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Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission
Write Like A Horse Even after several moves and associated culls and fits of divestment, I have a LOT of books. Those that have made the cut are precious to me. One favourite is a photography book by Jill Krementz called “The Writer’s Desk.” This morning I took it down off the shelf because it has lately occurred to me that I am writing longhand again—and standing up. In “The Writer’s Desk”, two authors are shown working while standing at tall desks. I can really identify with them. Whether it’s improved blood flow, better posture or the sheer weirdness of it, writing while standing is very stimulating. I used to get a lot of ideas while working the cash register at Book City in Toronto. So many that I kept a pile of scrap paper next to me at all times and often came home with a wallet jammed with fragments, sentences and [interrupted] paragraphs. [I guess that deals with the question, “Where do you get your ideas?” in a more literal way?] Both my summer jobs this year lend themselves to writing. The more physically demanding of the two, tending vines in a local vineyard, is incredibly meditative. The shifts start nice and early and there’s nothing to do but think as you block out the pain of squatting for long hours. The second gig involves standing at a counter waiting to be discovered by a talent scout from Mrs. Fields and thus affords me some time to scribble. [American customers: every time you pay me in Yankee currency you bring me that much closer to my Magnolia Bakery trek!]
Question: these days, if you write with a pen in a notebook, is the writing “organic”? I can hear Whitman laughing in his crypt...I can see the bio now... “Marnie Woodrow is an organic writer currently writing a...” Although since much of my recent writing is fuelled by caffeine it is not, in the strictest sense, chemical free. With the gleeful expulsion of nicotine and booze from the dietary regimen I could I suppose say the writing is “80% organic” and get away with it...BTW: Thanks to readers who emailed about my contribution to the Crozier/Lane anthology of a few years back. Life is weirdly wonderful with synergy these days.
Great story, as told to me by someone with intimate knowledge of fruit trees. A peach tree in her backyard produced nothing in the way of peachy greatness for years. Bup-kiss, not a single fuzzy fruit. Mais voila, one season, the tree woke up and produced an insanely succulent, bountiful and unforgettable crop of peaches—and promptly died. Parable anyone? I love that story. It’s proof that Mother Nature has a deep sense of irony. Like grapevines, fruit trees have to reach a certain age to truly offer something exquisite and flavourful. It’s why I have to laugh [albeit with compassion] when people fixate on the qualitative where creativity is concerned. Prolificacy is exciting: fecundity reassures us. But then I was listening to a podcast interview with Joyce Carol Oates and thinking of how quick people are to criticize if a writer is TOO productive. It’s what we call a no-win no-way situation.
The food shopping out here continues to blow my mind. From May to November it is one long gustatory orgy here in Prince Edward County. Walking the dog one beautiful evening, we bought fresh summer peas at a roadside stand. Money into can, fresh produce in hand: amazing. Scooted down a shady back road and snagged some of Vickie’s garlic scape pesto, excellent smeared on farfalle with roasted tomatoes. At the end of another nearby laneway, snow-white new spuds screamed out for consumption. I love the other random delights of living where I do. Serving espresso to a couple from Israel who happened upon my wee shop, this picturesque hamlet. A passing car so jammed with yellow Labs fresh from a morning swim you couldn’t see a driver: the absurd comical delight of it.
Tomorrow I’ll be back among the vines. Tiny little angry little muscles in my glute-zone singing a protest chorus in synch with tendons I didn’t know I had. Dizzy from the heat the other day, we had a good laugh about that annoying TV commercial that perpetuates the myth that operating a vineyard is glamourous, romantic: “Maria, I’ve finally made my dream come true!” crows the linen-and-silk clad dame gazing out over lush rows of vines as she nibbles from a cheese tray and surveys her kingdom. Who knows, maybe that is, as the saying goes, her “truth.” The long shot of the idyllic vineyard leaves out the half-crippled labourers making the dream a reality, methinks. Anybody chugs a glass of wine in my presence ever again [meaning if it takes them less than 8 hours to consume it!] is in deep dung Piemonte baby.
Reading: The Greek for Love, James Chatto; Mysteries of Pittsburgh, Michael Chabon
Listening to: Slide Over Backwards, Donna Summer
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