Let me address the elephant in the room. I have been trying for over a decade to move to Portland. I’ve whinged and sniveled and carried on about it until I’m sure you were all ready to stab me in the eye with your fountain pens, and now at last I’m here. So why am I not writing about our new home? 
Because it’s so fucking wonderful that every excursion makes me want to race to the top of a mountain and start twirling in my pinafore. It’s nauseating, how much I love it here. If I truly did the place justice, I’d tell you about Silver Falls, where we hiked around and had a picnic next to the creek and laughed at the crow who disdained the chunk of apple we’d offered. I’d describe the farm stands, overflowing with berries. The vintage shops where I’ve bought milk glass and watercolors and barely escaped without the most adorable 70s fondue set (so cute, it still had all its forks!). I’d wax poetic about the arboretum, a cathedral of trees, threaded with quiet footpaths. Our neighborhood market and its mouth-watering ciabatta. The soft cool rain and this lovely house with all its windows open even at midday, my tender potted herb garden in the kitchen. I’d tell you about my fellas, who went bowling together for the first time and came home hooting with laughter. They love it here too.
I’m baking my own bread, for fuck’s sake. I am a cliché of domestic bliss.
But there’s only so much I can share without becoming redundant. You and I have become friends based on our mutual misery: writing, and all its tribulations. And the muse is as bitchy as she ever was.
I have discovered that happiness and misery can coexist quite symbiotically inside me, can in fact swoop in and overtake one another without a break in the action. One minute I’m kneading a ball of dough and watching the squirrels scamper over our back fence, the next I’m pacing around in agony, trying to locate the story. And the sneaky truth is that I’m loving the ride. The shivering apex, the stomach-dropping glide, then up again with my feet against the sky. I don’t want to be steady, I want to swing.
What about you? Feet on the ground, or ass in the swing?
Feet in the swing and ass on the ground (a little friction warms things up).
Write what you will. We’ll still be here.
Ouch!
“Feet on the ground, head in the sky, it’s ok, I know nothing’s wrong…”
No, wait… that’s David Byrne.
Bake bread. Be bitchy. Bring us books.
B-b-be bitchy, Mr iPants? You know I’m liable to drop an f-bomb even on a good day.
I was referrin’ to yer bitchy muse, woman… be bitchy right back to it.
She’s been kind to me today, for the first time in weeks. I’m on tiptoe in case I scare her away.
Feet on the ground. Only because I’m not the most adventurous, get out there person. I love the town I have lived in my WHOLE life as much as you are describing Portland. I would be miserable if I ever left my country town where nothing ever happens. Life is just fine with my family, plants, and books…need nothing more.
But I do understand the duality…doing stuff with my family and at work (although my job itself contains this duality of which you speak) life seems enjoyable, but hitting the writing desk at night can be a different story.
I’m envious of your love for your hometown. I’m a homebody myself and don’t care much for travel, but damn was it awful living in Vegas (where I was one of about three native residents). Now that I’ve relocated, it would take a stick of dynamite and several teams of horses to drag me away.
That’s exactly how I feel about Seattle. Exactly.
Ahhh, Seattle. I lived there for one year and thought it was paradise.
My son visited Seattle and fell in love. I think Drew and I will try to get up there this fall and see what all the fuss is about. Coffee, Angie?
By the way, my son strongly recommends the fried chicken on sweet potato waffles you can get at the Screen Door Restaurant on Burnside. I’ve seen him eat one plate, but I’ve not tried them myself.
I loved everything about Portland on my last (and first) visit. Have you visited the tiniest park in America?
I can’t say I have any enthusiasm for my feet-on-the-ground life in whitebread suburban Kansas City, but it was a good place to raise kids I guess. Now my heart and mind reach out for my little cabin in the Ozark woods (even as dry and hot as it’s been). But I’ve also heard the call from Taos, NM lately. I’ve been a few times, and I’d like to go back.
Wherever, I think as long as I can keep writing, I’ll be happy enough.
I’m glad for you though. So many good things are happening for you!
I don’t think I’ve been to the tiniest park in America, unless I blinked and missed it. Do you remember where it is?
The Screen Door sounds like it must be close to Powell’s, because I think that’s the same street. Might be a good place to park my husband the next time I need a book fix.
The park is literally about three feet in diameter. It’s in one of the medians along one of the main roads paralleling the river. I don’t remember where it is exactly, but it should be easy to look up.
Screen door seemed to be out in the “suburbs.” We had to cross the river to get to it. But I’m sure you know there’s a cafe in Powell’s, so you could park hubby there and browse and browse.
I parked him at a sports bar down the street last time, and had to drive us back to the hotel room because he’d been sampling the draft beers. We both had a fine afternoon.
Good for you!!!!! I get how you feel. Like you’ve finally made it home. I understand. I’m a cliche ad for loving California living. I live in paradise. Never have I been happier in a place.
Having grown up in Missouri, lived 5 years in the Phoenix desert, and a decade in fucking freezing Minnesota, I feel like I’ve earned being here. I’m in love.
Hey yeah, I should be allowed to gush for years to come, after four decades in Hell. And you’re in paradise now yourself, with all those flowers and the ocean nearby, so who can blame you for putting down roots?
Ass in the swing, definitely. Normally I don’t write under these conditions, but I’m going to give it a go for one reason and one alone: hoping that it will distract me from the fact that my ass is in the swing.
{snort} Good strategy, Sonje.
Are public swing sets vintage or some shit now? There’s none to be found in my town. Safety regulations? The point of swinging was to pump your legs so hard that you became parallel to the horizon. Then when you get to that highest point, you jump off to see how far you can fly before hitting the ground. I guess that’s my answer? I like free falling… or pretending I can fly.
I didn’t like the jumping-off bit, but I loved to hang upside down going backward. Twisting was also excellent, except after eating.
There are plenty of swing sets around here. What kind of uptight place do you live where they don’t encourage swinging?
New Jersey. I’m itching to move. I don’t care that the Dodge Poetry Fest is held here anymore. I want out!
May I recommend Portland?
Oh I’m all over the feckin’ map, literally & figuratively. Changing countries, gearing up to try and go back to work after a 2 year hiatus, immigration nightmares, writing?? Propelled by love and Swiss fantasy into chaos. I’m so glad to hear how much you love it. Neil & I were rooting for your move from the day we ‘met’ you.
We’re lucky to have husbands willing to up and move with us. None of this would be happening for either of us without them.
Give that man of yours a hug from me, and tell him he’s a good ‘un.
I sooo love this one, Averil. And I do know of what you speak. It reminds of when my daughter was very little and I I took to explaining to her (often) how everything in life was work. I told her how it took energy to love, to play, to learn, to make things with her hands, to do stupid homework, to excel at a job. She would never escape work ever in her life, so she should internalize the fact that work wasn’t an awful word. Everything would be about finding the choices about work that were within her power to make.
Writing will always have difficult aspects, but being able to make the choice to live in that beautiful place where you can bloom so much more, creates a wonderful balance that I see in your words here. I want that kind of balance, too.
I try to compartmentalize them, but my writing and my life are twisted together now in an incompatible way. The fight is wearing me out. If the problems in my life eased up, writing would still be hard, but I’m sure the resulting balance would precipitate good things like sleep and dreams, and much more play, but mostly the security to live life as if it really means something to me. I’ve always wanted to swing.
I’ve had that same conversation with my kids. Work should be its own reward, and they should take pride in doing a good job no matter who’s watching. I’m not sure the message has gotten through–but then, I’m not finished mothering them.
I’ll tell you to rest, not work so hard, relax a bit, and I know you won’t listen any more than I ever do to that message. So grind it out, baby, and soon you’ll find yourself swinging. I believe in you.
It’s wonderful to watch you bloom like this, Averil!
My feet are on the ground—mostly—but I can still manage to dance in place.
“Bloom” is a good word for this. Thanks!
Shake that moneymaker, chickadee.
I so hear you – the soaring highs, the summery beauty of Italy, and then going nuts about not working hard enough, not producing, not organising. Being half-submerged by a family and a bank of ideas.
I love reading about your move. About the new smells and climate. I know you can still drop f-bombs but you’ve softened. You really sound like you’ve reached home.
This says perfectly what I came down here to say. You’re home, and a writer.
Yes, I have softened, and I’ve got boatloads of energy these days. I must have been storing it up all these years.
Loved your Paris post. The shoes!
You’re bound to be less dehydrated than you were in Vegas. That may boost your energy.
Plus, Portland’s practically at sea level, nearly two thousand feet lower than Las Vegas. Our bodies adjust to increases in elevation through increases in red blood cell production. Then when we go to lower elevations, we’ve got much more oxygen in our systems until we’ve been there a while and our bodies reduce red blood cell production accordingly. When I moved from western Colorado to west Texas some years back, it was a two thousand foot drop in elevation. I hardly had to sleep the first few weeks after the move, I had so much energy.
I would never have thought of that, but it makes perfect sense. The fact that we’re all eating better is also helpful. The fresh produce tastes so much better here that we’ve been eating a lot more raw foods, lighter meals and snacks that don’t take so much energy to process.
What fabulous news, Averil! I am so thrilled for you (and still giddy on your sale news, of course). If the muse is misbehaving, it isn’t for lack of inspiration (not that she ever needs an excuse to be contrary, right?) Just so happy that you and your family have found your home. It’s time, indeed.
My muse likes things gritty, but that’s her problem. She’s gonna have to adjust.
I’ve never been steady. Always craved it, though. My beloved is the steadfast one. He keeps me from floating, sometimes zooming, away.
By the way, I just finished The Art of Racing in The Rain. What a beautiful story. This agent you have clearly has heart.
Isn’t it lovely? You might want to pick up The Memory of Running as well, another of Jeff’s books. I couldn’t put it down.
Just ordered it. Thank you!
Sounds idyllic. So often we want something so bad and for so long that we turn it into an icon. And when we finally get it a sense of disappointment often seeps in because it can no longer match our expectations. I’m really happy Portland has turned out to live up to your dream.
You’re right, and I worried about that before we moved. Maybe I’ll be bummed at mid-winter when it’s been raining for four months straight, but for now I’m beyond satisfied. Portland is even better than I hoped it would be.
At the certain risk of repeating something (I just got back from a little road trip– that’s my excuse) I will simply say that I just bought two divine hats from a yard sale next door and, while they are no vintage fondue set, they are painfully darling and I just had to share.
I’m jealous. I just got back from the mall and came up with nothing. Have you seen the colors they’re trying to make us wear this fall?
Not at all surprise you love Portland. It is a wonderful city. I’m intrigued though that you say your muse likes things gritty but she’ll have to adjust. Are you taking your writing in a different direction?
No, actually I’m trying to stay on track. But last year was miserable for me personally and the misery was good for my writing, so now the challenge is to write without the emotional impetus. I’m beginning to understand why artists are so self-destructive.
I’m a total fucking mess. I am living the life I wanted when I was seventeen. It’s amazing. It’s difficult. It’s just my everyday life. It’s funny how things turn out.
Shit, are you really? That’s remarkable. I don’t even remember what I wanted at seventeen, other than ‘out’.
It was simple, I wanted the location, the career, and a partner. Check, check, and check. I even have a goddamn dog.
I am thrilled for you for everything — the move, Portland the book deal — and I loved getting this little update about how much you truly adore your new home. But does it make me a small person that I’m fine if you don’t constantly talk about how amazing Portland is? Because Oregon isn’t the only thing that’s green, you know….
No, it makes you my kind of person. One who doesn’t expect me to stop whinging just because I’ve got everything I want.