THE STORY SO FAR: PART 218

OF TREES, SQUIRRELS & SETTLING-IN

Well, I have been in my new home for a week, so am still very much settling in, and catching up with sleep.

Quite how long that process will take, I have no idea—nor am I particularly concerned. Though I have a great deal of work to do, sometimes rest is essential—and this is such a time. I absolutely crave it.

Rest is a relative term, as far as I am concerned, because I still write every day, but it means I temporarily forget about deadlines and things, try and exercise more—and take time off to wander around and browse my local bookstore (and there is one within easy walking distance). If there was sun, I might even sit out in it, but this is Seattle where such pleasures are unpredictable. In many ways that is part of the charm. I rather like Seattle weather. It’s a constant adventure.

The view from my desk through a high-set window is of trees, squirrels, and the sky. Since I have a great weakness for squirrels, love trees and the sky is ever changing,—and endlessly fascinating, I find that very satisfying.

Yesterday, I installed my Dymo LabelWriter—an essential tool for an absent-minded writer. Today, I hope to squeeze in my second screen. My work area—the focal point of practically everything I do these days—is gradually coming together.

This is fun. The bad news is that my internet is not accessible. I have no idea why.

I shall refrain from suicide with difficulty. Not sure it is a good thing to be so dependent on such an umbilical. Not sure I have much of a choice.

 

 

 

 

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 212

APRIL FOOL—AND THE FOOL WAS ME

I tend to get up and go straight to the computer without even making a mug of tea. Barbaric behavior? I won’t give you an argument. One really should treat time—and one’s lifestyle—with more grace.

But it gets worse. Once at the computer, I have a tendency to get drawn into writing—and then hours can pass before I realize there are other things to be done too: Like having breakfast.

On Monday—I’m writing this a day late—I wrote until midday, and then decided the time had come to sort the boxes which were in the garage. I put on a warmish top—because garages tend to be unheated and chilly—and locked myself out. A squirrel scuttled by, and I swear it chuckled.

I shall say no more about the rest of the day except to say that my eventual homecoming was a thing of wonder.

THE STORY SO FAR: PART 175

HOW LIGHT CAN A WRITER TRAVEL?

I’m completing my packing, and moving shortly, so my daily blogs are likely to be shorter than normal—and there maybe some gaps. But, I’ll fill them in later. I’m dedicated to achieving a blog a day until I have completed a year. Then, I’ll take a fresh look at the situation.

I have made a lot of progress at moving with less stuff, but am far from the ideal as yet.

Theoretically, all a writer needs this days are a few clothes and a computer—but the reality tends to be different—at least in my case.

I’m working in it.

 

FREE-THINKERS GET EATEN

Image via Wikipedia

"I'm an expert, head of my local Tea Party group,
and a pretty good cook. So shut up and listen!"

Department of Fantastic Thanksgiving Dinners

My friend, Chris Carrdus, loves to cook. He says that cooking calms him and wonders why we aren’t all taught to cook well. Good cooking starts with locating superior raw materials – a skill unto itself - largely frees one from the dubious merits of the processed foods industry, and results in a tastier, more nutritious and generally healthier end result.

Yesterday, he produced a perfect Thanksgiving Dinner. We are all in awe.

He believes that if you don’t learn to cook at your mother’s knee, the chances are that one will never learn to cook competently. I fear my situation supports his theory. I am no better than an adequate cook. Food at home was prepared by our housekeeper, a lovely woman, whose culinary skills topped out at frying an egg. Food away from home was the product of my boarding school’s kitchen and no better than one might expect under such circumstances. 

My mother could write, paint, spoke excellent French, was a pretty fair opera critic and a compelling conversationalist but there it stopped. When I once remarked that the food at school, unlike that at home, was, at least, edible, she deployed the full power of her extraordinary personality to render me silent and terrified. But I was telling her no more than the truth. Still, through experiencing the really bad, I have come to truly admire the outstanding. 

Thank you, Chris.

Department of Experts, Witch Doctors & Earthly Gods

When I was young, I had the notion that by a certain age, I would be an expert in something or other, and would have the air of confidence, respect, rewards and defensive armor that go hand in hand with such a lofty status.

Over time, I have seen so many experts in so many fields get it wrong so often that I have become skeptical of the societal convention that causes us to largely accept the pronouncements of experts in an unquestioning manner.

This doesn’t mean that I reject the concept of expertise – clearly there are many people who have considerable knowledge and experience in their own subjects. It is more that I deplore the way so many of us abdicate our ability to think clearly and cogently in favor of the pronouncements and posturings of witch doctors (whether they be business leaders, politicians, medical doctors, academics or the military). In fact, it is a favorite journalistic practice to write something like: “Experts say that …” instead of evaluating the evidence.

It is so much easier to pass the buck intellectually.

Perhaps I would adore the rewards and accolades that come from being inside the club that is a professional association – I’m probably no less venal than most – but I find it very hard to believe that they would equal the satisfaction that one gets through retaining one’s intellectual integrity by thinking for oneself.

Because that is what some of us writers do. And regardless of our circumstances, we love it.

Thanksgiving indeed.