Renovating thoughts on Writing with Christine Koubek

When we signed the contract to remodel our home, I expected things like cooking on a rent-a-burner, lunchtimes looking at countertops and a daily battle with dust. But now, three weeks in to this three-month endeavor, I’ve discovered things I never anticipated; like how much I could feel like a stranger in my own home, that I’d learn something valuable about writing from the contractors, and—the thing I really hadn’t considered when I gave carte blanche permission to use whatever bathroom was closest—there is rarely a toilet seat down in this house.

With a husband, two sons, and a rotating bunch of six-to-ten men in the house, I am the only person here who wears a bra.

My weekdays now begin with the arrival of men in trucks. We open the garage door, drop cloths are laid down and the saw starts humming in the garage. I say, “good morning,” then clean up the dishes in our soon to be dismantled kitchen and try to stay out of their way.

The problem is I’m a freelance writer working from home. And now this is their workplace too, a workplace full of tools, Baja Fresh stuff, water bottles, and the camaraderie they’ve grown accustomed to: discussing their work, what kind of lunch Leo (the man in charge here) might want for his birthday, and laughing—at what, I’m not sure. More than half of the dialogue is spoken in Spanish, only bits and pieces of which I understand. I debate whether to leave my Spanish/English dictionary lying around so they can never be sure how much I know.

I used to be productive working at home. The only sound was the music I played. Not anymore. While I’m up in my second-floor office, an editor calls about an assignment as a drill makes its zzt zzt sound. I duck into the bathroom and sit on the edge of the tub with the phone in one ear and a finger pressed to the other.

When I’m finished, I sit down at my desk again and type to a cacophony of nail guns, hammering, grunting (what in God’s name are they doing down there?), chatting, and someone singing along (in a pretty good voice) to the chorus of Macho Man. It sounds like there is a fiesta going on in their part of the house. And I am clearly the odd man—make that woman—out.

I try hard not to listen, but I’ve come to realize that there is no one more distractible than a writer on deadline.

What are they talking about? I wonder. I think someone just said: “loco”—what’s crazy? And what was that sound? It must be the window being taken out below me. Why is it so quiet all of a sudden?

I put my headphones on to concentrate and catch myself singing along a few minutes later.

Damn, I’ve got to stop doing that. Oh! I forgot to tell them about that cable jack.

What was I writing about again?

OK. Time to pack up the laptop and go to Barnes & Noble again to work.

When my husband works from home he seems far less unnerved. At first, I assume it is because his home office is located above our garage and not directly on top of the action. Then I realize there is something about the male bonding that’s available right here at home that he enjoys. He occasionally orders pizza with pineapple for everyone, then hangs out in the kitchen and talks about things like what size TV is best (why is it men equate bigger with better?), the pros and cons of surround sound, and, as I think I overheard once, the indecisiveness of women.

I wanted to barge in to that testosterone-infused room and make a case for myself, for all women, but there were at least six men in there and I didn’t have a quick-witted comeback at the moment. This made me even less likely to attend the next pizza lunch. I’ll stick to making them cookies.

There is no one here who speaks my ‘language,’ no one to chat with about the weekend, or the kids, or about the perplexing part of this assignment I am working on.

Although I will say they are very helpful anytime I ask for advice on trim and stone. And if they see me carrying anything, whether it’s a box of stone samples or an armful of roller shades, they take it from me and ask where it needs to go. I have to admit this part of having them here is very nice.

And then one afternoon, a couple weeks in to this process, I had an opportunity to get to know one of the guys a bit. My kindergartner, Colin, and I were walking up the driveway with cupcakes as Fenix was closing up the house for the day. Colin offered him a cupcake. Fenix said: “Thank you.” I told Colin to say “de nada.”

Fenix asked where I was from. I inquired the same and learned that he is from El Salvador and that his brothers live here, too. We talked about families and music and dancing, and when I went in to the house that night, it felt a little more like home.

At three-weeks in (and woefully behind on an upcoming deadline), I discover one more thing I didn’t expect in this process—a cure for writer’s block.

These last few nights I’ve begun a new routine. After all the guys leave, I go and unzip the plastic doorway that separates the dusty side of the house from ours. Then I stand amid the taken down trim, dangling wires and half-built walls and study their work in progress. As I look around it is hard to imagine this part of the house will ever look good again.

Later on, I head upstairs with the boys and lie down in my older son’s bed to read with him. His is the first room done. I scan the newly wainscoted walls and admire the perfect symmetry of the corners. What Leo and the others have meticulously measured, cut and put up now looks gorgeous in gleaming white paint.

This room looked like our first floor does now just a couple weeks ago…and kind of like what my office looks like now, with files strewn about and one project in such a bad state I’m worried it will never turn out well. And then I realize that these guys are in a business not that different from my own, only they accept—actually expect—disarray to be part of the creative process.

They create with wood. I create with words. I can learn something from them.

Their work reminds me that constructing anything can be a challenging and messy endeavor, but that usually, with enough ingenuity and perseverance, something beautiful emerges (at least that is the plan here for our first floor).

Checking out the progress of their work each evening has inspired me to be more patient with my own. There is something familiar here in my house: construction’s version of a rough draft. Maybe I’m not such a stranger here after all.

*This essay orginally appeared in Bethesda Magazine, and we thank them and Christine for allowing us to post it here.

Christine Koubek is a freelance journalist, author, contributing editor at FamilyVacationCritic.com (a new travel site launched under the TripAdvisor umbrella), and a frequent contributor to Bethesda Magazine. Her articles and essays have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies’ Home Journal, Modern Bride, Budget Travel, San Francisco Chronicle, CruiseCritic.com, MSNBC.com, Washingtonian, Miami Herald, and more. Christine is happy to report that her renovations turned out beautifully, her Spanish, however, still needs improvement.

Member Derek Hatcher: On Writing

I recently asked Derek Hatcher a few quick questions about what brought him to writing. Derek is a new member with us, and you'll no doubt see some author interviews with him on First Person Plural in the future. If you're a member reading this and want to share your own story, feel free to contact me.

What did I do before? As far back as fourth grade, I wanted to have a relationship with computers. I read the story of “Danny Dunn and the Homework Machine” and became inspired that a machine could complete my homework assignments. In college, I majored in Computer Science and began my career as a software programmer. Since 1974, I have worked in the Information Technology field. Initially, I was a software developer (programmer). I moved to installing operating systems, setting up LANs and WANs and finally, managing a technical support team.

I’ve always enjoyed reading fiction. Authors such as Richard Wright, James Baldwin, Herman Hesse and John A. Williams were authors I never tired reading. Gwendolyn Brooks was the first poet I ever heard of. Her writings, along with Langston Hughes, Nikki Giovanni, Amiri Baraka, and Sonya Sanchez were poets I continue to be inspired by. Historical/social writers such as Lorraine Hansberry, WEB Dubois, John Henrik Clarke and Chancellor Williams are authors who’ve inspired and enlightened my understanding of the world I live in.

Six years ago, my wife and I traveled to Italy and I was inspired; not certain what to do. As a child, I could only dream of visiting far away places; I decided it was time to make my dreams happen. Each year I’ve travelled to a place I’ve wanted to see. On my first visit to the Pacific coast area of Costa Rica, I instantly fell in love; each year since, I’ve returned.

What brought me to writing? Last summer I was reading a blog; something I’d heard of but really hadn’t investigated. The blogger wrote about a fashion style for men; the post caught my attention. I left him a comment indicating how impressed I was and that it inspired me to think about someday attempting to blog.

Why now? I can only say I felt a desire for expression and I believed writing offered me a path to my expression. I love to write; I can’t describe it any simpler. I didn’t want to attempt something as monumental as writing a book. I believed blogging would provide me with a venue for written expression. I began blogging in October (2008) and really wasn’t sure what I had to say or for that matter whether anyone would find it worthy of reading. I’ve blogged about social issues, emotions and I’ve even written a few chapters of fictional stories.

What is my creative process? I’m working on several short stories and my approach (up to now) has been identifying characters, scenes, and then working with dialog and plots. I’ve learned that writing requires discipline and commitment. That it’s not something you do from time to time. Even when I don’t blog, I’m writing daily; working to generate ideas, characters, scenes dialog and plots. I believe that daily writing helps me develop consistency and purpose. Blogging entails a totally different approach for me. I look for ideas from reading what other bloggers talk about, conversations with friends and relatives, news, sports and music. I usually can find something which I try to convey an idea; something the reader might consider.

What am I working on? I’m writing about the murder of my younger brother Ronald. I wrote a blog post about how his murder affected my mother, brothers and me. When I decided to write about it as a short story, it occurred to me that I should write it from his eyes; how he viewed life around him up to the moment of his murder. I’m finding the greatest challenge is facing the emotions that specific memories about him trigger, talking with family members and friends who knew him. Writing his story this way means there are scenes which must be created, characters that need depth and blending fiction with actual events. I’ve had to look back at my life as it was forty years ago as a means of developing my brother’s character. Although I’m writing about one specific event in his life, I found it necessary to lead up to that event by revealing what life was like in the early 1970’s on Chicago’s West Side.

About Derek Hatcher: I was born and raised in Chicago and worked in the IT profession for over thirty years. I began my career as a software developer (programmer), watched it flourish as systems programmer and settle in as a manager of IT technical staff. In 1981, my employer transferred me from Chicago to Austin (Texas). I lived in Austin (with my wife and five children) working in IT government agencies (federal and state) and private sector. In 1999 my wife and I moved to Virginia. I’ve always viewed software development as a creative process; I believe that’s why I’ve enjoyed my career. As a manager of IT staff, I found myself hungering to be creative but no longer having the outlet of a developer. Writing software is much different from writing a story. Writing software is simply giving a machine a specific set of instructions. Writing a story requires creating an image in the mind of the reader; the description of people, places, sounds, scents, tastes, touch, the visual and unseen all must take shape when writing. I began writing last fall as a method of tapping into what I viewed as my well of creative expression. It’s my hope to someday publish.

To Taos to Write with Guest Member Norma Tucker

A rainy summer evening in Taos, New Mexico. I dismiss the chilly drizzle and join the crowd on historic Taos Plaza to listen to Michael Hearne and his band, South by Southwest.

Jayne, my yoga teacher, introduces me to her friends. “She comes to Taos every summer to write.”

“Why Taos?” a man in black rimmed glasses asks.

“It’s the place to getcha goin’. Or to quiet you.”

“You could write a whole thing about that.”

”That’s what I’m trying to do.”

I open my umbrella. Dancers, undaunted by rain, waltz in boots or sandals, cowboy hats, skirts and jeans, silver buckled belts, long hair and pony tails flying.




“Taos in the rain, the center of the universe, right here, right now,” Michael rallies the crowd. We clap and gyrate as the band plays “New Mexico Rain.”

How do I articulate, much less, encapsulate this experience of place? Where the here, the now, may be a first taste of Taos Cow ice cream, or a moment or glimpse, a lingering to meld. A turn on 68, the Rio Grande emerges at the lower end of its gorge. Late afternoon light and shadow on the Sangre de Christos Mountains bring them closer, lift them higher.



I listen to New Mexican poets and writers at SOMOS (Society of the Muse of the Southwest) Friday night readings, and for me, a highlight, Thursday morning in Phaedra Greenwood’s Craft of Writing class at Café Loka.

I walk down Quesnel Street, past the meadow with riding ring; mountains behind and on the western horizon. Horses graze or play close to the road. I pass a bank of hollyhocks and sunflowers. Yellow and deep pink blossoms on tall, upright, hairy stalks stand against the backdrop of this dusty brown land, wild green fields, scrubby native wind-swept growth, and knotted pine tree trunks. I silently cheer their stamina, absorb the metaphor.

I cross busy Highway 68, Paseo del Pueblo Sur and walk up Camino de la Placita to Café Loka. Who will be there?

Jan moved from New Hampshire to Taos to write a novel. Louise writes about growing up in the Brooklyn projects. Beverly, her rise from fragmentation to wholeness; Lin-lee’s escape from Hurricane Katrina to Hawaii; Amy, her pitch-playing Kansas clan; Carol’s family dinner table in Ohio; Abbie, an operatic libretto.

We sit around the blond wooden table on wire chairs or wooden stools, drawn to this vortex from all directions of this vast country, from abroad, and from nearby canyons and towns, to write. This table, in this café, in Taos, this morning, the center of the universe, right here, right now.

We lean in. Listen and react to words of humor and honesty, experience and imagination, ritual and crisis, of lives full and lives longing. Phaedra reminds us, “Be careful with gerunds.”

The muse whispers to me. Keep linger-ing.
_____________________________________

This was Norma Tucker Tucker's second appearance on First Person Plural. You can read her first post, "After the Ballet" here.

Norma, a native of Baltimore, Md., retired after over a twenty-five year career in higher education administration. She served at a Maryland community college, a women’s college, in associations, and in university and international institutions. She is now fulfilling her long-time desire to write short stories, a memoir and essays with occasional ventures in poetry. She has participated in numerous workshops at The Writer's Center.

________________________________

Do you have a story to share? Drop me a line.

How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love The Girls Next Door

Today's guest blogger is a new member, Kathleen Pugh. I met Kathleen in the summer. She was new to the Center and had plenty of questions. Then, a couple weekends ago, we happened to be in the same one-day workshop on the personal essay (with Anne Cassidy). She submitted this piece, and I enjoyed it. Naturally I thought of First Person Plural and asked her if she'd be interested in letting me post it. I guess she was. Enough of me. Here's Kathleen:

_____________________________________________

I have a secret.

I love reality TV. Not just any reality TV but really bad reality TV. I never got hooked on mainstream reality TV like American Idol or Survivor but rather the real low-brow type, most particularly The Girls Next Door on the E! Channel. If you are not familiar with “The Girls,” think of it as a deranged documentary that chronicles the daily lives of Hef and his three girlfriends, Holly, Bridget, and Kendra; that’s Hugh Hefner of Playboy fame.

The show is like a bad accident on the freeway. You know the one where you don’t want to look but you just can’t help yourself? You might think: Who are these people? What happened to them? Will they be OK? It’s the same thing with The Girls Next Door. I want to know everything about them. The inner voice tells me to pick up the remote and switch channels but somehow, like the freeway accident, I have to look.

As you judge me keep in mind that I have an M.B.A, read the New York Times, and live in a metro area with the highest concentration of PhDs in the nation. I’m actually quite a snob and get scolded by my husband for my condescending attitude toward the kind of people who drink White Zinfandel and consider the Olive Garden a five star restaurant. These are the type of people that would waste their time watching reality TV- not me. Surprisingly, he has no interest in “The Girls."

This seems strange to me. A show about a rich man living with three scantily clad gorgeous young blondes in the famed Playboy Mansion would seem more suited to the average straight male than me, a self proclaimed feminist. I don’t really know why I’m so fascinated by them. I know I should be outraged but instead I sort of admire these “Girls.” Maybe it’s their business arrangement I respect. They are young and beautiful and use their “assets” natural or otherwise to make lots of money from just hanging out with Hef.

Could this fascination be a rebellion? Life is competitive and stressful in this city I call home. So competitive in fact that I have actually camped out overnight to get tickets to an Easter egg roll for my four-year-old daughter. The playground chatter can even be stressful as it often revolves around foreign policy and financial bailouts; now that strikes me as a bit too heady. In this stressed out world I need a little fluff. I know there must be others of you out there who anxiously await each new episode but are afraid to come out of the closet. If you’re out there, please call me. We could form our own society and call ourselves the Feminist Friends of Frivolous Fluff.

From what I’ve heard, and yes I have researched this, Holly (girlfriend number one) is the only one that sleeps with Hef. I actually confirmed this with a friend of a friend who knows someone who knows one of the girlfriends! It makes sense because on the show she is the only one that shares a room with him. Kendra and Bridget, the other two girls, are paid for their time. For this they get to live in “the mansion” rent free, receive an allowance for clothing, plastic surgery and cars, access to all the A list parties and trips to Europe, New York, and Las Vegas. It sounds like a pretty good gig to me sans the eighty-two year old boyfriend in the smoking jacket. It certainly is an unconventional lifestyle, but it seems to work very well for them. It’s the ultimate fantasy. Who wouldn’t want to be pampered, go to parties, get driven around in a limo, live in a mansion, and have an adoring public? It sounds a bit like being the president of the United States without the stress!

When I recently heard that Holly and Hef broke up and all the girls would be going their separate ways I was actually sad. Poor Hef! (Oh wait, that means there’s an opening for the girlfriend job!)

I digress.

I was sadder yet when I imagined the impending loss of my innocent weekly appointment with escapism and the effects it would have on my stress level. What was to become of me? My girls? How would I fill the void? The good news is that all three of them will have spin offs. Now that sounds deliciously dreadful. I might have to get a digital video recorder so I can keep up with all the antics. So there you have it, that’s my dirty little secret. Dare to share yours?

________________________________________________
Kathleen Wise Pugh has a BA in English from SUNY Binghamton and an MBA from the University of Nevada Las Vegas. She has done everything from working in finance in the casino industry in Las Vegas to working as a bureaucrat in Washington, DC. She is currently a stay at home mom to one very precocious four year old who gives her lots of inspiration for her writing. Her ten minute plays have been performed at Theater J, The Theater Lab, and Nevada State College. Kathleen is originally from Brooklyn, NY and currently resides in the lovely but oftentimes stressful Washington, DC. She is an enthusiastic student of The Writerʼs Center because without it she might succumb to watching too many hours of bad reality TV!