January 24, 2012

This is Day #9 of my 21 days at the artist colony.  The numbers are adding up nicely.  Yesterday, I wrote 14 pages, bringing my total to 71.  I also released 4 stinkbugs before going to bed; fewer than any night previously.  

That last statistic might lead you to believe I am getting ahead of the stinkbug population.  I am not.  There were more bugs to be disposed of last night, however, I didn't because to do so I would have had to leave my bedroom and I was scared to leave my bedroom.  So, one lucky stinkbug was permitted to stay warm for the night.  I wonder if it knew it was lucky?  And why?

The thing about being a writer is, you live in your imagination.  All the time. Whether you want to or not. Usually this is a good thing but sometimes, like last night, it is possible to have TOO much imagination.

As I said before, Ryan, my former cottagemate, left the colony on Friday, so now I'm alone out here. I was fine for first night, rather enjoyed the quiet.  But on Saturday I forgot to call my hubby in the morning.  When I finally checked my phone, around lunchtime, the log showed he'd called 14 times!  I dialed him quickly, certain the house must have burned down, or my dog been hit by a car, or some other horrible event had occurred. Why else would he call 14 times?   Apparently, because he was worried about me being all alone in the cottage and when he couldn't reach me, became convinced that someone had broken in and murdered me in the night.  In another hour, he had planned to call the police.  

Ha! Ha! Good thing I check the messages and called him back! He's so cute.  Silly but cute.

But when I walked back to the cottage in the dark after dinner and heard rustling sounds in the bushes, it occurred to me that maybe he was right.  I was out here all alone and if someone jumped out of the bushes, would anyone hear my screams?  I walked faster and double-checked the locks before I went to bed.

That was on Saturday. Since then, it's gotten worse.

My cottagemate was supposed to arrive last night but didn't.  I don't know where he is. Maybe some terrible fate has befallen him. Maybe his car skidded over an embankment in the dark and he was trapped inside, at the bottom of a ravine, waiting for help? I hoped not but bad things happen sometimes, don't they?  Especially at night.  And most especially on nights when it is dark and rainy. This is common knowledge.

Walking home after dinner, I noticed that the curtain of the other studio, formerly occupied by Ryan, was open and that it looked like a single big, black, ominous eye staring at me.  Had the curtain been open before?  I couldn't remember.  

When I got inside, I realized I'd forgotten to lock the front door when I went to dinner.  Or had I? What if someone had broken in, secreted themselves in Ryan's studio, and, with the lights off, opened the curtains to wait and watch for my arrival?  Things happen.  And it WAS awfully dark and rainy.  I decided to go into Ryan's studio, turn on the lights, and have a good look around, just to make sure.

The door was locked.

Now, I KNOW the door had not been locked before because when Ryan vacated the cottage, I went into his studio and bedroom and had a good snoop, as any reasonably curious person would. Impossible not to.  Then the door had been unlocked.  And now it wasn't.  Of course, its possible that the lady who cleaned his studio had locked the door but what if she hadn't?  What if a homicidal maniac was behind that locked door, waiting until I had fallen asleep to sneak upstairs and and stab me with a butcher knife?  I like in that movie - you know the one - Psycho?  

I went upstairs, tossed four bugs out the back door, and seriously thought about taking a pillow and blanket over to the main residence and crashing on one of the couches. But when I thought about having to explain what I was doing there in the morning and how completely stupid it would sound, weighing the one hundred percent certainty of being embarrassed in front of people who probably already think I'm an intellectual lightweight against the odds of being murdered during a residency at an artist colony, I decided to take my chances with the murderer.

I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth but I did NOT take a shower. Remember that movie? Psycho?  

I changed into my jammies, said my prayers, and read for a little while.  I was about to turn out the light when I found a stinkbug crawling on the quilt.  Right at the same time I heard a scratchy noise.  The noise could have been a squirrel on the roof but you never know, do you?  Things happen.  

I flicked the stinkbug onto the floor and said, "Stay."  

Then, like any five-year old, or writer with an overactive imagination, I got up, checked the lock on my bedroom door again, barricaded it with two chairs, got back into bed, and lay there listening for the sound of maniacal laughter and stealthy footstep on the stairway.  For three hours.

When my kids were little they were sure that monsters hid in their closets.  Knowing that logic is no antidote to imagination, I would come in their rooms with a can of Lysol and spray it into the closet, telling them it was Monster Repellent. After that, they'd fall right to sleep.  I did this pretty much every night from the time my children were four until they were six.  When they turned seven, they told me there was no such thing as monsters or monster repellent and would I please turn out the lights as I left the room.  

Little kids outgrow their imaginations.  Fiction writers never do.  Usually, that's a good thing but sometimes, especially if it is a dark and stormy night, imagination can be inconvenient.  And exhausting.

I hope nothing horrible has happened to my cottagemate.  I hope he has not skidded off an embankment. Or perished in a fiery plane crash.  I hope he arrives today. If not, I may have to drive to town and buy a can of Lysol.  

January 22, 2012

There is no fixed length of residency at the artist colony.  People can come for two weeks or two months; its up to them.  That means people are coming and going almost every day of the week. Ryan, the funny but not overbearing, easy-to-get-on-with writer from San Francisco, my cottage mate, left on Friday. However, Sunday seems to be the day most people make their exit. On Sunday two weeks from today, I'll do the same.

I've never liked goodbyes, so I'm feeling a little down today.  

Jamie, another writer, always beautifully dressed in skirts that flare at the hem, boots, and the absolutely perfect shade of red lipstick, who has innocent eyes, a slightly breathless voice, and perfect comedic timing, left just a little while ago. She was the first person I met and made friends with here.  

It took me some time to pluck up my courage and enter the dining room on the first night. I was nervous about meeting my fellow Fellows, especially the writers, all of whom, I was sure, had Phd's and read Proust just for fun, when they weren't in the mood for anything really deep. Eventually, driven by hunger, I tiptoed in, spotted an open place next to the sweet looking woman with wavy blond hair and funky jewelry, and sat down.  Jamie was very friendly, a writer, and, like me, wrote commercial fiction! And, as it turned out, we wrote for the same publisher, had the same editor! Clearly, I was meant to sit next to Jamie that first evening.  Our meeting was appointed by Providence, I have no doubt. 

And so, I suppose it is natural I feel downcast at her departure and that of Chris, a painter with platinum gray hair who's story about her mother coming for a visit and staying four months brought tears of laughter to my eyes.  I'm sorry she's gone as well, and that I never saw her paintings.  And I'm sorry about Luis and...the tall woman who works with him, whose name I can't remember, the cinematographer couple.  They left in a cab right after breakfast.  I watched them drive away, waved and felt guilty because I never got to know them and should have made time.  All these departures make me sad, depressed even.

In speaking of it, specifically explaining why she had not come to the going-away "dance party" some of the younger Fellows organized last night, one of my breakfast companions, Nicole, who I really like because she never says anything small and can cut to the heart of things without making me feel stupid or petty, said, "But you can't let yourself get distracted by goodbyes, you know. There is still work to do. More people will come soon and take the empty rooms and everything will change. In a day or two, you'll forget about the ones who've left."

This is one of the most depressing things I've heard in some time, because it is true.

I didn't linger at breakfast.  It's Sunday and Sunday is laundry day.  At least it is in the Cottage; that's what I've decided, because tomorrow morning I'll have been here a week.  Two more to go. Tomorrow, I'm supposed to get a new cottage mate. Today, I'm out here alone.

After I put my dirty clothes in wash, I went on stinkbug patrol and tossed seven more out the back door, leaving them to fend for themselves in the cold.  It's snowing a little bit. Then I stripped off the sheets and put on a new set, yellow this time.  They look good with the quilt I brought and that made me feel a little better.

Then, to kill time while my clothes dry, I sat down to write this.  In a minute, I'll go fold my clothes and put them into drawers, still warm, then sit down to write another ten pages of the new book.  

Nicole is right. There is still work to do and in a day or two, maybe even as soon as this evening, I'll have forgotten about the ones who left.  It is true and the way things are but that doesn't mean it isn't sad. 

January 20, 2012

This is day five of my residency at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Four of those five days have been writing days.  In that time, I've written forty-two pages.  Forty-two GOOD pages.  I am pleased.

There is no question that I am productive in this place.  Producing forty-two good pages of work at home takes me about two weeks, maybe more.  But am I settled in?  Yes, mostly.  However, there is a piece of me that feels I am still not as present as I might be.  Perhaps this takes times.  Or perhaps I'm the sort who never lets go enough to be present one hundred percent.  Or perhaps the idea that there even is such a place is something I've invented. If I figure it out, I'll let you know.

Things got a lot better for me on the morning after my arrival, when I plucked up my courage, walked into the office, and very politely asked if I could have a curtain in my bedroom, if someone could unclog the shower drain, and one or two other little housekeeping items.  The answer was, yes.  A very nice man showed up at my cottage and fixed everything within the hour - huge relief.  I was afraid that they'd think I was a big whiner, or ungrateful for the opportunity to be here, but no.  The people in charge want this to be a great experience for every artist who comes and they are more than willing to make it so, but they if no one tells them something is broken, they can't very well fix it, can they?  But they did fix it, quickly, and after that I felt much more at home. 

There was still the issue of the bugs, however.  Apparently, this entire area is an ideal habitat for a brownish, slow-moving but flight-capable insect known as a "stinkbug".  They are everywhere. At first, they really bothered me.  On my first morning, I carried no less than eight stinkers out of my bedroom and onto the balcony where I released them to the wild.  But, that was on Tuesday.  It's now Friday and I don't even notice them unless one flies into me or tries to climb over the side of my coffee cup.  That doesn't happen all that often, so that is good

The Cottage, I have learned, is probably not for everyone.  Apparently, there was someone who was supposed to be living in my cottage during this time but he asked to move and they gave him another room, which is probably how I ended up out here.  Truthfully, I came close to making the same request but decided I ought to give it a day or two before I made asked for a change.  I'm glad I waited.  

The Cottage is removed and that can make a person feel a bit out of the loop socially but as much as I am enjoying the society of the other artists, my primary motivation for coming here was work. The Cottage is very, very quiet.  At night, it is even more quiet than my country home in Connecticut.  I don't know how that is possible but it is.  The main residence is noisy, like a college dorm.  Many of the bedrooms overlook the living room, which is often occupied by people who are talking, playing cards, etc.  We're all adults and cognizant of the need to respect the needs of others, but the ceilings are open to the second floor and the noise does carry.  So, for sleeping purposes, the Cottage is much better than the residence.  

There is still the problem of having my studio in the same building as my residence and it is taking me a little longer to settle down to work in the morning than I'd hoped, and I do find it jarring that just about the time I do get into the rhythm, it is time to walk down to the Studio Barn for lunch (my initial thought of skipping lunch was pure bluster) but its hard to argue with an output of more than ten pages a day.  As I had feared, the internet works beautifully in my studio.  I did have to resort to downloading a program that temporarily blocks my internet access for up to eight hours at a time.  It's silly that I should need to do this.  I am a grownup and by now should have mastered the art of just saying no.  However, there are a lot of things I should have mastered by now and haven't so, there you have it.  If you're as much of a weakling as I am about these things, you might want to search out the software.  It's called Freedom and you can find it by googling Freedom internet blocker.  You can try it five times for free and after that you'll have to pay ten dollars.  Completely worth it.

This evening, another writer came and asked if I would "read" with her -- as in read my work in public, in front of the Fellows -- tomorrow evening.  For all kinds of reasons I may or may not explain in another post, the prospect terrified me but I said yes.  I'll let you know how it turned out.

But right now, I'm going to turn out the lights in the studio, make the commute up the staircase, brush my teeth, say my prayers, turn out the lamp, say goodnight to the stinkbugs, and get a good night's sleep in what may be the quietest spot on earth.  

Rest well.