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)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
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.
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