Once More Unto the Breach
Where else do I have to go?
My youngest son and I worked together in a college communication office for a few years. It was not a great environment but we both needed money—he to go to school, me to crawl toward a better retirement fund. If you have ever experienced an incompetent boss then you know what kind of daily havoc my son and I endured. Often, when we were set to an impossibly ridiculous task, one of us would say to the other, “Once more unto the breach.” There wasn’t another soul in the office who knew their Shakespeare, nor why this one line made us laugh and, thus, our situation bearable. Our armor, our secret stab at bravery that set us to the business of battling a topsy-turvy world.
I remember my son’s voice reciting this to me a lot these days. For the last four, going on five, months it’s been an almost impossible struggle to write. No, not write—at this moment I have 17 stories in the draft pile. It’s not that they’re particularly bad, they’re just not good. Some almost made it but in the end proved rudderless. No matter how many hours and days I put in, they crashed without purpose or endings.
Our best friend died. I tell myself this is a time of grief, abiding and deep. But that thought in itself is sorrowful for it leads me to believe that if I was a real writer, a skilled and intelligent writer, I would be able to take this grief and honor him by doing my best work. He was a terrific writer himself and the most skilled editor I ever had. Most of all he was, next to my husband, my most dedicated booster and fearless dining companion.
His wife is my best friend. She once sent me a swell gift basket of spa stuff when I broke my foot and she signed the card “love, Ethel.” I didn’t know it was her so I sent the package back. Then I found out it was from her, playing on our tendency to engage in silly nonsense that would make Lucy and Ethel proud. So now I send her Lucy and Ethel videos and GIFs, hoping she will have a nanosecond of relief from her heartache.
What I’m trying to say is that it has been a hard swim lately—and I’m not even going to get into the world at large. In my own world, all of that is gnats’ whining.
This is not meant as an excuse. Everyday I show up for work. I sit down, put in the hours, get up and do it again. Drafts and drafts and drafts, days and days and days.
Something will break. Give it time.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.”
As a reminder to myself and those who have stopped here today to see if there’s anything worth reading, I give you this. Written when my newsletter was called America Eats!., the story has the virtue of being funny.
No matter if it’s rafting trips, pie making gone awry, a knee issue, the death of a dear friend or writing challenges, you always find nuggets of humor, pathos and life lessons, Pat. I admire your perseverance in pursuing your craft in a “topsy-turvy world.” Seventeen stories is quite a lot—and I know I’d enjoy every one.
I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend. I do think it’s asking too much of yourself to expect that the death of someone we loved would immediately unleash a burst of creativity. Sometimes a great loss leaves you bereft, empty and wordless—or if you do write something about that person, it feels inadequate. I’ve experienced that—and with grief all around us, it feels that little I can put on the page or share with the world is sufficient whether about death or anything else. But just the same, as you and Shakespeare so aptly put it, we must go “Once more unto the breach!”
Grief sneaks up on you. It seems to last forever. But even so, you still write something. I too would be bereft at losing my best friend. And in your case the bonus of a booster. What a guy! I love his Post-its.