The Devil in the Details
Uh oh, she’s awake. - Satan
It took me a minute this morning to adjust my crown and properly roar at the Underworld. Before I even opened my eyes, a terrible thought did a drive-by in my barely conscious brain: What if my career is over?
For professional writers, that question isn’t unreasonable. Instability is the “free gift with purchase” of a life in words, now more than ever with the ubiquity of AI, the decline of print publications, the commodification of advertising agencies, and the rise of a remote workforce that exponentially increases competition. Honorable mention goes to influencer culture for reviving the miserable materialism of the 80s while decimating the attention span needed for reading anything longer than a caption. (If you’re still reading this essay, Darwin approves.)
For a freelance writer and single mom weeks from a milestone half-century birthday, the question of career vitality is a terror straight from hell. When perimenopause menaces fitful sleep and the devil screams financial ruin, what’s a mom to do? She eats a beautiful breakfast. There’s no fighting dark forces on an empty stomach.
Thankfully, my kitchen was ready with nutrition ammunition from the farmers market: omega-rich eggs, smoked jalapeños buried in gut-friendly sourdough, and protein-dense pea microgreens. Topped with a smear of farmer cheese and a sprinkle of spicy pepper flakes, this breakfast was built “for such a time as this.” That’s a quote from the book of Esther, when her main man Mordecai encouraged the queen to risk it all for the greater good. Although my penchant for penny curse words and irreverent sense of humor distance me from Queen Esther’s piety, her do-gooding is familiar. It’s the calling of every selfless mother, isn’t it? And, bear with me here, it can even be the calling of a writer — it is when your career purpose stretches beyond paying bills; when your goal isn’t to leave a financial legacy for your kids but a legacy of giving back; when you see your creative gift as a vessel for meaningful human connection.
Connection. It’s one of life’s tiny miracles, and it’s free. I had a sweet dose of it last weekend with my favorite vendor at the farmers market, a bakery that has mastered the rare art of gluten-free bread that’s more Tigger than Eeyore — bouncy, that is. They also make a mean apple spice cake, which I snatched up post haste given their tendency to sell out before spray-tanned WVU coeds descend upon downtown to feed their hangovers, aka 11 a.m.
As soon as I approached the booth, baker’s daughter erupted in flattery: “Wow, you are glowing this morning!” It took me a minute to absorb considering my current situation, which is not pregnant, intentionally celibate, and hormonally compromised: I returned her “wow” with one of my own, followed by, “that’s so nice.” Really, it was more than nice, not only because it made me feel good about my makeup-free nearly 50-year-old face but also because it was a tiny miracle of connection. I love a woman who compliments other women. That’s the kind of woman I like to befriend and to be.
The other kind of woman I like to be is triumphant. When this morning nearly had me in a panic over my particular state of motherhood and womanhood and writerhood, a hearty farmers market breakfast empowered me to remember who I am.
Not today, Satan. - Every indomitable woman ever