Being a Writer?

This morning, I’ve thought pretty seriously about being a writer. What does it really mean to me – what, if anything, do I hope to attain through my writing? I suppose I could break it down further if I consider that I write fiction AND poetry. I’ve been wondering . . . is it really possible to do both? I have at least two writing friends that question whether one can do simultaneous justice to two forms of writing. Lately, I seem trapped in a non-writing void. I wonder if this justifies me being a writer . .. perhaps, I’m merely a word tinkerer.

“Central to natural writing is an attitude of wonder.” Gabriele Lusser Rico~

Well, I certainly have that going for me. Sometimes . . . .

I remember looking at a new morning as if it were a fresh, Crayola drawn adventure. Every turn was of the brightest hue. My eyes saw roses and hot fudge sundaes instead of weeds and rice puddin. I actually looked forward to getting up and meeting life. But with age came health problems. Then time marched forward, bringing a sense of wheels spinning backward. So I could *think* of this void as age related, right? Then how should we explain

John Stanford

It’s probable  my ways are catching up with me. I’ve never been a rudimentary person. I read about these prolific writers that rise early and write long. They’ll tell you it does NOT matter whether what you write is good or not, but that you write . . . for the sake of it.

“The work habit that underlies virtually all writing problems is the tendency to write and edit simultaneously.” Henriette Anne Klauser~

Ah HA!

Right then and there is MY problem! It’s true . . . I find it difficult these days to get to the second draft, as the first draft is in constant reload mode. I wonder what it is I have to say, then I try to control the flow of it, as if my muse can be captured and tamed like a river getting too close to a lock.

Well, I’m not sure I’ve come closer to any sort of answer. I suppose it’s a given that life, and a writers words, are a mixture of starts and stops. I gather too, that I’m not unique; even though I’d like to think I am. Perhaps  Dorothea Brande says it best: “The most enviable writers are those who, quite often unanalytically and unconsciously, have realized that there are different facets to their nature, and are able to live and work with now one, now the other … ”

Rural Woman, here. Till next time -

PS: I love being a writer. What I can’t stand is the paperwork. – Peter de Vries

Morning Cock!

 

Things around here are a might different than most places. Folks get up of a morning, move around their home doing what they do . . . kids, coffee, morning news, whatever. Around here, the first thing I’m liable to be greeted by is a cock named Roo. As I stumble out of bed I hear him crowing. Me and the dogs gotta do business, so we rush toward the front door and there he is – head thrown back in full throttle crowing. When he’s finished, he juts his head forward and peeks through the door’s full length glass, hoping his wake-up calls are noted. (And to think, the old man wants a curtain put up to that glass!) I pop the door open for the dogs, then trot back to where the magazines are.

Every hen Roo ever had is gone, so this sweet, beautiful rooster is always looking for something to care for. Last fall, he was contented with his extended family surrounding him. He’d follow me around the yard, or take a nap with the old man up on the long porch. He got really great at scrabble. (Better’n Hank, even.) But as the season grew to a close, coats and hats replaced shorts and Tees. We weren’t spending much time outdoors and old Rooroo fell into great loneliness again. It was about this time I noticed a relationship forming with Dillon, the Golden Retriever . . . .

Roo began spending most of his time outback with Dilly. This actually made me feel better because I was so worried a fox would get him too. It didn’t matter that Dillon was a dog – he was a friend when the old rooster needed one. When the snow got so deep that Roo couldn’t tramp outback, Dillon would go visit him. When Dillon takes a nap, Roo will stand guard, watching for predators that might get his present charge.

This morning, the temperature was a balmy 57 F. Roo stood at back slider looking in, waiting for the old man to turn on the TV. I opened the door a foot or so, allowing him to wander into the kitchen for a visit. Dill followed. I made toast. Bear smelled it and came. Casper the cat, too.

“One for you.”

“One for you . . . EASY now!”

“Roo, here’s a piece.”

“Dill, don’t steal from the cat.”

I didn’t get a sniff . . . .

Rural Woman, here. Till next time -

PS: Later, I’m going to challenge Roo to a game of checkers!

Do you know where your dirt is?

 

Fortunately, I know where everyone and everything is in my household – yes, all animals/humans/ inanimate objects – those things clean and those things not. It’s nearly spring, and for pity’s sake, something needs to be done.It was easier when I was a young woman. So full of hope, piddle and vinegar. I look backward and wonder how things change SO much so fast . . . but it happens. The first thing that left was the mind, then the body. Before I knew it I was thinking like my mother and acting like Dinny Dimwit! 

When did I forget to take a chance?

But it is almost spring. Thirteen more days and it’ll be official. (Don’t forget to turn your clocks FORWARD March 8th!) With spring come all sorts of possibilities and liabilities. Birds return to build nests, hatching squawking youngsters, reminding me again WHY I never had children. Winter bunnies called dusties start itching when I unpack my new Swiffer ProSpeed Floor Mop. The dogs spend more time hiding from me, knowing that soon an outside bath is gonna happen! The car no longer looks *winter weary* . . . it’s plain dirty, lol.

 Yeah, I got the fever, and it’s a good thing. No one is beating my door down wanting to spring clean my house. It’s a big job and I’ve got to do it . . . .

 

 

H.O.U.S.E.W.O.R.K

 

In the beginning was Eve, mother of all homemakers.
Before fast food,
vacuum-cleaners,
Pampers, bleach, hot and cold running water,
before maids and handymen,
it WAS her purpose to keep house tidy.

NO ONE,
but the homemaker
(mom)
shall do the work.

 

 Housework,
aptly called,
“Domestic Duties”
ie:[it]
translates: 

1.
Only mom knows how to do [it].
I don’t want to get in trouble
so save [it] for Mom.

2.
Mom so enjoys [it].
I wouldn’t dare deny her [it].

3.
Housework:
a sacred institution
that women have trained for
since time immortal.
DAH . . . didn’t your mom tell you?

Last, but not least…

4.
H.O.U.S.E.W.O.R.K:
Happy
Offerings
Using
Simply
Employed
Ways
Of
Residence
Keeping

 Homemakers,
it’s a great honor placed on our shoulders!
Dare I say,
the very survival of domesticity.

Oh, we are blessed!

Rural Woman here

 PS: I’ll be cleaning the bathroom today . . . .

Mabel

Yesterday, I brought Mabel in from the front porch. The 1920’s work table has already seen the best days of her life. It’s a pretty lofty accomplishment for an old, no body table to serve tea to the President of the United States! Gonna be hard to top that . . . .

The weather had done just what I’d hoped for. Mabel’s whitewashed finish was flaking, and you could finally see the original butter cream paint peeking through. We turned her upside down on the kitchen table so I could get a better look at her peeling parts. Two old mud dauber nests were wedged securely inside one corner. I tapped the bottom of the service drawer, and a brave, sleepy fly roused awake and flew to the window.

There’s one thing I like about old things – you CAN actually work on them! Back in the day, everything was bolted or screwed; not a rivet to be found. As I removed her gently turned legs, I could see that someone had loved Mabel before. I wanted to believe that. Didn’t matter that she’d been mass produced and run through a small assembly line eighty some years ago. No, Mabel was special. This old girl had served some family well during the depression years. Times being what they are . . . seems fitting she should go into service once more.

I got out the hand sander and a pan of hot, soapy water and got to work. Mabel’s arthritic parts squeak a bit, her drawer bottom sags a little too. But I’m happy she’s mine. I know she’s gonna be just fine here  . . . .

Rural Woman here . . .

PS: Mabel’s new home is in the bathroom, serving as a dressing table!

Dead bird!

………………….Last Friday, Janet and I were alone in an inside aviary looking for a blue parakeet. Had to be blue, because her husband’s parakeet, Sam, had been eaten by the cat that morning! Cage door left open while cleaning, you know.

……. There wasn’t another person in this massive room filed with every kind of bird imaginable. Janet searched one side of the long room and I the other, each looking for that perfect blue parakeet. In the background of chirps and cooing, someone said,

…….“Come here.” I looked around for another customer but there wasn’t any.

…….“Did you say something, Janet?”

…….“Hum?” she said absently.

…….I figured I was hearing things.

A few minutes later, I heard it again, .”Come here!!”

…….Of course Janet didn’t hear it, so I went looking for the voice. I’m so glad there wasn’t anyone else in that place. Going from bird to bird, I got quite perturbed that none of them would speak to me. I made my way down the back wall, and a Macaw said,

…….“Come here.”

…….Aw, I’d finally found the little stinker! “Did you call?”

…….He cocked his head, studying me a bit. Then in a shrill, loud voice screamed, ” SHUT UP!”

……. I almost fell into the cages behind me.

………………………………………………………………..###

…….We did manage to find a perfectly matched blue parakeet and took it home. Janet and I were nervous when Bob got home that night. Would he notice the bird was not the same one he’d left that morning? We watched him go to the cage and speak to “Sam” in his deep, rich voice that birds love. It worked!

…….BIG breath out . . . .

…….Bob talked to Sam for a couple of minutes, then went to the living room to relax before supper. A few moments of triumph quickly came to a heart thumping end. There was a scuttle, so I peeked around the doorway to see what was up. Bob was on his hands and knees looking under the end table.

…….“Janet, did you know there’s a dead bird in here on the floor?”

Rural Woman, here.  See you next time!

PS: Morning Janet!

“One lump or two, Sir?”

The pressure’s on . . .

 

Do you realise this is my first post? What you read here right now, may determine whether you step onto my porch ever again. As a brand new, expert blogger, I know I need to pull out all the stops. What can be done to make you LIKE me? Perhaps make you feel as if you knew me from this very moment in time?

Well . . .  maybe we need to know why people read these blogs, or write them. I myself am not concerned about ‘why’. I want you coming back – daily, reading, wanting to know what Rural Woman is up to! I’ll even lower myself to sensationalized journalism if needed.

Here, how about this ~

 

Today, I served tea to the new President of The United States, Barack Obama. Yes, he and I, sipping Earl Grey from mother’s blue and white Haviland. The 1920’s side table stood at the south end of my front porch, dressed in thrift store lace and peonies from the island bed. Mr President’s eyes studied my rural surroundings, then smiled as Hank ambled over and plopped at his feet. He breathed deeply, then exhaled as if this fresh air would drive the cares from his heart into nothingness. “So RW, do you think I’ve been good for the country so far?” he asked.

This maverick – this man who aspires to the ideals of Lincoln, needed me – needed my voice. I told him he was doing a fine job, given what he had to work with.

“And the stimulus package?”

“Aah . . . who knows, Barack.  Both sides can’t be right, can they?”

We both looked off into the rural surroundings for a moment, silent . . . .

A Secret Service man in black bent low and whispered. Time’s up. Barack stood, and we walked to edge of the long porch.

“Well, what sort of dog do you think I should get the girls, RW?”

“Get a mutt,” I teased. “They always behave better!”  

 

There, did I just clinched it? Hopefully, you’ll be back tomorrow, because now you know I’m fulla it. People love reading ‘fulla it’ writing, because it makes them smile . . . .

Rural Woman, here. See you next time!

PS: I did tell him to get a mutt . . . .