As the editor of a community newspaper, my job occasionally involves taking photos, so early one recent morning I drove to a building not far from my house to take photos for an article about a Montessori school.
The lighting inside the school was pleasantly dim and the children unusually calm, a result of the natural lighting, the director explained.
I’m the mother of a 20-year-old, so it had been a while since I’d been around children so young, in this case, infants through age six. All around me, cute, curly-haired kids, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes, were reading books and wielding pretend hammers.
Stocking footed, I stepped into a classroom where I stooped low to take a photo of one youngster sucking her thumb while sitting in her teacher’s lap.
In a few minutes I had all the photos I needed, including some that I would never run but that reminded of how cute kids can be, with their tossled hair, runny noses and bare rumps.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sleeping with Poe
“Now that’s a room!” my daughter Holly said as she walked into the Edgar Allan Poe room with its stuffed raven perched on the bureau and the pendulum-like scythe hanging over the brocade-covered bed. With its dark woodwork and red-velvet drapes, the hotel room looked like a scene out of “The Pit and the Pendulum” with a bit of “The Raven” thrown in.
Holly and I had come to the Sylvia Beach Hotel with its author-themed rooms for a mother-daughter vacation on the Oregon Coast.
“E. B. White is booked, but Jane Austen is available,” the reservation clerk told me when I called to book my room. E. B. White was my first choice. I’ve been a fan of White’s ever since I was a grad student and came across a collection of his humorous essays in a used-book store just off the University of Oregon campus.
But, as the clerk said, E. B. White was booked; and I’d already booked Poe for Holly, so when I found out the Austen room sat next door to the Poe room, I booked Jane for myself. That room included a small writing desk, stuffed chair, double bed with flowered bedspread and lace curtains.
Holly and I arrived in the small town of Newport in the middle of the afternoon. After parking in the nearby lot, we walked across the cobble-stoned street to the green, three-story, shingled hotel with its white picket fence and small garden.
The minute I stepped inside the pleasantly ramshackle hotel, I immediately felt at home. Unpretentious to the extreme, Sylvia Beach boasts uneven floors, wobbly lamps and two resident cats but no elevator, which meant Holly and I had to haul our suitcases to the third floor, where we checked out the cozy library with its fireplace and comfortable chairs.
Before dinner that night, we wandered up and down the halls, peeking into the unoccupied rooms. Holly got a kick out of the whimsical Dr. Seuss room, while I found myself wanting to move into the Emily Dickinson room, a spacious corner room set in the back.
That evening, Holly and I joined several of the other guests in the dining room to eat, visit and play a game called Two Truths and a Lie, in which everyone is asked to come up with two true stories and one untrue one about themselves. The trick was to try to fool everyone else.
I said I’d been to Denmark (true), had worked as a medical technologist (true) and had shot a moose (not true). Holly said she and her dad once got stuck in some sand while driving in the John Day Fossil Beds (true); knew how to play the violin, piano and guitar (true); and was valedictorian of her high-school class (close, but no cigar).
Holly and I had come to the Sylvia Beach Hotel with its author-themed rooms for a mother-daughter vacation on the Oregon Coast.
“E. B. White is booked, but Jane Austen is available,” the reservation clerk told me when I called to book my room. E. B. White was my first choice. I’ve been a fan of White’s ever since I was a grad student and came across a collection of his humorous essays in a used-book store just off the University of Oregon campus.
But, as the clerk said, E. B. White was booked; and I’d already booked Poe for Holly, so when I found out the Austen room sat next door to the Poe room, I booked Jane for myself. That room included a small writing desk, stuffed chair, double bed with flowered bedspread and lace curtains.
Holly and I arrived in the small town of Newport in the middle of the afternoon. After parking in the nearby lot, we walked across the cobble-stoned street to the green, three-story, shingled hotel with its white picket fence and small garden.
The minute I stepped inside the pleasantly ramshackle hotel, I immediately felt at home. Unpretentious to the extreme, Sylvia Beach boasts uneven floors, wobbly lamps and two resident cats but no elevator, which meant Holly and I had to haul our suitcases to the third floor, where we checked out the cozy library with its fireplace and comfortable chairs.
Before dinner that night, we wandered up and down the halls, peeking into the unoccupied rooms. Holly got a kick out of the whimsical Dr. Seuss room, while I found myself wanting to move into the Emily Dickinson room, a spacious corner room set in the back.
That evening, Holly and I joined several of the other guests in the dining room to eat, visit and play a game called Two Truths and a Lie, in which everyone is asked to come up with two true stories and one untrue one about themselves. The trick was to try to fool everyone else.
I said I’d been to Denmark (true), had worked as a medical technologist (true) and had shot a moose (not true). Holly said she and her dad once got stuck in some sand while driving in the John Day Fossil Beds (true); knew how to play the violin, piano and guitar (true); and was valedictorian of her high-school class (close, but no cigar).
Neither Holly nor I fooled anyone, unlike the other guests, including a woman who said she once met Johnny Wisemiller―the actor who played Tarzan―and got his signature (true), hosted her own TV advice show (true) and played guard on a basketball team that won the state playoffs (not true).
Goody, the friendly owner of the hotel, told us several stories about herself, including one about a man she once knew who asked her to pretend to be his fiancé because he’d told his dying grandmother he was getting married (true); and another one about how, to surprise a friend on her 50th birthday, Goody stole the friend’s address book and used it to contact 50 men whom she asked to stop by the friend’s house and give her a kiss (true – 47 of the men showed up, including the woman’s Volvo repairman).
At the Sylvia Beach Hotel, I learned that night, telling stories is a highly valued form of entertainment.
Over the next couple of days, Holly and I met several of the other guests, including a freelance writer from San Francisco and a woman on sabbatical who’d come to the hotel to write.
During our stay, we did venture out long enough to visit the Yaquina Bay Lighthouse and check out the Old Bayfront Bazaar with its seashell jewelry boxes, seashell coasters and seashell coin purses. We even stopped by the Pirate’s Cove shopping area where we took pictures of ourselves standing in front of the pirate statues before having lunch (shrimp stew and clam chowder) and walking along the bay with is smelly crab nets and barking seals.
But it was inside the hotel, with its reading lamps, used books and photos of everyone from Kurt Vonnegut to W. B. Yeats, that we really relaxed.
On our last evening, Holly and I stayed up late playing the board game Balderdash (in you have to come up with word definitions) before adjourning to my room where we stretched out on the bed to read together. Holly flipped through pages of Cosmo Girl while I enjoyed a biography of Jane Austen, a copy of which I found in the room.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Experiencing the comfort of trees
“You’re permeable to your surroundings,” a neighbor of mine once said after I told her how difficult it was for me to work in a busy newspaper office, with dozens of people around me, the phone ringing, and the police scanner announcing the next house fire or traffic accident.
That job was short-lived. I now work by myself.
My whole self is influenced by where I am. When I’m in the city, everything, my thoughts and feelings, my writing, how I interact with the world, are, to a certain degree, shaped by the sharp edges of the buildings and severe angles of the streets.
In contrast, when I’m in the country, I become softer, rounder, more sensual, more organic and complex. When surrounded by nature, my writing projects seem to begin and end more naturally, reflecting the gently sloping hills and waving trees.
In some ways, if I’m not in the country, I don’t feel like I’m really me. It’s there that I relax and open up, become less intellectual, more spiritual and reconnect with whatever it is that I lose sight of in the city.
Which explains why, every so often, armed with a cup of coffee, I play hooky and head out of town, to experience the comforting presence of trees. While there, driving this way and that down the curving roads, it feels as if the trees are brushing the air and me clean, as if, like green filters, they’re scrubbing away all that’s unnecessary and not me.
There’s something about the strong, silent presence of trees that makes me feel like I don’t have to be doing anything. Sure-footed and undemanding, trees provide a strong consistency. Their branches have a muffling effect on sounds and my thoughts, setting me above my concept of myself; their overhead canopy feels soothing.
Reaching high while digging deep, trees solve so much with their calm presence, as they march up the side of a hill, anchor the edge of a field or just stand there skirted by thick undergrowth.
Deep rooted and stalwart, they encompass me with their arms and bless me with their indifference to life’s successes and failures. “Everything is all right,” they seem to be saying, while swaying in life’s breeze.
That job was short-lived. I now work by myself.
My whole self is influenced by where I am. When I’m in the city, everything, my thoughts and feelings, my writing, how I interact with the world, are, to a certain degree, shaped by the sharp edges of the buildings and severe angles of the streets.
In contrast, when I’m in the country, I become softer, rounder, more sensual, more organic and complex. When surrounded by nature, my writing projects seem to begin and end more naturally, reflecting the gently sloping hills and waving trees.
In some ways, if I’m not in the country, I don’t feel like I’m really me. It’s there that I relax and open up, become less intellectual, more spiritual and reconnect with whatever it is that I lose sight of in the city.
Which explains why, every so often, armed with a cup of coffee, I play hooky and head out of town, to experience the comforting presence of trees. While there, driving this way and that down the curving roads, it feels as if the trees are brushing the air and me clean, as if, like green filters, they’re scrubbing away all that’s unnecessary and not me.
There’s something about the strong, silent presence of trees that makes me feel like I don’t have to be doing anything. Sure-footed and undemanding, trees provide a strong consistency. Their branches have a muffling effect on sounds and my thoughts, setting me above my concept of myself; their overhead canopy feels soothing.
Reaching high while digging deep, trees solve so much with their calm presence, as they march up the side of a hill, anchor the edge of a field or just stand there skirted by thick undergrowth.
Deep rooted and stalwart, they encompass me with their arms and bless me with their indifference to life’s successes and failures. “Everything is all right,” they seem to be saying, while swaying in life’s breeze.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Redhead
A few weeks ago, I went to Oregon Home magazine’s 10-year anniversary party.
“I thought you’d have red hair!” Sheila, the editor, said upon seeing me for the first time.
Until that moment, although I’d been writing for Sheila for several years, we’d never actually met.
“Wait. Let me get used to your face,” she said while forming a frame with her hands.
I’d seen photos of Sheila in the magazine, so had some idea of what to expect although, in person, she is even more attractive, more exotic looking. She also has a calming presence, a result, perhaps, of having to herd a lot of freelance writers, including me.
“I wasn’t expecting brunette,” she shouted over the sound of a man singing Jimmy Buffett songs and the chatter of the other partiers.
The odd thing was, until two days prior, I had been a redhead. Then, in one of those oh-what-the-heck moods, I had my hair stylist apply a heavy dose of dark hair color onto my locks. In addition to being an editor, could Sheila also be psychic?
Of all my editors, Sheila is one of my favorites. At the party she not only acknowledged I wrote for other publications before encouraging me to “Keep sending ME your good essays,” but she also made sure I got something to eat and asked if I’d found a writer’s getaway cabin. (No, not yet.) After talking with me for several minutes, she let me go with a “Well, no doubt you’re tired,” a response to an earlier email of mine in which I said I might not make the party because, depending on how the work day went, I sometimes turned into a pumpkin by 7 p.m.
As I headed out of the noisy party room and into the dark night, making my way down a rain-glistened city sidewalk to my car, for the first time I realized something that, in the flurry of making a living, I sometimes forget ― that, in addition to being a coworker, an editor can also be a friend.
“I thought you’d have red hair!” Sheila, the editor, said upon seeing me for the first time.
Until that moment, although I’d been writing for Sheila for several years, we’d never actually met.
“Wait. Let me get used to your face,” she said while forming a frame with her hands.
I’d seen photos of Sheila in the magazine, so had some idea of what to expect although, in person, she is even more attractive, more exotic looking. She also has a calming presence, a result, perhaps, of having to herd a lot of freelance writers, including me.
“I wasn’t expecting brunette,” she shouted over the sound of a man singing Jimmy Buffett songs and the chatter of the other partiers.
The odd thing was, until two days prior, I had been a redhead. Then, in one of those oh-what-the-heck moods, I had my hair stylist apply a heavy dose of dark hair color onto my locks. In addition to being an editor, could Sheila also be psychic?
Of all my editors, Sheila is one of my favorites. At the party she not only acknowledged I wrote for other publications before encouraging me to “Keep sending ME your good essays,” but she also made sure I got something to eat and asked if I’d found a writer’s getaway cabin. (No, not yet.) After talking with me for several minutes, she let me go with a “Well, no doubt you’re tired,” a response to an earlier email of mine in which I said I might not make the party because, depending on how the work day went, I sometimes turned into a pumpkin by 7 p.m.
As I headed out of the noisy party room and into the dark night, making my way down a rain-glistened city sidewalk to my car, for the first time I realized something that, in the flurry of making a living, I sometimes forget ― that, in addition to being a coworker, an editor can also be a friend.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Forced Entry
People keep breaking into the office building where I rent a small room in which to write. Once, they broke through the front door and took the landlord’s bank bag, which didn't contain any money but did contain the keys to the rest of the building, including the door to my office. I immediately called my husband Dave to discuss the costs, advantages and idiocy of installing a deadbolt on my office door. Then I called my insurance agent because I don't have a therapist. I did have one, had a naturopath, too ─ as much as anyone can actually have a naturopath ─ and a family doctor who had a habit of giving me quick advice after complaining to me about her ex.
But the day of the latest break-in, I called my insurance agent to find out how much it would cost to insure my office equipment in case someone broke in and took everything.
"About $100 a year," he told me, "but first you'd have to put together an itemized list of all your stuff."
That list would include the bookshelf that's bolted to the wall and the desk Dave made me that weighs a ton. Even if the thieves were strong I don't think they could take that. So that left the cheap paper holder and wobbly desk lamp, the one I cut myself on while getting it out of the box.
I considered doing all of this but didn’t, in spite of the fact that three days after the break-in, I came to work to find graffiti splattered all over the building. John the landlord and I wondered what it meant. To me, the graffiti looked like a foreign language, intriguing and mysterious, like those marks hobos used to put on fence posts to tell fellow travelers if the woman of the house was generous or likely to chase them away with a broom. I wondered if the front of my office building had been marked "Easy Target. Come on in. Lots of Good Stuff Inside."
John is a rather timid man considering how big he is. He never evicts a tenant, no matter how obnoxious they are. More than once, he's had renters rip the place apart. Once, the sign over his wife's downstairs hair salon was plastered with paint. One Christmas Eve, vandals smashed the plate-glass window in the front of the salon, leaving nothing between the white-haired women sitting under the hair dryers and the all outdoors.
Another time, someone broke in by throwing a rock through the high bathroom window before climbing inside, breaking the sink and toilet and leaving a piece of finger on the jagged edge of the window glass.
And then there was the time someone broke through the back door and kicked down the wall into Joe's jewelry shop before setting off the alarm and high-tailing it out of there. And the time someone got inside and rummaged around in the basement. That time, they didn't break down the basement door but used the key hanging beside it instead, for which John was grateful.
One day, I was sitting in my office when John knocked on the door.
"If your eyes start to water," he said, "get out. It's mace. Joe's safe is the old kind that, if a burglar breaks into, they get sprayed with mace. It got them. They dropped all their tools and didn't get any jewelry."
They did break some lights, though, and a mirror in the salon before making off with a roll of pennies and the Kiwanis mints.
Later that same day, John showed me the office next door to mine. I was thinking of renting it to use as a classroom. Until recently, a middle-aged woman had worked there selling baby portraits over the phone. She'd moved out because the power substation across the street kept messing with her pacemaker. Anyway, there were still baby pictures stapled all over the walls, water stains on the ceiling, unpainted sills and an old, gray rug.
"We're going to have to wash down the walls," John told me. What with the break-in, it had been quite a day.
"Go home, have a beer," I told him.
"Can't," he said. "Gave up beer and cigarettes."
He gave up cigarettes, he told me, by chewing nicotine gum. After giving up drinking, his liver had gone down in size, and his enzymes had returned to normal.
"I don't miss the beer," he told me, "but I sure do miss those cigarettes. I dream about them. I dream I take a puff on the first half and then flick off the ash and then inhale the second half and put it out in an ashtray. But I don't have an ashtray beside my bed. The wife and I both quit. Two months later, she had surgery for lung cancer due to cigarette smoking. They removed the lower lobe of one lung. Boy, that's one way to make sure you don't start up again, to see someone lying there in the hospital with tubes running out of them. Everyday they would come in with a pair of pliers and run it down the tube. The wife said it felt like they were pulling her insides out. But she still says if they tell her she has six months to live, she's going to go out and buy a carton of cigarettes and smoke them up before she goes to bed. We miss cigarettes."
With that, John waved goodbye and then headed back down the stairs.
But the day of the latest break-in, I called my insurance agent to find out how much it would cost to insure my office equipment in case someone broke in and took everything.
"About $100 a year," he told me, "but first you'd have to put together an itemized list of all your stuff."
That list would include the bookshelf that's bolted to the wall and the desk Dave made me that weighs a ton. Even if the thieves were strong I don't think they could take that. So that left the cheap paper holder and wobbly desk lamp, the one I cut myself on while getting it out of the box.
I considered doing all of this but didn’t, in spite of the fact that three days after the break-in, I came to work to find graffiti splattered all over the building. John the landlord and I wondered what it meant. To me, the graffiti looked like a foreign language, intriguing and mysterious, like those marks hobos used to put on fence posts to tell fellow travelers if the woman of the house was generous or likely to chase them away with a broom. I wondered if the front of my office building had been marked "Easy Target. Come on in. Lots of Good Stuff Inside."
John is a rather timid man considering how big he is. He never evicts a tenant, no matter how obnoxious they are. More than once, he's had renters rip the place apart. Once, the sign over his wife's downstairs hair salon was plastered with paint. One Christmas Eve, vandals smashed the plate-glass window in the front of the salon, leaving nothing between the white-haired women sitting under the hair dryers and the all outdoors.
Another time, someone broke in by throwing a rock through the high bathroom window before climbing inside, breaking the sink and toilet and leaving a piece of finger on the jagged edge of the window glass.
And then there was the time someone broke through the back door and kicked down the wall into Joe's jewelry shop before setting off the alarm and high-tailing it out of there. And the time someone got inside and rummaged around in the basement. That time, they didn't break down the basement door but used the key hanging beside it instead, for which John was grateful.
One day, I was sitting in my office when John knocked on the door.
"If your eyes start to water," he said, "get out. It's mace. Joe's safe is the old kind that, if a burglar breaks into, they get sprayed with mace. It got them. They dropped all their tools and didn't get any jewelry."
They did break some lights, though, and a mirror in the salon before making off with a roll of pennies and the Kiwanis mints.
Later that same day, John showed me the office next door to mine. I was thinking of renting it to use as a classroom. Until recently, a middle-aged woman had worked there selling baby portraits over the phone. She'd moved out because the power substation across the street kept messing with her pacemaker. Anyway, there were still baby pictures stapled all over the walls, water stains on the ceiling, unpainted sills and an old, gray rug.
"We're going to have to wash down the walls," John told me. What with the break-in, it had been quite a day.
"Go home, have a beer," I told him.
"Can't," he said. "Gave up beer and cigarettes."
He gave up cigarettes, he told me, by chewing nicotine gum. After giving up drinking, his liver had gone down in size, and his enzymes had returned to normal.
"I don't miss the beer," he told me, "but I sure do miss those cigarettes. I dream about them. I dream I take a puff on the first half and then flick off the ash and then inhale the second half and put it out in an ashtray. But I don't have an ashtray beside my bed. The wife and I both quit. Two months later, she had surgery for lung cancer due to cigarette smoking. They removed the lower lobe of one lung. Boy, that's one way to make sure you don't start up again, to see someone lying there in the hospital with tubes running out of them. Everyday they would come in with a pair of pliers and run it down the tube. The wife said it felt like they were pulling her insides out. But she still says if they tell her she has six months to live, she's going to go out and buy a carton of cigarettes and smoke them up before she goes to bed. We miss cigarettes."
With that, John waved goodbye and then headed back down the stairs.
Friday, July 11, 2008
The Relaxing Presence of Horses
I’m so proud of my daughter. Holly knows how to ride a horse. This is amazing to me. I know nothing about horses. I’ve sat on a horse maybe twice in my whole life and both times I found myself thinking Boy, this baby is huge. Now might be a good time to get off.
In contrast, Holly can not only sit on a horse but groom and ride one. I know because earlier this week I drove out to the Bridlewood riding stables where she’s taking horseback riding lessons through Mt. Hood Community College.
As I got in my car, leaving Portland behind me, I felt myself physically and mentally slow down, as the grid-like streets gave way to country roads, twisting and turning their way to the stables, which sat in a small valley in the woods outside of town.
After parking my car under a row of trees, I got out and walked into the dimly lit barn, where the soft sounds of people talking were muffled by the hay covering the worn floorboards.
The barn was rich with the scent of horse and life. Three or four dogs wandered about. I breathed in the smell of leather, listened to the soft swish of someone sweeping out a horse stall, from the deep interior of which came the sound of shifting hoofs.
I relaxed, welcomed the break from the intellectual demands of work, as the low afternoon sun threw deep slants of light into the shadowy barn.
I looked around me, at the thick horse blankets and deeply tooled, leather saddles, at the animals’ coarsely veined stomachs, the ropes and leashes and long-haired dogs. I watched as the students coaxed their horses out of their stalls, brushed them and saddled them up.
In the riding arena, I stood to one side as Holly and the other students rode their horses (named Abby and Lucky and Dusty) in lazy circles around the inside of the barn while the instructor, a soft-spoken man with a slight limp, stood in the center and offered suggestions: “Heels down. Toes up.” The students, sitting relaxed in their saddles, gently urged their steeds forward, when they weren’t clicking to back them up.
Life seemed so organic, the pace so slow, as if life had no pace at all. I felt a welcome sense of relief, from writing and work and the city, as all around me, the horses gently snickered and shook their manes, their black eyelashes half covering their dark eyes.
In contrast, Holly can not only sit on a horse but groom and ride one. I know because earlier this week I drove out to the Bridlewood riding stables where she’s taking horseback riding lessons through Mt. Hood Community College.
As I got in my car, leaving Portland behind me, I felt myself physically and mentally slow down, as the grid-like streets gave way to country roads, twisting and turning their way to the stables, which sat in a small valley in the woods outside of town.
After parking my car under a row of trees, I got out and walked into the dimly lit barn, where the soft sounds of people talking were muffled by the hay covering the worn floorboards.
The barn was rich with the scent of horse and life. Three or four dogs wandered about. I breathed in the smell of leather, listened to the soft swish of someone sweeping out a horse stall, from the deep interior of which came the sound of shifting hoofs.
I relaxed, welcomed the break from the intellectual demands of work, as the low afternoon sun threw deep slants of light into the shadowy barn.
I looked around me, at the thick horse blankets and deeply tooled, leather saddles, at the animals’ coarsely veined stomachs, the ropes and leashes and long-haired dogs. I watched as the students coaxed their horses out of their stalls, brushed them and saddled them up.
In the riding arena, I stood to one side as Holly and the other students rode their horses (named Abby and Lucky and Dusty) in lazy circles around the inside of the barn while the instructor, a soft-spoken man with a slight limp, stood in the center and offered suggestions: “Heels down. Toes up.” The students, sitting relaxed in their saddles, gently urged their steeds forward, when they weren’t clicking to back them up.
Life seemed so organic, the pace so slow, as if life had no pace at all. I felt a welcome sense of relief, from writing and work and the city, as all around me, the horses gently snickered and shook their manes, their black eyelashes half covering their dark eyes.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Tearing Down Fences
My daughter is grown now, but during the days and months right after her birth, life was a bit of a jumble.
The small workroom in the back corner of my home where I’d used to write, read and occasionally nap now had to serve as a nursery as well, for a new baby had moved in our house.
I could no longer draw neat lines around who I was or what I did, for my infant daughter Holly, like a free-spirited gardener, had torn down the fences between the fields of my life. As a result, the rabbits were nibbling at the lettuce, and the cows were having a field day in the flower beds.
Tell-tale signs of the days-old gardener cropped up everywhere – baby blankets threatened to topple from the bookshelf, diapers sat next to a book on how to make a living as a writer, and a button-eyed Teddy bear peered down on the sleeping infant. On my desk, a night lamp in the shape of a hobby horse threatened to run circles around my computer, while behind me on the doorknob hung a frilly, doll-size dress.
The wonderful confusion began simply enough on the cold, clear January day Dave and I brought Holly home from the hospital where she was born. It was Dave who did the honors. Not knowing any better, he simply picked the bundled babe out of her car seat and carried her up the steps and into the house, transporting her through the kitchen and down the hall and not stopping until he reached the back room where he laid her down in the borrowed bassinet.
There was no hint, in the neatness and quickness of the act, of the wonderful chaos that would follow. Dave soon learned the importance of tiptoeing around the sleeping baby and her short-tempered mom, while I learned to write at odd moments on bits of scrap paper, used envelopes and note pads left by the furnace man.
Though Dave made a valiant effort to contain some of the confusion by building yet another set of shelves, I soon learned that making room in your life for a child means not just re-arranging the furniture but re-organizing one's priorities as well. I was left with a life in which the garden rows were not as neat, one in which the distinction between what was inside the garden and what was out was less clear, but one in which, when all was said and done, the crop would be more rich, more complete.
The small workroom in the back corner of my home where I’d used to write, read and occasionally nap now had to serve as a nursery as well, for a new baby had moved in our house.
I could no longer draw neat lines around who I was or what I did, for my infant daughter Holly, like a free-spirited gardener, had torn down the fences between the fields of my life. As a result, the rabbits were nibbling at the lettuce, and the cows were having a field day in the flower beds.
Tell-tale signs of the days-old gardener cropped up everywhere – baby blankets threatened to topple from the bookshelf, diapers sat next to a book on how to make a living as a writer, and a button-eyed Teddy bear peered down on the sleeping infant. On my desk, a night lamp in the shape of a hobby horse threatened to run circles around my computer, while behind me on the doorknob hung a frilly, doll-size dress.
The wonderful confusion began simply enough on the cold, clear January day Dave and I brought Holly home from the hospital where she was born. It was Dave who did the honors. Not knowing any better, he simply picked the bundled babe out of her car seat and carried her up the steps and into the house, transporting her through the kitchen and down the hall and not stopping until he reached the back room where he laid her down in the borrowed bassinet.
There was no hint, in the neatness and quickness of the act, of the wonderful chaos that would follow. Dave soon learned the importance of tiptoeing around the sleeping baby and her short-tempered mom, while I learned to write at odd moments on bits of scrap paper, used envelopes and note pads left by the furnace man.
Though Dave made a valiant effort to contain some of the confusion by building yet another set of shelves, I soon learned that making room in your life for a child means not just re-arranging the furniture but re-organizing one's priorities as well. I was left with a life in which the garden rows were not as neat, one in which the distinction between what was inside the garden and what was out was less clear, but one in which, when all was said and done, the crop would be more rich, more complete.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
A Famous Writer Comes to Town
Such long fingers he has, I thought, upon seeing Garrison Keillor for the first time. I'd come to the First Congregational Church in downtown Portland to hear the writer speak. Even from my seat high in the second balcony I could see that Keillor was a man who liked red socks and had a tendency to go too long between haircuts. These traits, combined with his glasses, gave him a sort of elongated Stephen King look.
I also noticed something that made my heart sink. When he walked onto the stage, Keillor carried with him a copy of his new novel. I was disappointed to see this because I was tired of paying $12.50 for a lecture ticket only to have the speaker read from a book that I could just as well read from the comfort of my own bed.
But a few minutes into Keillor's speech I realized he'd also known disappointment. Perhaps that explained why, before breaking out his book, he buttered us up with several minutes of funny stories. Keillor is a skilled speaker with a soft, deep voice and a studied stammer that almost makes you believe he just now thought of what he's going to say next. For a few minutes I even forgot where I was and imagined myself sitting in a farmhouse across the kitchen table from Keillor, swapping stories over glasses of buttermilk.
Keillor's performance was nostalgic, sad and silly. The sappy parts particularly endeared him to me, for I consider it an act of courage for a grown man, especially a tall grown man, to act goofy.
Several of his sentences burned deep: He described his hometown of Anoka, Minnesota, as a town where "at least twice a year nature tries to kill you." Life, he said, is "a continual conflict between loyalty and curiosity." And a storyteller is "someone who feels more comfortable with his relatives at a distance." His monologue went on to include a sing-a-long and more than one dirty limerick, by which time Keillor had me in the palm of his large, long-fingered hand.
After the reading, everyone was invited downstairs to meet the author. I hoped I might have enough nerve to go up and talk with him but that did not prove to be the case. I did spend some minutes hanging around the water fountain, pretending I was getting a drink when in fact I was watching the writer from a safe distance, which was when I noticed his shoes ─ black with thick rubber soles and somewhat scuffed. I imagined Keillor walking the sidewalks of New York City in those sensible shoes. Perhaps he even wore them into the offices of the New Yorker. Like Keillor, I come from a small town where people buy shoes because they fit, not because they look good, so when I saw Keillor's shoes I knew we had something in common, which, when I thought about it, was all I'd hoped for that night. I did not go home disappointed.
I also noticed something that made my heart sink. When he walked onto the stage, Keillor carried with him a copy of his new novel. I was disappointed to see this because I was tired of paying $12.50 for a lecture ticket only to have the speaker read from a book that I could just as well read from the comfort of my own bed.
But a few minutes into Keillor's speech I realized he'd also known disappointment. Perhaps that explained why, before breaking out his book, he buttered us up with several minutes of funny stories. Keillor is a skilled speaker with a soft, deep voice and a studied stammer that almost makes you believe he just now thought of what he's going to say next. For a few minutes I even forgot where I was and imagined myself sitting in a farmhouse across the kitchen table from Keillor, swapping stories over glasses of buttermilk.
Keillor's performance was nostalgic, sad and silly. The sappy parts particularly endeared him to me, for I consider it an act of courage for a grown man, especially a tall grown man, to act goofy.
Several of his sentences burned deep: He described his hometown of Anoka, Minnesota, as a town where "at least twice a year nature tries to kill you." Life, he said, is "a continual conflict between loyalty and curiosity." And a storyteller is "someone who feels more comfortable with his relatives at a distance." His monologue went on to include a sing-a-long and more than one dirty limerick, by which time Keillor had me in the palm of his large, long-fingered hand.
After the reading, everyone was invited downstairs to meet the author. I hoped I might have enough nerve to go up and talk with him but that did not prove to be the case. I did spend some minutes hanging around the water fountain, pretending I was getting a drink when in fact I was watching the writer from a safe distance, which was when I noticed his shoes ─ black with thick rubber soles and somewhat scuffed. I imagined Keillor walking the sidewalks of New York City in those sensible shoes. Perhaps he even wore them into the offices of the New Yorker. Like Keillor, I come from a small town where people buy shoes because they fit, not because they look good, so when I saw Keillor's shoes I knew we had something in common, which, when I thought about it, was all I'd hoped for that night. I did not go home disappointed.
Name Recognition
The summer sun felt warm on my back as I stepped into the dim lobby of the hotel. Inside, the air was cool, even overly air-conditioned, and heavy with the scent of desperation, which only made sense. I was at a writers' conference.
I'd signed up for the conference to, among other things, avoid writing but had only been there a few minutes when I spotted the familiar face of a rich and famous local author. Even in the low light I could tell it was her. Rumor had it she'd made enough money from selling her books to buy a tile-roofed house on the coast.
"May I help you?" the volunteer sitting behind the registration table asked her.
"I came to pick up my packet," the successful author replied.
"And what is your name?" the volunteer asked.
What is her name? I thought. Doesn't that registrar know who she's talking to? The woman standing before her was nothing less than the conference calling card. That very night, in fact, at a $25-a-plate dinner, she was going to be presented with the We Wish We Were You Award.
"I was just thinking there might be a packet or some tickets for me here," the famous writer said softly.
And I immediately felt a little better, to see that even a successful writer can go unrecognized when doing something as simple as requesting a laminated name tag.
I'd signed up for the conference to, among other things, avoid writing but had only been there a few minutes when I spotted the familiar face of a rich and famous local author. Even in the low light I could tell it was her. Rumor had it she'd made enough money from selling her books to buy a tile-roofed house on the coast.
"May I help you?" the volunteer sitting behind the registration table asked her.
"I came to pick up my packet," the successful author replied.
"And what is your name?" the volunteer asked.
What is her name? I thought. Doesn't that registrar know who she's talking to? The woman standing before her was nothing less than the conference calling card. That very night, in fact, at a $25-a-plate dinner, she was going to be presented with the We Wish We Were You Award.
"I was just thinking there might be a packet or some tickets for me here," the famous writer said softly.
And I immediately felt a little better, to see that even a successful writer can go unrecognized when doing something as simple as requesting a laminated name tag.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Swimming in Ideas
One of the best ways to guarantee I’ll get a great writing idea is to distance myself from paper and pen.
A lot of my ideas for essays and articles come to me while I’m swimming in the Northeast Community Center pool, where I do laps.
I no sooner don my swimsuit, cap and goggles and dip into the pool than I’m bombarded with the last lines of essays and opening lines for poems.
It’s as if the minute my mind is distracted from writing, writing ideas come pouring in. Maybe it’s because my mind, temporarily emptied, now has more room. Maybe it’s that repetitious activities open up parts of my mind that are otherwise closed. (I also get ideas while knitting, walking and driving. Watch out – I’m the one swerving down the interstate while jotting down an idea at the same time.)
Whatever the reason, it’s immersion in water that, for me, has the most consistently creative results. Taking a shower, for instance, works wonders. While standing in the warm water, covered in soapsuds, I often find ideas streaming down on my head.
Maybe it’s because, in some ways, writing is like being surrounded by water. To some degree, writing means being intentionally submerged. When I sit down to write, I’m immersing myself into thoughts and feelings, staying with them as long as I can, before slowly surfacing with the results.
A lot of my ideas for essays and articles come to me while I’m swimming in the Northeast Community Center pool, where I do laps.
I no sooner don my swimsuit, cap and goggles and dip into the pool than I’m bombarded with the last lines of essays and opening lines for poems.
It’s as if the minute my mind is distracted from writing, writing ideas come pouring in. Maybe it’s because my mind, temporarily emptied, now has more room. Maybe it’s that repetitious activities open up parts of my mind that are otherwise closed. (I also get ideas while knitting, walking and driving. Watch out – I’m the one swerving down the interstate while jotting down an idea at the same time.)
Whatever the reason, it’s immersion in water that, for me, has the most consistently creative results. Taking a shower, for instance, works wonders. While standing in the warm water, covered in soapsuds, I often find ideas streaming down on my head.
Maybe it’s because, in some ways, writing is like being surrounded by water. To some degree, writing means being intentionally submerged. When I sit down to write, I’m immersing myself into thoughts and feelings, staying with them as long as I can, before slowly surfacing with the results.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Word Length
“How long is the article supposed to be?” Janet asked. “650 words? 700?”
It was a sunny Wednesday afternoon, and Janet (a freelancer writer working on an article for a publication I edit) and I were standing in the middle of a quiet street in Northeast Portland.
Behind me, bearded blue iris bloomed in the front yard of the house we’d just left, where Janet had interviewed the homeowner, a local artist, while I took a few photos. We were outside now and returning to our cars.
“I trust your judgment,” I said, while brushing orange cat hairs off my shirt (hairs shed by the artist’s friendly 15-pound English tabby named Eddie).
Before driving off, Janet told me what a journalism professor once told her about how long an article should be:
“Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be of interest.”
It was a sunny Wednesday afternoon, and Janet (a freelancer writer working on an article for a publication I edit) and I were standing in the middle of a quiet street in Northeast Portland.
Behind me, bearded blue iris bloomed in the front yard of the house we’d just left, where Janet had interviewed the homeowner, a local artist, while I took a few photos. We were outside now and returning to our cars.
“I trust your judgment,” I said, while brushing orange cat hairs off my shirt (hairs shed by the artist’s friendly 15-pound English tabby named Eddie).
Before driving off, Janet told me what a journalism professor once told her about how long an article should be:
“Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be of interest.”
Monday, June 9, 2008
Trying to Lighten Up
Several months ago, I took a writing-for-the-radio class. During one session, I practiced recording “Lighten Up Already,” an essay I’d written about how I think people should lighten up.
The recording didn’t go well. The reason? I was finding it difficult to lighten up and be funny because the whole time I was speaking into the microphone, the instructor’s Labradoodle (a dark-haired Labrador/poodle mix) was running around the small room, chewing on a squeaky dog toy and, every so often, humping me and the other two students, who included a Jewish woman who’d written a piece about what it felt like to have a Christmas tree during the holiday season and a woman who’d written about her trip to Southeast Asia.
“What’s the matter? You sound angry,” the instructor kept asking me, as I tried a second recording and then a third. “Try to come across as flabbergasted and vulnerable,” the teacher insisted, as her large, untrained mutt continued to run and hump and squeak.
The recording didn’t go well. The reason? I was finding it difficult to lighten up and be funny because the whole time I was speaking into the microphone, the instructor’s Labradoodle (a dark-haired Labrador/poodle mix) was running around the small room, chewing on a squeaky dog toy and, every so often, humping me and the other two students, who included a Jewish woman who’d written a piece about what it felt like to have a Christmas tree during the holiday season and a woman who’d written about her trip to Southeast Asia.
“What’s the matter? You sound angry,” the instructor kept asking me, as I tried a second recording and then a third. “Try to come across as flabbergasted and vulnerable,” the teacher insisted, as her large, untrained mutt continued to run and hump and squeak.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Interviewing Myself
"I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write.” – P.G. Wodehouse
Some days, like Wodehouse, all I want to do is write. I don’t want to leave my office, drive anywhere, interview anyone or write one more article based on someone else’s expertise.
Unfortunately, being a freelance writer frequently requires me to do just that, to interview people, in person and on the phone. Some days though, like today, after having finished three interviews, all I want to do is spend some time by myself.
In many ways, interviewing can be exhausting. For one thing, it requires me to be in a hyper state of alertness, paying close attention to everything that is said and not said. Like a ventriloquist, I have to throw myself at the source. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. Unlike a ventriloquist, instead of throwing my voice into a dummy, I have to throw my brain into someone else’s head.
As the interviewer, it’s my job to set myself aside and, often within the space of just a few minutes, figure out the source’s entire life story, or at least as much of it as is relevant to the article. In some ways, I have to become an instant expert on the person and the person’s field, which isn’t possible, of course, but when you’re a freelance writer on deadline, you do the best you can.
Interviews can be particularly trying if the source is difficult (second-guessing my questions, forcing me to bow down before what I can only describe as their self-appointed importance, insinuating I’m ignorant for not already knowing the answers to my questions when, not once, do I expect them to know how to write). And don’t get me started on sources who mumble or go on and on about the general corruptness and ineptness of all forms of media, (including but not limited to newspapers, magazines, radio and TV) while insinuating they could do a much better job and asking me to clean up their grammar and not use the best quotes.
On the other hand, some interviews can be enjoyable, even fun. The source is relaxed and forthcoming. The topic is interesting but not technically overwhelming. But even then, after the interview itself is completed, there’s the tediousness of filling in my notes and listening and re-listening to the audio recording (if there is one), to figure out if the fast-talking source said she did or didn’t like to plant roses in her garden.
And we haven’t even started writing the article yet.
Which is why, every so often, on a day like today, I take some time to write something that doesn’t require an interview, unless you count the interview with myself, which only took a few minutes. To matters even better, not once during the entire encounter did I insult my intelligence, tell myself how to do my own job or get off the track. At no point did I have to repeat myself because I talked too fast or was I forced to tread on thin ice for fear of offending myself. Unlike a lot of sources I won’t mention, I didn’t hold the interview on a cell phone while driving through a tunnel, expect me to talk over the sound of my dog barking in the background or demand to see the copy ahead of time to make sure every word made me look unnaturally smart.
Some days, like Wodehouse, all I want to do is write. I don’t want to leave my office, drive anywhere, interview anyone or write one more article based on someone else’s expertise.
Unfortunately, being a freelance writer frequently requires me to do just that, to interview people, in person and on the phone. Some days though, like today, after having finished three interviews, all I want to do is spend some time by myself.
In many ways, interviewing can be exhausting. For one thing, it requires me to be in a hyper state of alertness, paying close attention to everything that is said and not said. Like a ventriloquist, I have to throw myself at the source. Not literally, of course, but figuratively. Unlike a ventriloquist, instead of throwing my voice into a dummy, I have to throw my brain into someone else’s head.
As the interviewer, it’s my job to set myself aside and, often within the space of just a few minutes, figure out the source’s entire life story, or at least as much of it as is relevant to the article. In some ways, I have to become an instant expert on the person and the person’s field, which isn’t possible, of course, but when you’re a freelance writer on deadline, you do the best you can.
Interviews can be particularly trying if the source is difficult (second-guessing my questions, forcing me to bow down before what I can only describe as their self-appointed importance, insinuating I’m ignorant for not already knowing the answers to my questions when, not once, do I expect them to know how to write). And don’t get me started on sources who mumble or go on and on about the general corruptness and ineptness of all forms of media, (including but not limited to newspapers, magazines, radio and TV) while insinuating they could do a much better job and asking me to clean up their grammar and not use the best quotes.
On the other hand, some interviews can be enjoyable, even fun. The source is relaxed and forthcoming. The topic is interesting but not technically overwhelming. But even then, after the interview itself is completed, there’s the tediousness of filling in my notes and listening and re-listening to the audio recording (if there is one), to figure out if the fast-talking source said she did or didn’t like to plant roses in her garden.
And we haven’t even started writing the article yet.
Which is why, every so often, on a day like today, I take some time to write something that doesn’t require an interview, unless you count the interview with myself, which only took a few minutes. To matters even better, not once during the entire encounter did I insult my intelligence, tell myself how to do my own job or get off the track. At no point did I have to repeat myself because I talked too fast or was I forced to tread on thin ice for fear of offending myself. Unlike a lot of sources I won’t mention, I didn’t hold the interview on a cell phone while driving through a tunnel, expect me to talk over the sound of my dog barking in the background or demand to see the copy ahead of time to make sure every word made me look unnaturally smart.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Friday, May 9, 2008
Feeling the Need to Fondle Books
Every so often, I feel the need to fondle books, to run my hands over their slip covers, pat their pulpy pages and caress their naked spines until they relax and open up, revealing their innermost thoughts and feelings.
I love how books, when properly attended, release their characters and plots, offering experiences I may never have, each paperback or hardcover a new lover giving up untold mysteries, occasional torture, sexual innuendo, explicit description, in exchange for my undivided attention.
When it comes to books, we all have our favorites, from self-help to spiritual, gothic to horror, with the occasional action-packed adventure thrown in. New books, with their virginal covers and pristine pages have their own followers. Me, I prefer used books, some of them sorely abused, ripped and torn apart, covered with the sweat of previous owners. Who were they? Did they hesitate over the same pages? Did they read out loud? Silently? Alone or with someone else? After paying with cash, I bundle them home, to decipher the words and the stains – coffee? chocolate? Or something more?
Entering one bookstore aisle after another, I seek out romance, search for the hottest bestseller, the latest diet book on how to lose weight by eating, hover over the poor, forgotten remainders, like cheap hookers sold by the pound or box.
New and used, large and small, hard-covered and soft, they reach out, teasing me with covers that entice, promises to deliver. I flip through their pages, breathe in the scent of ink and paper, while glancing sideways at fellow book lovers, especially the ones hanging out in the Tantric Sex section.
Then it’s on to the next bookstore, in search of more passion. Before stepping inside, I stop, run my eyes over the shiny selections displayed in the front window, then place my hand on the smooth door handle, turn and push, take a deep breath before stepping in.
I love how books, when properly attended, release their characters and plots, offering experiences I may never have, each paperback or hardcover a new lover giving up untold mysteries, occasional torture, sexual innuendo, explicit description, in exchange for my undivided attention.
When it comes to books, we all have our favorites, from self-help to spiritual, gothic to horror, with the occasional action-packed adventure thrown in. New books, with their virginal covers and pristine pages have their own followers. Me, I prefer used books, some of them sorely abused, ripped and torn apart, covered with the sweat of previous owners. Who were they? Did they hesitate over the same pages? Did they read out loud? Silently? Alone or with someone else? After paying with cash, I bundle them home, to decipher the words and the stains – coffee? chocolate? Or something more?
Entering one bookstore aisle after another, I seek out romance, search for the hottest bestseller, the latest diet book on how to lose weight by eating, hover over the poor, forgotten remainders, like cheap hookers sold by the pound or box.
New and used, large and small, hard-covered and soft, they reach out, teasing me with covers that entice, promises to deliver. I flip through their pages, breathe in the scent of ink and paper, while glancing sideways at fellow book lovers, especially the ones hanging out in the Tantric Sex section.
Then it’s on to the next bookstore, in search of more passion. Before stepping inside, I stop, run my eyes over the shiny selections displayed in the front window, then place my hand on the smooth door handle, turn and push, take a deep breath before stepping in.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
A blog about blogging
It took me a while to start blogging. The form seemed so different from everything I’d learned as a traditional print journalist that I was hesitant to begin. To test the digital waters, I took a few possible blog entries to my writing group to ask if they thought the items could be used as blogs.
I hadn’t even finished handing out the copies when Shanna, one of the group members, turned toward me from where she sat at the other end of the sofa and said, “They aren’t blogs.”
“They aren’t?” I asked, feeling defeated before I’d even begun.
“No,” she said, laughing. “They’re printed out.”
“Oh, right,” I said while smiling weakly and feeling like the technophobe I was.
Later, after the group finished reading my writings, Shanna assured me that the items could be used as blogs, which made me feel good, because Shanna is a digital diva with her own blog, so she knows what she’s talking about.
“They are?!” I asked with a smile on my face and feeling bloggin’ proud of myself.
I hadn’t even finished handing out the copies when Shanna, one of the group members, turned toward me from where she sat at the other end of the sofa and said, “They aren’t blogs.”
“They aren’t?” I asked, feeling defeated before I’d even begun.
“No,” she said, laughing. “They’re printed out.”
“Oh, right,” I said while smiling weakly and feeling like the technophobe I was.
Later, after the group finished reading my writings, Shanna assured me that the items could be used as blogs, which made me feel good, because Shanna is a digital diva with her own blog, so she knows what she’s talking about.
“They are?!” I asked with a smile on my face and feeling bloggin’ proud of myself.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Almost Fifteen Minutes of Fame
My fame as a writer was short lived. In fact, it lasted less than two minutes, the time it took me to read my essay inside a noisy coffee house in Southeast Portland. The espresso machine hissed steam into the air, drowning out most of my talk. Every few seconds another customer would burst through the door, bringing with her the roar of car engines, blast of air brakes and squeal of city buses.
I was just one of several writers who read that evening. An eclectic group, we were united by the fact that our essays had just been published in the same anthology. Other than us, only a few people showed up that night; and I have a feeling most of them were there for the coffee. Still, it was a real reading and we were in print. Afterwards, a woman came up and asked me for my autograph, which I gave her. The evening may have been the peak of my career, the fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Warhol was talking about. Well, in my case, ninety seconds.
I was just one of several writers who read that evening. An eclectic group, we were united by the fact that our essays had just been published in the same anthology. Other than us, only a few people showed up that night; and I have a feeling most of them were there for the coffee. Still, it was a real reading and we were in print. Afterwards, a woman came up and asked me for my autograph, which I gave her. The evening may have been the peak of my career, the fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Warhol was talking about. Well, in my case, ninety seconds.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Real Virtual Friends
One way to find out who your real friends are is to have a computer problem and then see who sticks by you.
I’m working out of my home office today, using my laptop, because the desktop in my regular office is on the fritz. For whatever reason, it started sending out multiple copies of each email I sent. I had no idea it was happening until my email recipients started emailing me back.
“How strange,” Don emailed me. “Your message came to my Inbox 66 times!”
I’m “coming to your house to give you a noogie,” Sheila, one my editors, wrote back. “Got this four more times. It is, however, making me laugh!!”
I wanted to apologize but couldn’t, at least not by email from my desktop. It would only have generated more multiple copies. So that night at home, I emailed everyone I remembered having sent emails to, to say how sorry I was for having blitzed them with messages. I was all too familiar with what it felt like to be bombarded by email offering everything from replica watches to cheap meds.
My emailed friends, to my surprise, stuck by me, wrote back that they understood.
“Not a problem,” Don wrote. “I'm just glad it's your computer and not mine! God love technology.”
“No worries,” an editor replied. “Who knows, maybe you'll get a good essay out of it!”
“The Quill Pen!!” a fellow writer wrote back. “I say, the Quill Pen Age Shall Return!! The Spawn of Hal shall be overthrown! I don't know why any of these machines work the way they do, but I still have a Rolodex, just in case the electricity goes out but the phones still work. And I keep my quill pen and notepad nearby. Have a good weekend!”
Still, I felt horrible knowing that I’d showered everyone with multiple copies of messages they may not have wanted one copy of.
Since then, I’ve made an appointment to get my computer repaired. Until the problem is solved, I’ll continue to work out of my home office, where I gingerly send out emails and hope each recipient receives only one.
I’m working out of my home office today, using my laptop, because the desktop in my regular office is on the fritz. For whatever reason, it started sending out multiple copies of each email I sent. I had no idea it was happening until my email recipients started emailing me back.
“How strange,” Don emailed me. “Your message came to my Inbox 66 times!”
I’m “coming to your house to give you a noogie,” Sheila, one my editors, wrote back. “Got this four more times. It is, however, making me laugh!!”
I wanted to apologize but couldn’t, at least not by email from my desktop. It would only have generated more multiple copies. So that night at home, I emailed everyone I remembered having sent emails to, to say how sorry I was for having blitzed them with messages. I was all too familiar with what it felt like to be bombarded by email offering everything from replica watches to cheap meds.
My emailed friends, to my surprise, stuck by me, wrote back that they understood.
“Not a problem,” Don wrote. “I'm just glad it's your computer and not mine! God love technology.”
“No worries,” an editor replied. “Who knows, maybe you'll get a good essay out of it!”
“The Quill Pen!!” a fellow writer wrote back. “I say, the Quill Pen Age Shall Return!! The Spawn of Hal shall be overthrown! I don't know why any of these machines work the way they do, but I still have a Rolodex, just in case the electricity goes out but the phones still work. And I keep my quill pen and notepad nearby. Have a good weekend!”
Still, I felt horrible knowing that I’d showered everyone with multiple copies of messages they may not have wanted one copy of.
Since then, I’ve made an appointment to get my computer repaired. Until the problem is solved, I’ll continue to work out of my home office, where I gingerly send out emails and hope each recipient receives only one.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Problem With Positive Thinking
For some time I'd known that the only thing standing between me and my finished book was a quiet place in which to write. And for just as long, I'd known there was no better place to write than in a cabin, preferably a cabin set deep in the woods. A cabin just like Sarah's.
My friend Sarah lived in a tiny house under tall fir. She was planning a month-long trip to Belize and needed someone to cabin-sit, so she invited me to her place to take a look. She offered me a seat next to the woodstove and handed me a cup of hot coffee. By the time she'd pointed out the nearby ski trails and the desk where I could work, I knew this was The Place. I could see it clearly: a whole month ahead of me with nothing to do but write. Only in passing did Sarah mention her cats.
"Petula, the shy one, never comes out of the bedroom," Sarah said. "And Leo takes care of himself." When I looked concerned, Sarah patted me on the back. "Don't worry," she said. "Relax. Take it easy. Write."
So Sarah left for Central America and I moved into the cabin with my sleeping bag, papers and pens. And for the first five minutes, everything was fine. Then I made the mistake of sitting down. Without warning, Leo attacked, landing on my neck.
"Yeeeow!" I screamed, before knocking him to the ground. Once again, with claws bared, Leo leapt for my jugular. Once again I screamed and threw him off. It soon became clear that if I was going to get any writing done, I would have to do it standing up.
Meanwhile, the first chance she got, Petula bolted out the front door. Great, I thought. The cat Sarah had described as agoraphobic was now loose in the wild.
"Petula!" I called from the front porch, but got no response, unless you count the two huge dogs that loped up about then. I clapped my hands to scare them off, but they retreated only as far as the edge of the property where they stood their ground, staring and sniffing. They looked hungry. Did they smell cat?
The days and weeks passed. Every morning I vacuumed up the two-inch-thick blanket of Leo's hair that covered the living room. Every day I replenished his food dish and water bowl and scooped out the litter box, which filled at an alarming rate and emitted a disconcerting smell. The few times I did sit down to write, Leo pounced on my head, quickly clearing it of any literary thoughts.
Every day it rained. Every day Petula failed to come back. When I looked out the windows, all I saw were the dripping trees and the two dogs, circling. I spent my time thinking up ways to tell Sarah that Petula was dead.
Sarah finally returned, relaxed and full of stories about Mayan ruins. And since Sarah was home, Petula came back, acting like nothing had happened. I thanked them all and packed up my things, swearing never again to leave home in order to write.
Then one day I heard from Michelle, a friend who lived in an old farm house in the woods. Michelle was going to Alaska for four months and needed someone to house-sit. She invited me to her place where she offered me a seat at the kitchen table and handed me a glass of white wine. By the time she'd pointed out the quiet and seclusion and the glassed-in studio out back, I knew this was The Place.
"I wouldn't be responsible for any pets, would I?" I asked.
"Don't worry," Michelle said. "I'm sure I can farm out the dog, which means all you'd have to do is make sure the cattle gate is kept closed."
Cattle?! That word might’ve been a red flag to anyone else, but not to me. I was too busy looking ahead to a summer spent in a quiet cabin deep in the woods. A cabin where I could finally write that book.
(First published in Oregon Home magazine)
My friend Sarah lived in a tiny house under tall fir. She was planning a month-long trip to Belize and needed someone to cabin-sit, so she invited me to her place to take a look. She offered me a seat next to the woodstove and handed me a cup of hot coffee. By the time she'd pointed out the nearby ski trails and the desk where I could work, I knew this was The Place. I could see it clearly: a whole month ahead of me with nothing to do but write. Only in passing did Sarah mention her cats.
"Petula, the shy one, never comes out of the bedroom," Sarah said. "And Leo takes care of himself." When I looked concerned, Sarah patted me on the back. "Don't worry," she said. "Relax. Take it easy. Write."
So Sarah left for Central America and I moved into the cabin with my sleeping bag, papers and pens. And for the first five minutes, everything was fine. Then I made the mistake of sitting down. Without warning, Leo attacked, landing on my neck.
"Yeeeow!" I screamed, before knocking him to the ground. Once again, with claws bared, Leo leapt for my jugular. Once again I screamed and threw him off. It soon became clear that if I was going to get any writing done, I would have to do it standing up.
Meanwhile, the first chance she got, Petula bolted out the front door. Great, I thought. The cat Sarah had described as agoraphobic was now loose in the wild.
"Petula!" I called from the front porch, but got no response, unless you count the two huge dogs that loped up about then. I clapped my hands to scare them off, but they retreated only as far as the edge of the property where they stood their ground, staring and sniffing. They looked hungry. Did they smell cat?
The days and weeks passed. Every morning I vacuumed up the two-inch-thick blanket of Leo's hair that covered the living room. Every day I replenished his food dish and water bowl and scooped out the litter box, which filled at an alarming rate and emitted a disconcerting smell. The few times I did sit down to write, Leo pounced on my head, quickly clearing it of any literary thoughts.
Every day it rained. Every day Petula failed to come back. When I looked out the windows, all I saw were the dripping trees and the two dogs, circling. I spent my time thinking up ways to tell Sarah that Petula was dead.
Sarah finally returned, relaxed and full of stories about Mayan ruins. And since Sarah was home, Petula came back, acting like nothing had happened. I thanked them all and packed up my things, swearing never again to leave home in order to write.
Then one day I heard from Michelle, a friend who lived in an old farm house in the woods. Michelle was going to Alaska for four months and needed someone to house-sit. She invited me to her place where she offered me a seat at the kitchen table and handed me a glass of white wine. By the time she'd pointed out the quiet and seclusion and the glassed-in studio out back, I knew this was The Place.
"I wouldn't be responsible for any pets, would I?" I asked.
"Don't worry," Michelle said. "I'm sure I can farm out the dog, which means all you'd have to do is make sure the cattle gate is kept closed."
Cattle?! That word might’ve been a red flag to anyone else, but not to me. I was too busy looking ahead to a summer spent in a quiet cabin deep in the woods. A cabin where I could finally write that book.
(First published in Oregon Home magazine)
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Chicken Poop
Being a writer sometimes means learning things I would just as soon not know.
Take the other day, for instance. The phone interview started out innocently enough. The source, a nice-enough, raising-chickens-in-the-city expert we’ll call Dan, was telling me that chickens are divided into two broad categories — Standard (normal size) and Bantam (small) — and then further broken down according to human-oriented purposes: egg layers, meat, dual purpose (egg layers who also taste good) and ornamental.
Leghorns, Dan told me, are known for being good egg producers. Araucanas, the “Easter egg chicken,” lay blue and green eggs. Frying Pan Special, Barbecue Special and Cornish Roster make good eating. Black Australorp is dual purpose. Partridge Cochin, with its featured feet, is considered good looking.
Bantams, Dan said, tend to be gentle and make good pets, but “can be outright liars.” All chickens are vulnerable to raccoons and stray dogs.
Sometimes, Dan continued, “people get into chickens without contemplating the bigger picture of their care,” which includes everything from over-wintering (some chickens don’t do well in the cold), to deciding what to do with egg layers when they stop laying (Turn them into pets? Sell them on craigslist? Eat them?) and dealing with what can turn out to be a considerable amount of chicken poop.
Even if you find ways to use the poop as garden fertilizer, Dan said, the truth of the matter is, “There’s going to be a lot of it.”
“Ah,...right,” I said, before thanking him for his time and hanging up.
After the interview, I was sitting at my computer, filling in my notes, when my computer signaled that I’d received an email. It was from my sister Jean, who’d written to say hi. I immediately emailed her back, explaining about the chicken interview I’d just finished.
“All I know is that the chicken poop ate holes in our asphalt driveway, and they stunk way worse than pigs!!” Jean wrote back.
I was surprised to hear this. My sister is a very strong, capable woman who lives on several acres in the country where, over the years, in addition to chickens and pigs, she’s raised horses, goats and five kids.
“We never did chickens again!!” Jean emailed. “The one experience was enough!!”
“Wow! That’s some powerful poop,” I wrote back, feeling relieved that the only chickens I knew where the ones I’d written about and that, so far, at least, I’d managed to avoid sharing my living space with poop-prolific poultry, even if they have feathered feet and lay delicious, blue and green eggs.
Take the other day, for instance. The phone interview started out innocently enough. The source, a nice-enough, raising-chickens-in-the-city expert we’ll call Dan, was telling me that chickens are divided into two broad categories — Standard (normal size) and Bantam (small) — and then further broken down according to human-oriented purposes: egg layers, meat, dual purpose (egg layers who also taste good) and ornamental.
Leghorns, Dan told me, are known for being good egg producers. Araucanas, the “Easter egg chicken,” lay blue and green eggs. Frying Pan Special, Barbecue Special and Cornish Roster make good eating. Black Australorp is dual purpose. Partridge Cochin, with its featured feet, is considered good looking.
Bantams, Dan said, tend to be gentle and make good pets, but “can be outright liars.” All chickens are vulnerable to raccoons and stray dogs.
Sometimes, Dan continued, “people get into chickens without contemplating the bigger picture of their care,” which includes everything from over-wintering (some chickens don’t do well in the cold), to deciding what to do with egg layers when they stop laying (Turn them into pets? Sell them on craigslist? Eat them?) and dealing with what can turn out to be a considerable amount of chicken poop.
Even if you find ways to use the poop as garden fertilizer, Dan said, the truth of the matter is, “There’s going to be a lot of it.”
“Ah,...right,” I said, before thanking him for his time and hanging up.
After the interview, I was sitting at my computer, filling in my notes, when my computer signaled that I’d received an email. It was from my sister Jean, who’d written to say hi. I immediately emailed her back, explaining about the chicken interview I’d just finished.
“All I know is that the chicken poop ate holes in our asphalt driveway, and they stunk way worse than pigs!!” Jean wrote back.
I was surprised to hear this. My sister is a very strong, capable woman who lives on several acres in the country where, over the years, in addition to chickens and pigs, she’s raised horses, goats and five kids.
“We never did chickens again!!” Jean emailed. “The one experience was enough!!”
“Wow! That’s some powerful poop,” I wrote back, feeling relieved that the only chickens I knew where the ones I’d written about and that, so far, at least, I’d managed to avoid sharing my living space with poop-prolific poultry, even if they have feathered feet and lay delicious, blue and green eggs.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Counting Carbs
Writing sometimes brings unexpected dietary results. The other day I stopped by a police station to compile a report. Mara, a reporter from another newspaper, showed up to do the same thing.
While tapping away on our laptops, Mara and I got to talking about carbs. Mara is pregnant and has gestational diabetes. I’m addicted to carbs.
Mara told me she is trying to limit herself to 2-3 carb units per meal. To figure out the carbs units in packaged food, she explained to me, you take the carb number and divide it by 15. For instance, if a bagel is listed on a package as having 40 carbs, you divide that by 15 and get 2-3 units.
I kept listening, took notes, but didn’t quite understand how changing the carbs to carb units was going to help me give up doughnuts. According to Mara, you’re supposed to eat three meals and 1-2 snacks per day. Snacks can only have 1-2 units. You can subtract 5 units if the bagel is whole wheat.
While tapping away on our laptops, Mara and I got to talking about carbs. Mara is pregnant and has gestational diabetes. I’m addicted to carbs.
Mara told me she is trying to limit herself to 2-3 carb units per meal. To figure out the carbs units in packaged food, she explained to me, you take the carb number and divide it by 15. For instance, if a bagel is listed on a package as having 40 carbs, you divide that by 15 and get 2-3 units.
I kept listening, took notes, but didn’t quite understand how changing the carbs to carb units was going to help me give up doughnuts. According to Mara, you’re supposed to eat three meals and 1-2 snacks per day. Snacks can only have 1-2 units. You can subtract 5 units if the bagel is whole wheat.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Giving Birth to an Essay
The essay I’m working on is almost done. Its birth is the hard part. I don’t want to give it up. I like being in process, enjoy the maybe-this, maybe-that kind of experience.
Working on a piece of writing feels like when I was pregnant. I felt so fat and sassy. Every day I got up and was pregnant. End of story. I waddled around town with a big smile on my face.
For me, writing is like that. I get up in the morning and have something to sink my teeth into, because my essay or article isn't finished, not yet.
When my daughter was only a few days old, she had to be taken back to the hospital for a lab test. In the car, on the way to the hospital, I started crying. The tears came from nowhere. I didn’t even realize I was sad.
Looking back, I think it was hormones combined with relief, letting go, giving up, the kind that comes from having wanted something for so long and then finally getting it.
Finishing a piece of writing is both happy and sad like that.
Working on a piece of writing feels like when I was pregnant. I felt so fat and sassy. Every day I got up and was pregnant. End of story. I waddled around town with a big smile on my face.
For me, writing is like that. I get up in the morning and have something to sink my teeth into, because my essay or article isn't finished, not yet.
When my daughter was only a few days old, she had to be taken back to the hospital for a lab test. In the car, on the way to the hospital, I started crying. The tears came from nowhere. I didn’t even realize I was sad.
Looking back, I think it was hormones combined with relief, letting go, giving up, the kind that comes from having wanted something for so long and then finally getting it.
Finishing a piece of writing is both happy and sad like that.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Armed Robbery or Just Another Day in the Life of a Freelance Writer
Like a lot of freelance writers, I wear more than one literary hat. In addition to editing a community newspaper, I compile events calendars and write articles and essays on everything from house clutter and truck mattresses to arc welding, physician-owned wineries, and “green” paint. In addition, once a week, I write a police report for a local newspaper.
To gather the necessary information for the article, I visit two police departments, where I paw through a thick pile of forms. On a recent visit, I came across a Xerox of a hand-written note passed to a bank clerk by a bank robber:
NO COP’S FOR 5 MIN.!
HEAR ME!!
ROBBERY, I HAVE A
HUGE BOMB! NO DYE,
NO TRACKER! $20’S, $50’S,
& $100’S! NOW! OR BOOM!
EVERY ONE GOES POW!
According to the form, the police were dispatched to the bank, where they were told the suspect had left on foot with an undetermined amount of money. No one was hurt.
Another day, another police report:
“At 6:38 p.m. police were dispatched to a report of harassment on Southeast 188th Avenue, where the victim told them a repairman retiling her bathroom had grabbed her left buttock and flirted with her. According to the woman, the suspect followed her from room to room, asked her if she was single and told her, “Maybe I’ll come by and see you.” He also asked what perfume she was wearing and told her, “It’s driving me crazy like a male dog.”
Then, this morning, just when I thought things couldn’t get more dysfunctional, they did. I was sitting inside one of the police stations when a man walked in carrying a backpack that, he told a woman on the staff, he’d found outdoors.
What was inside the pack? Powder, fireworks and a small, homemade pipe bomb, of course! And me a freelancer with no health benefits! When the man reached into the backpack and pulled out a small, white pipe, I started to climb up the back of my chair while the staff person turned green and said, “I’d better get an officer” and disappeared.
A few minutes later, she returned and told the man to take the backpack outside to the parking lot, where he was joined by two uniformed cops who started asking him questions.
“Boy,” the staff person told me, “you never know what people are going to bring in.”
To me it was just another bizarre day in the life of a freelancer. I gathered up my belongings and headed out to my car, while making a mental note to add the bomb incident to my report and giving a wide berth to the backpack and its explosive contents.
To gather the necessary information for the article, I visit two police departments, where I paw through a thick pile of forms. On a recent visit, I came across a Xerox of a hand-written note passed to a bank clerk by a bank robber:
NO COP’S FOR 5 MIN.!
HEAR ME!!
ROBBERY, I HAVE A
HUGE BOMB! NO DYE,
NO TRACKER! $20’S, $50’S,
& $100’S! NOW! OR BOOM!
EVERY ONE GOES POW!
According to the form, the police were dispatched to the bank, where they were told the suspect had left on foot with an undetermined amount of money. No one was hurt.
Another day, another police report:
“At 6:38 p.m. police were dispatched to a report of harassment on Southeast 188th Avenue, where the victim told them a repairman retiling her bathroom had grabbed her left buttock and flirted with her. According to the woman, the suspect followed her from room to room, asked her if she was single and told her, “Maybe I’ll come by and see you.” He also asked what perfume she was wearing and told her, “It’s driving me crazy like a male dog.”
Then, this morning, just when I thought things couldn’t get more dysfunctional, they did. I was sitting inside one of the police stations when a man walked in carrying a backpack that, he told a woman on the staff, he’d found outdoors.
What was inside the pack? Powder, fireworks and a small, homemade pipe bomb, of course! And me a freelancer with no health benefits! When the man reached into the backpack and pulled out a small, white pipe, I started to climb up the back of my chair while the staff person turned green and said, “I’d better get an officer” and disappeared.
A few minutes later, she returned and told the man to take the backpack outside to the parking lot, where he was joined by two uniformed cops who started asking him questions.
“Boy,” the staff person told me, “you never know what people are going to bring in.”
To me it was just another bizarre day in the life of a freelancer. I gathered up my belongings and headed out to my car, while making a mental note to add the bomb incident to my report and giving a wide berth to the backpack and its explosive contents.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
On the Take
“Thank you for doing such a fabulous job on the article,” the handwritten note read. “Everyone who has read it loved it. I can’t thank you enough for making me look so good.”
The note arrived in the mail this morning, along with a Macy’s gift card. At last I was on the take! True, it was plastic money, but it was money nonetheless.
The woman who sent the gift card is a professional home stager I’d interviewed for an article about how to decorate your for-sale home to increase the likelihood that it will sell and sell quick. (Hint: Get rid of the gun collection and litter box, and paint the front door.)
Although, as a freelance journalist, I would never accept a gift that could in any way be considered a bribe, this doesn’t stop appreciative interviewees, clients, editors and publishers from sending me small thank-you gifts after the fact.
Over the years, I’ve received everything from fancy greeting cards and magnetic calendars to bottles of wine, plant fertilizer, slug bait, pizza, loose-leaf organic tea, bicycle-trail maps, movie passes, theater tickets, books, photographs, coffee mugs, music CDs and even dryer balls (non-toxic, allergy-free, plastic balls you throw into your clothes dryer instead of that old tennis shoe).
What do I do with all this free stuff?
Well, store it in the free tote bags, of course. In fact, right now, I can count no less than three gift tote bags in my office — a colorful one from a business organization, a zippered one from a political-action group, and a cloth one from a company that makes a highly-effective, fast-acting, environmentally friendly liquid formula that kills moss and algae on roofs and walks.
The note arrived in the mail this morning, along with a Macy’s gift card. At last I was on the take! True, it was plastic money, but it was money nonetheless.
The woman who sent the gift card is a professional home stager I’d interviewed for an article about how to decorate your for-sale home to increase the likelihood that it will sell and sell quick. (Hint: Get rid of the gun collection and litter box, and paint the front door.)
Although, as a freelance journalist, I would never accept a gift that could in any way be considered a bribe, this doesn’t stop appreciative interviewees, clients, editors and publishers from sending me small thank-you gifts after the fact.
Over the years, I’ve received everything from fancy greeting cards and magnetic calendars to bottles of wine, plant fertilizer, slug bait, pizza, loose-leaf organic tea, bicycle-trail maps, movie passes, theater tickets, books, photographs, coffee mugs, music CDs and even dryer balls (non-toxic, allergy-free, plastic balls you throw into your clothes dryer instead of that old tennis shoe).
What do I do with all this free stuff?
Well, store it in the free tote bags, of course. In fact, right now, I can count no less than three gift tote bags in my office — a colorful one from a business organization, a zippered one from a political-action group, and a cloth one from a company that makes a highly-effective, fast-acting, environmentally friendly liquid formula that kills moss and algae on roofs and walks.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Kindle Caution
A few minutes ago, while using my Kindle (the new marketing tool from amazon.com that also works as a kind of iPod for readers), I accidentally ordered a copy of Cheryl Richardson’s self-help book Stand Up for Your Life: Develop the Courage, Confidence and Character to Fulfill Your Greatest Potential.
I didn’t mean to order the book, but while reading a free, downloaded sample of it, I accidentally pushed the “Buy Now” button and, seconds later, became the surprised owner of the full version.
While reading the Kindle version of Richardson’s book, I followed a link to her Web site and discovered that a Richardson study group meets regularly just a few blocks from my house. The whole experience felt a little weird, though. With the Kindle, reading (what for me had always been a pleasantly private and personal experience) suddenly became interactive. It felt like someone had punched a hole in my universe.
Later, on my desktop, I emailed the contact person for the Richardson study group and made arrangements to attend the next meeting, which might not be a bad idea considering the fact that, for just a split second after accidentally ordering Richardson’s book, I considered contacting Kindle and cancelling my order but then decided against it. What are the chances they will believe me, I thought, proving it’s time I learned to stand up for my life.
I didn’t mean to order the book, but while reading a free, downloaded sample of it, I accidentally pushed the “Buy Now” button and, seconds later, became the surprised owner of the full version.
While reading the Kindle version of Richardson’s book, I followed a link to her Web site and discovered that a Richardson study group meets regularly just a few blocks from my house. The whole experience felt a little weird, though. With the Kindle, reading (what for me had always been a pleasantly private and personal experience) suddenly became interactive. It felt like someone had punched a hole in my universe.
Later, on my desktop, I emailed the contact person for the Richardson study group and made arrangements to attend the next meeting, which might not be a bad idea considering the fact that, for just a split second after accidentally ordering Richardson’s book, I considered contacting Kindle and cancelling my order but then decided against it. What are the chances they will believe me, I thought, proving it’s time I learned to stand up for my life.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Morning Pages
It’s 5:30 a.m. and I’m already writing. I like to get up early, before the world starts crashing in. I make a point to rise before my responsibilities, before I have to do anything.
I enjoy this time of the day when I’m not beholden to anyone because it’s then that I can just be me and write for the fun of it, write down whatever comes into my head. Free-association writing, morning pages, whatever you want to call it.
In some ways, I feel like I’m writing before I’m fully awake and, as a result, am able to tap into thoughts and feelings I might otherwise not have.
It’s at this time of day that I feel most like myself. My mind is clear, and I haven’t had to use keys or money, haven’t had to drive a car or talk.
I enjoy this time of the day when I’m not beholden to anyone because it’s then that I can just be me and write for the fun of it, write down whatever comes into my head. Free-association writing, morning pages, whatever you want to call it.
In some ways, I feel like I’m writing before I’m fully awake and, as a result, am able to tap into thoughts and feelings I might otherwise not have.
It’s at this time of day that I feel most like myself. My mind is clear, and I haven’t had to use keys or money, haven’t had to drive a car or talk.
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