or…

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As I was writing my book review yesterday, I almost went on a tangent about how I’d read the book. I didn’t, because I called it a mini book review and still kept rambling. Still, I wanted to talk about it, because it’s something I struggle with and not in an existential way.

I used to only read books in their physical form. I like the way they feel, the ability to slide back up and over sentences from earlier on the page, the weight of the remaining pages in my right hand balanced out by the read pages in my left. At one point I tried audiobooks, possibly while training for some sort of race I could never run anymore. I didn’t have the patience to train my brain to actually listen to the story. It became background noise, and I would have to stop and restart so many times I gave up on that type of reading.

The concept of a Kindle didn’t appeal, until I realized it literally changed the way I could read while traveling. I didn’t have to rush to finish something before we left or decide between books to pack or leave a book behind because my bag got too heavy. I loved the idea that I could have more than enough books queued up for an entire vacation. I’m an overpacked and want options for my clothes, and a Kindle meant I could have them for my books, too.

I still read paper books most of the time, though I went through phases of Kindle worship, when there were so many unread books on it, and it was so easy to carry, that I rarely left home without it. All of that use, though, means it’s not working as well as it used to. Sometimes it won’t charge. Other times it seems like it should be charged, and it won’t turn on.

These are not actual problems in life, and I’m getting better about not hyper focusing on those, especially since my Kindle is…aged, and I don’t want to budget for one right now.

Consequently, I started reading on my phone. Like so many people, I have a hard time separating myself from the social media scroll, and I thought having my books in my already occupied hand would help me use my time in better ways. In some ways, it has made a difference. My Kindle was working for part of my recent trip to Boston, and then it wasn’t, so I finished The Waters on my phone.

The covers look better (I have a Paperwhite, so everything is black and white and gray), but the screen does tire my eyes in a way the Kindle doesn’t. Also, and this is what led to my almost-tangent yesterday and this musing of a post today, I didn’t get the normal feeling of being “finished” with the book when I was, indeed, finished. I didn’t immediately click on Instagram or check texts, but I did eventually pick up my phone and do something on it that wasn’t reading. With a book, I set it aside, the cover reminding me of what I liked or didn’t like and that I really, truly should add it to my reading log so I don’t forget to do that. Even with my Kindle, the device is only used for reading, so when I’m done, I let it go. My phone, we all know, doesn’t truly get let go.

I’m not really sure what I meant to accomplish by thinking so much about these different ways of consuming the words I’m reading. I do know it’s part of the reason I bought a bigger purse for the summer, now that I’m not using my work bag frequently. I like having a book with me, a paper one whose pages I can turn and sometimes write on if we’re talking about something I own. A Kindle is an acceptable substitute, but I’m not sure my phone is. I mean, I’m going on read on it again. Sometimes it’s the only option I have.

I’m glad, though, that I have a big purse.

drafting

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Writing partner demonstrating how we both feel

I began drafting a new short story the other day. Like all beginnings, it felt exciting. I opened Scrivener, opened a relaxing playlist, and began working. Prior to starting, I made a few notes on an index card (hot pink), and I truly meant to pound out a great amount of words between then and now.

I haven’t.

I did draft that day, and I might have a character or two, though I’m not sure about names and definitely don’t feel all that attached to anyone right now, and whose idea was it to draft a Christmas story in the midst of a Midwestern heat wave? (It was my idea. And honestly? I should have started this project well before any heatwave could have even thought about happening.)

My writing brain might be broken.

It’s a tough thing to admit, when I used to have ideas tumbling over ideas in my head, some of them even scribbled on note cards or in notebooks or in draft folders that fester away in the depths of my Dropbox files. I see it here, where my thoughts are in tiny spurts instead of actual paragraphs. I see it in my journal, where most days I can only muster up the energy and concentration to write a gratitude list. I see it here (again), as I open up my blog instead of the new project folder I started for my Christmas short.

My writing brain might be broken, but my writing muscles definitely are. I don’t remember how to shut off my thoughts and listen to the whispers of characters and, maybe more importantly for the type of writer I am, the flow and rhythm of the words I want to use. Even when I do put together words, they sound choppy and stilted, bullet points masquerading as sentences, dialogue never overheard during an eavesdropped conversation, exposition upon exposition instead of action.

Guilt creeps in if I even think about sitting and staring out the window, if I try to relax my mind enough to hear what’s going on inside. This is the first time I’ve attempted to write since Ryan began working from home. Not to sound icky, but some of the guilt comes from the feeling that he might judge how unproductive a lot of writing actually looks. In the past, it’s been maybe invisible to him, and now it feels bare and exposed, especially since I am so out of practice and so unsure of how the words are even going to make it from the ether to my mind to the page.

I don’t remember it feeling so hard in the past, though I’m sure it did, the way I don’t remember the hardest edges of having little kids around the house. I don’t remember the way I fought exhaustion after a restless night of sleep and a refusal of naps; I remember the fun of refilling the bottomless Diet Coke at the zoo and letting the kids pick more animals to see as we wandered around. Similarly, I don’t remember the drafting process for the stories I’ve written. I remember the back and forth banter of working with Cam and Mandy, the process of determining cover images and front matter quotations.

Now it’s time to build up those unremembered muscles again, to pull the words out from somewhere, even as they hide away in the shadows. I know it’s possible. I’m just not sure how to get started. (OK, I AM aware of how to do it; it’s just easier to ponder existence here instead of sitting down and getting to work.)

unsettled

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I had to look back to see if I’d titled another post “unsettled” in the last few weeks, because this feeling somehow feels a bit unshakable right now. I’m done with work, but I still go in periodically. It’s summer (and sunny, exactly at this moment) but definitely not warm enough to feel like summer. The kids are out, but we haven’t adjusted to our summer schedules yet — and things change next week when Ab goes to Boston, anyway.

It’s a surreal time of year, when we’re sidestepping unemptied backpacks to get to recital bags and spending so much money on “just one more thing” from a list or another meal outside the home, because we’re all rushing in different directions. I love new beginnings, and the end (and beginning) of the school year always feel like that, but they’re stressful, too.

What are we forgetting? Are we remembering to take a break and enjoy the celebrations happening all around us? Did we write thank you cards? I did change and wash the sheets this week, right?

There’s a lot going on.

I think it might be more annoying for Ryan than anyone, since his schedule remains the same, and we’re basically bringing a bizarre combination of chaos, bursts of productivity, and moments of ennui into his normally calm working environment. He is kind, always, and says he doesn’t mind, but I feel like he might be trying not to add to the feeling of unsettled chaos. I know it would bother me.

I’m making lists and not getting them finished to satisfaction. I’m eating things I know hurt my stomach, and I’m regretting it after. I still have flowers in the garage I have to plant somewhere, though I’m not sure where, and we all know my gardening skills are abysmal.

Random activities ensure the days feel untethered to anything like reality. Today, for instance, I’ve been to the shower, the orthodontist’s office, and a Brandy Melville store that felt too small and was farther away than I remember Ann Arbor being — and the day isn’t done yet.

Still. I’m waking most mornings to the cat’s meow instead of an alarm, though I sometimes set an alarm as backup because the cat is nothing if not complicated. I’ll settle into the new normal — probably just in time for the back to school sales to begin.

a lesson from a lazy Sunday…

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…that will likely teach me nothing.

This past Sunday I didn’t do much. I went to a soccer game. I read and watched a (truly odd) movie by myself from my favorite corner of the couch. I only got about five thousand steps, and I only know that because I opened my app to look right before typing this sentence. We ordered Chipotle for dinner, and got the worst versions of our orders, which ended up being so funny I didn’t even care very much.

I did do some laundry. Even lazy days require laundry.

I felt guilty about it at different points during the day. Maybe it was after waking up from a nap, but I’m not sure I took one of those. I probably did. Seriously. It was one of the laziest days I’ve had in a long time. The guilt came from both having things I needed to do and having things I wanted to do and wasn’t doing.

At one point, I noted that I should write about it, but I’m not sure exactly what direction the original note meant for me to take with this little post. I’m not sure, because I’m sitting down to write this, not on Monday, but on Friday, a day much closer to this Sunday than the past Sunday. The week, as they sometimes do, got away from me in regards to having too many things I wanted to accomplish in too few free hours.

I vaguely remember wanting to write about the guilt but also the healing nature of spending a day doing frivolous things, and I also vaguely remember feeling a little sad that frivolous doesn’t mean indulgent right now but just resting. Then it took me days to write it, and the flash of insight left, leaving only a smudge of insight on my brain.

What I should learn is a lazy day shouldn’t induce guilty, especially when surrounded by not-at-all-lazy days, days spent moving and chatting with friends and worrying and celebrating and finally wearing sunglasses because of actual sun and not just my overly-sensitive eyes. Everyone deserves recharging.

The truth is, I likely won’t learn that lesson. I will be more likely to feel the guilt creep in the next time I take a lazy Sunday, but I’d like to think I’ll learn it eventually.

coming home

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Our bed and our cat make coming home appealing, though honestly there’s something wrong with my pillow and my neck hasn’t felt right in weeks. Still, most nights I sleep better in our bed than I do in hotels.

We spent a wonderful week back in Orange Beach, a place we originally visited in 2022 after several missed chances during the previous years. The weather was lovely several of the days and crazy windy one of them, so much so I couldn’t stop thinking about the scene in The Devil Wears Prada when Miranda Priestly demands to leave Miami in the midst of a hurricane. (Orange Beach was NOT a hurricane. No rain, just wind making palm trees blow sideways, though at home the trees were covered in snow, so I’ll take blowing palm trees any day.) We went with friends this time, making logistics more complicated when it came to driving places but also a different kind of fun when we sat around with cocktails and had people with us who like playing euchre.

Still, we were all ready to see the cat (maybe not Ryan as much as the rest of us), so much so that we ended up doing the drive straight through for the second time in a week. I say I hate it, and I do, but I also loved being home all day on Sunday instead of counting down hours in the car. Our laundry isn’t all the way done (almost but not quite), and my grocery shopping lacked conviction but maybe will get us through until Friday.

I miss vacation already. Laughter and the warmth of both sunshine and being around people that make us laugh — and make our kids laugh. I miss the lavender gin cocktail that banished my hatred of gin and fresh seafood and the ability to eat pizza at random hours, even though it makes my stomach hurt.

Perhaps vacations wouldn’t feel so good without the promise of home lurking on the other side, but I definitely miss this one already.

up too late

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The other night I did something I don’t like to do, because I always regret it. I did the day’s Wordle as the clock slipped past 12:30 a.m. instead of waiting until the morning. Unlike the Solitaire game I sometimes play when I’m a little bored and don’t want to fall into a book, you only get one Wordle puzzle each day. Every once in a while, I succumb to opening it just after midnight. The next morning, I miss having my Wordle time to ease myself into the day.

Staying up too late is one of those habits I want to break until it’s time to break it. My eyes can be drifting closed from 4:00 p.m. until 6:00 p.m., but once I hit 7:00 or later, my energy revives itself. I find it hard to go to bed before the kids do, and there are times they aren’t even home from activities until after 9:30 or 10:00.

I read or do some journalling or, yes, play around on my computer or phone, even though I know the light isn’t doing anything to help me feel more tired. Some nights I do laundry. I always calculate how many hours of sleep I’ll get, cringing when I realize it’s going to be another difficult morning when my alarms starts chiming next to my head.

And yes, every once in a great while, I do the Wordle.