I Belong Here

You know those rare occasions when there is no doubt in your mind that your gut feeling was right? This is one of those moments. People have told me I'm crazy. They have reiterated over and over again that Alaska is cold and very far away. But since I stumbled across the MFA program in Fairbanks on September 24, 2010, there has been this inexplicable feeling that I belong in Fairbanks...even though I had never set foot there. Until now.

I had only been in Fairbanks a matter of hours before I could say one thing for certain: that feeling of belonging was absolutely correct. Okay, I know I don't live here yet...and I know it's not winter, but it's this vibe leaking out of every crevice of the town that's screaming, "Natalie...where have you been?" And I'm going to listen to it. My gut feeling was right, even though everybody told me it might be wrong. Lesson learned? Listen to my gut more often.

How could I not when I will have views like this?

You know you're a regular when...

The barista at the coffee house rings up your noon o'clock beer without judging, hands you a frosty mug without being asked, and says, "Yes, please," like she'd like nothing more than to join you.  

As I've mentioned before, I've taken up residence in a coffee house that also serves beer and wine. It might possibly be the best idea anybody has ever had. You get the atmosphere of the coffee shop: it's quiet. People are working on their laptops or chatting softly. But I can also have a beer or a glass of wine while I work. It's like the ultimate powerhouse of awesomeness and inspiration. Coffee shops help me concentrate and so does beer. I've never been so productive in my life and still have time for Facebook. 

So, first of all, let me tell you that all writing books are the same. They tell you to have a schedule, a routine, to write everyday. They tell you to allow yourself to write really shitty stuff. And then they tell you to revise, revise, revise. Really, if you've ever tried to write anything, this is all stuff you already know pretty intuitively. What makes writing books different from each other is the personal touch the writer pours into it. Their own experiences. Their own admissions on how they failed to show up for their scheduled writing time because they were depressed or drunk or just plain lazy. I don't really read books on writing for the advice. I like to read books on writing to know that I'm not alone, that I'm not the only one that thinks this way.

So, one of my favorites is a book called Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. And one of my favorite quotes says, "I wrote every night for an hour or more, often in coffeehouses with a notepad and my pen, drinking great quantities of wine because that is what writers do; this was what my father and all his friends did." Of course, Lamott goes on to tell her journey as a writer and perhaps suggests that drinking copious amounts of wine isn't all that great of an idea. However, I like to go back to this quote from time to time because she says "that is what writers do." That is what I do. I write in a notebook. I sit in a coffeehouse. I drink beer. And I don't do it because Anne Lamott says it's okay, and I don't do it because it's what I'm supposed to do as a writer. I do it because I am a writer.

So, I'll take being a regular at this coffee house with beer and wine. I'll sit here where nobody judges me for having a beer in the middle of the afternoon. I'll keep my hand moving across the page until it cramps up. I'm showing up for my part of the work so that maybe one of these days, the page will be graced with something that actually impresses the world. And until then, I'll be here enjoying my beer.

Them Be Fighting Words

I volunteer once a week at the elementary school reading to kindergarten kids one-on-one. So, I have two kids who I read with for 20 minutes each. My first kid, Colin, is sweet. He's quiet, doesn't cause trouble, listens to whatever I'm reading. Occasionally, he's almost too quiet. But he's smart. He can read easy books to me if he feels like it. His quiet nature is endearing...and I think I used to be like him when I was a kid.

My second kid, on the other hand, is a little girl named Eris. She's a character. She can't read yet, or if she can, she's not letting me know about it. And when I read to her, she'd much rather just look at the pictures. She interrupts me in mid-sentence. She laughs at a silly picture, but won't have any recollection of what the story is actually about. She's a cute little girl...but she's exhausting to work with sometimes.

Today, for example, Eris and I were reading a book that we've read almost every week for the past 6 weeks. It's a funny little book about a woman and her overgrown squash. We're half way through the story when she says, "Who's Nelly?"Nelly is the main character of the book. So, I respond, "Who do you think Nelly is?" Her reply..."the cat?"

Sigh.

So, we're finished reading, and I was asking her about the ring she was wearing.

Me: Where'd you get it?
Eris: Uhhh...Macy's
Me: Oh! I work there.
Eris gives me the dirtiest look a five-year-old can make.
Shannon (another volunteer): You just got snubbed by a five-year-old.

Thanks, Eris. There's something about judgmental children. It's like their innocence makes the ridicule feel that much worse. It was difficult not to resort to a five-year-old way of thinking the minute the dirty look crossed her face. To not come up with some stuck-on-the-playground reply, more innocent "you're momma joke" to throw back in at her. I bit my tongue.

I mean, the whole thing was kind of funny. But still...she's 5. That judgment had to come from somewhere. Where did she get it?

Waterfalls Can Talk

I have one more introspective post to get out, then it's back to staring at strangers and trying to get them to fall in love with me.

So, whenever I'm not working, I try to force myself into the coffee shop environment where I write in long-hand in an old notebook from South Africa. It's a long process, but it works pretty well. Especially now, because I've taken up residence at a coffee house that also serves beer and wine. It's got the coffee shop vibe, but I can drink beer while I write. Hello, awesomeness.

Anyway, a few weeks ago, before I discovered this new place, I was sitting at Starbucks attempting to write. I had written one shitty paragraph when I received an email on my phone from the school in Alaska saying I hadn't been offered a teaching assistant position. Having a TA position is how I was planning on affording grad school. It was going to save me from debt. It was part of why I deferred admission for a year in hopes of receiving a position this year. Suddenly, as I was sitting in Starbucks, I felt like my world was collapsing under my feet. This year seemed wasted and incomplete. I felt useless.

So, I packed up my notebook, and I drove straight out of town up into the mountains. It was sleeting off and on, and as I went up the mountain, the sleet became light snow. It was a stupid thing to do, especially since I was alone and nobody knew where I was going. But that was kind of the point. I ended up 45 minutes out of town and running up a trail up to this waterfall.

Before I move on to other things, I want you to notice two facts about the previous statement:

1. I ran the mile up to the waterfall and back to my car. Since when am I runner?
2. My immediate instinct was not to buy a bottle of tequila. I think this means I'm growing up.

Anyway, the falls were beautiful, and despite the rain, sleet, and snow, I was satisfied to be able to get away from things even though it didn't solve any of my problems. The waterfall didn't solve anything, but it did vaguely whisper through its mist that mingled with rain, "You should probably go anyway." As the weeks have gone by, there have been a lot of tears, a lot of discussions with friends, and a lot of writing in my journal about my options. But I've only come to one conclusion every time: I still have to go to Alaska.

It's the only direction that leads forward. Yeah, maybe I don't exactly hate working retail anymore, but I still want to leave it behind me in August. I don't want to live with my parents anymore. I don't want to be a walking cliche anymore. I don't really have anywhere else to go that wouldn't be the "easy option." And I swore to myself to never take the easy way out again...that's how I ended up in Oregon. That's how I ended up miserable. Sure, I'm okay now, but I'm still not exactly happy. And the ultimate reason for saying "fuck it, I'm going anyway" is that any other option would be leading in the exact opposite direction of where I'm trying to go.

I still haven't told my parents about the setback. I need to know that this is my decision, and my decision alone. But every time I get overwhelmed by the thought of debt or starving to death or more likely, freezing to death because I didn't have enough money to pay the bills and the heat got turned off...I go back to the waterfall in my head. And the waterfall only tells me one thing: GET YOUR ASS TO ALASKA!