Yesterday, my bank account showed the final deposit from Kirkus Reviews for the last book review I did. It wasn't much: I'd done only one the past month (as I explained in an earlier post), but I still felt a "twinge" of sorrow and regret. (Some years ago I opted for direct deposit--so no more monthly checks came--but I kind of like the image I "borrowed" from Google.)
As I've said here (see my earlier post on July 4 this year if you want more details),* I began reviewing for them in 1999 when a Hudson friend, Ron Antonucci (who was working at the Hudson Library and Historical Society--and was also reviewing for Kirkus), asked me if I'd be interested. I was.
And now--1563 reviews later, the last check arrived in my bank account.
In ways I am glad the gig's over. I just don't have the energy, the eyesight, the confidence in my body (cursed cancer!) that I did for so many years, and so I'm relieved that I don't have to contact my editor and tell him that I can't complete a review--or that I will have to miss a deadline (which I never did).
Also, there was the building pressure each week as Friday loomed ever near (Friday was the day I filed my reviews, for the most part).
But I miss so much of the rest of it. For Kirkus I read many books that I never otherwise would have read--and, as I've said, I was almost always glad that I had done so. Learned so much. (Too bad I can't remember all of it!)
I've described my routine earlier, so I won't go over that again. Instead, a moment about the identity I've lost by retiring. Yes, for most of my post-teaching life I was that "book-reviewing guy": I reviewed both for Kirkus and the Cleveland Plain Dealer (about once/month for them). Now, I'm just that Old Guy Who's Reading All the Time.
I know: a bit self-absorbed. (Probably more than that! Probably nearing the border of Pathetic.) But as you age, that's what happens. Things do not so much fall apart (though they do do that) as ... go away.
I'm no longer the Teacher, the Play Director, the Essayist (I wrote op-eds for the Plain Dealer for a number of years, too, as part of what they then called their Board of Contributors--again about once/month), the Book Reviewer. If you haven't experienced something like this, it's kind of sad.
I watched it happen to my grandparents, my parents, Joyce's parents. Now it's my turn.
I don't want to sound like Debbie Downer here; it's just something I've been thinking about--and feeling.
There's still so many things I do (besides read books I will never review): I write this blog, I write silly poems for Facebook, I have another blog, Daily Doggerel, which I pollute with ... well, with doggerel. Every now and then I publish direct to Amazon a collection of that "verse." (I'm afraid to remove the quotation marks around "verse"; if you've read some of it, you'll know why!)
So, I can't really complain, can I? No one is guaranteed perpetual Youth and Energy and Health--except, of course, in, oh, Greek Mythology, where things don't always turn out too well--just ask, oh, Tithonus. who asked for eternal life but forgot to include eternal youth!**
* link to July 4 post: http://dawnreader.blogspot.com/2020/07/yesterday-end.html
** link to a summary of the Tithonus story: https://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Mortals/Tithonus/tithonus.html
And I just discovered that Tennyson has a poem about poor Tithonus:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45389/tithonus
No comments:
Post a Comment