What is writing for, anyway?

I was thinking about why I write, or about what I like about writing, more specifically, and I realized it's like making friends. It connects me to like-minded people. To people who are crazy about animals; who understand dry humor; who see the point in fending for one's self, yet indulge in the conveniences of the modern world; who grieve when a chicken dies; who love their dogs like children; who sweep up dust bison instead of dust buffalo; who's outbuildings are made of salvaged material. It connects me to people who live in the city but yearn for the country, or people who live in the boondocks and yearn for a town like Acme, or people who live right where they want to live but who find me interesting, and want to hear what I have to say. It is as much as an inlet as an outlet. It brings readers into my world, and I love them as friends.

Blogging has prepared me for writing my book, because it has shown me that I do have an audience, and that it's made up of people like me. Maybe they're people who like what I like, and who can laugh when I laugh, cry when I cry, and share my amazement at this life I've stumbled into. Maybe they're people who can understand how this motley crew of people and animals, this logging town, and this little green acre add up to a downright amazing life.

Update #1

It's been a week since my big "make me do it!" spiel, and I'm tempted to offer excuses: my daughter is broken (her tibia, fractured at school on Friday, is in a full-leg cast until April) ; my work is piling up; my house is a mess.

I am less than ten pages in to the new content of the book and I have about fifty pages selected from among old writing—pages that need some tweaking, but that fit in. I am still excited, though, and I think I can develop a good new habit of working on this project daily.

I have not forgotten my promises.

M

Begin at the beginning. Go on until you reach the end. Stop.

I decided to write a book last month, which sounded like an easy enough thing to do: I love writing, after all, and I love talking and telling stories about me, about my animals, about my people and my home.  Think James Herriot/John Katz/Cleveland Amory/Betty McDonald.

It turns out I have been stymied, ever since, by the questions of how to begin—how to organize—how to transition—how to end. I decided, yesterday, that I'd better begin at any old place (but not necessarily at the beginning) and write a copious abundance of material between now and summer, then face at that time the tremendous hurdle of organization. Trying to organize as I go is like trying to keep my boat dry while I paddle—it causes an immediate and profound absence of progress. I'm going to take my rough outline and shove it, only referring to it again when I have the content in hand.

This, then, is going to become—from now until June—not a blog about my life, but a blog about a book about my life. I will let you know, every day or two, how it's going. If I don't, you can ask me how it's going. You can remind me to finish what I set out to do, which is one of the hardest things in the world for a person prone to procrastination and lapses in focus. You can prod me if you have to, and in fact I'd appreciate it if you would: I know, you see, that I have the talent and the material to write a book. I just don't know that I have the attention span without some outside interference.

I am going to start with a story about a muleback ride, because it is upon muleback that I think best.

M

To My Old Master

To My Old Master

This letter is worth a read.

The baking dilemma

Photo from tgdaily.com

When we bought 175 pounds of organic wheat and a hand-grinder, I envisioned happy years spent baking freshly-ground bread and boiling tender homemade pasta. Here's the dilemma: my kids won't touch homemade whole wheat bread with a ten foot pole. We've taken to eating our wheat boiled, which is actually really delicious, and buying our bread (Dave's Killer—I wonder how he does it?) at Costco.

I admit that my kids might be balking at my bread's consistency, which is somewhere between that of a shoe and that of a brick (but closer to the brick end of the spectrum). I used to be able to bake a delightful loaf of bread using a combination of white and wheat flour, but as I've pushed further and further into the whole wheat realm I've alienated my diners and lost my touch.

Whole wheat bakers, how do you do it? Do I need to go back to a white/wheat mix? Add eggs? Rise overnight? Knead longer? Something's terribly wrong with my current approach.

I have a wonderful recipe book—The Bread Bible—with which I have had success. Its recipes, for the most part, call for unbleached white flour. I have another wonderful book—The Encyclopedia of Country Living—in which the author states her reluctance to explain the how-tos of whole wheat bread because it is not the sort of thing one can teach in a book. Perhaps I'll look for a third book that strikes a better balance, or perhaps you, dear reader, will have an answer for me.

M