"I think I should write a new memoir," I say to Doris. "My first ended when I was 13. I've had a really interesting life since then."
My dog lifts her head, which had been flat on her pillow, but shows no emotion. Then she raises a paw to pat my arm. I take this as a vote to continue chatting.
"Maybe just a book of my essays?" I say.. "I've got more than a hundred that would make a fun book."
This is not a new deliberation. Ever since earlier this year I turned my 2016 memoir, "The Division Street Princess" into an audiobook, I have been nagged by the question: What next?
I pin my stall on carelessness. Somehow I've misplaced my Ambition. I had it somewhere, but now I can't find it.
At first, I blamed its exodus on the pandemic. When we were ordered to stay in, and depart only when necessary, others grumbled. I rejoiced.
With this directive, in lieu of being painted a hermit, I would be anointed wise for following medical directives. And once indoors, with my four-year-old rescue for a companion, as well as hundreds of tempting titles streaming on TV, and the same number of books on my iPad, I spied Ambition sneaking off to parts unknown.
Was she miffed I had so easily replaced her? Did she believe me callous that after so many decades together, I traded her for trite busyness?
Where had she gone?
Then I remembered the toil attached to the four self-published books currently collecting coins in my bank account. Not only was it my own purse that produced those tomes, but also the labor involved in marketing and selling them. Perhaps it was that potential labor that alarmed Ambition?
I was fortunate, though, that my career path included years as a public relations practitioner. My expertise, which included stints as a Press Aide for Chicago Mayor Jane Byrne and School Superintendent Ruth Love, enabled launches at popular independent booksellers. (Those jobs ,with two Ambitious but thwarted women, could they enliven a new memoir?)
Perhaps I could lure Ambition from her hiding place by offering an easier endeavor? "I'll turn my fiction into a memoir," I say to Doris. Her lack of response translates to keep going."
In 2018, I self-published a roman-a-clef. "She's Not the Type." The novel centered on "Ann Robins, a good Jewish girl and married mother of two who finds fulfillment and love in an integrated Chicago community."
What if I unmasked the characters, removed their fake backgrounds, and replaced them with their real identities? Would I have the courage to do that? That memoir could bring sales.
Perhaps it's something else that has forced Ambition into hiding?
Maybe it's my age, 84? Is Ambition simply tired or does she worry I won't have the stamina or lifespan to follow through?
Although I'm blessed with good health, I can't guarantee that an accident or corrupt cells have other plans. Maybe Ambition found a hiding place to await a younger recipient?
Or maybe her disappearance is tied to absence of financial worry? I no longer have to generate income. My successful children have guaranteed I will be housed in a manner I've become accustomed to. They are grateful I am contained in Chicago, in a high rise apartment with all modern conveniences, and do not pester them for extra attention.
Whatever their rationale, my offspring have calmed my fear that I'd be someday living under a bridge. So if that worry is gone, did Ambition depart to find a needier beneficiary?
"What do you think?" I say to Doris, who despite boredom at my blather has inched closer to my hip. I love this brush of fur. Two different spouses, who once occupied her space on my bed, no longer compete. And at this age, with my routine as solidly installed as a bank vault, I doubt there would be a replacement waiting to dislodge my pet.
I continue to stroke my dog while surveying my cozy surroundings. From the corner of my eye, I think I spot Ambition. I can't be sure. She is covered up. Contentment has her nearly concealed.
I could rise, remove her shield and pull her out. But she looks so snug and relaxed that I decide to leave her undisturbed.
"Let's go back to sleep," I tell Doris. She is already there, so I follow.
-