Funny Farm?

     In the funny movie, Funny Farm, Chevy Chase's character, Andy Farmer, quits his job and moves to the country to write a novel. He outfits an upstairs room with a desk and typewriter next to the window. After finger-pecking the title of his book, "The Big Heist," he stares at blankness. Words neither flow nor trickle and Andy ends up with wads of paper heaping over the trash can and littering the floor.

    Eventually he eeks out a first draft which he puts in a gift box, ties a ribbon around it and elaborately presents it to his wife, Elizabeth, demanding that she read it right then and there. Reluctantly, she begins, but Andy will not leave the room and she is distracted by his presence. He stares at her, waiting for a reaction, but she offers no praise and is mostly nonreactive which fires up his anger.

    In a tearful outburst Elizabeth admits she hates the story with all of its flash forwards and flash backwards. Andy yells that she knows nothing about writing then throws the manuscript into the fireplace where it burns to a crisp. With the realization that his dream of becoming a novelist has gone up in puffs of smoke, Andy takes to his bed and stays there, getting up only long enough to harass the mailman.

    Some people I know also bought an old house on some acreage, not as a place of retreat to write their novels but to escape city life and partake of a simpler life. They call their new digs "the farm," but it is not a farm in the traditional sense; no cows, horses or pigs; only several outbuildings including a log cabin that sits quietly about a hundred yards from the main house and a million miles back in time. 

    The one-room cabin, built by the previous owner, has a front porch and a loft that is accessible only by climbing a ladder. Just inside the front door is a wood stove that harkens back to the homes of our grandmothers and grandfathers. Renovations are underway to create a tiny but comfortable guest house where the only amenities will be electricity and a bathroom.

    This log cabin, in all of its rustic glory, is the main attraction of the farm and the envy of visitors, including me. I see it as a writer's dream, a place to sit and ponder, to look out the window and into myself. Writers go to great lengths to find enough solitude to start or finish a book, and some are lucky enough to end up somewhere like a log cabin in the wilderness. 

    I heard about one author who traveled overseas and holed up in a cottage to write. Another spoke about going underground for a month and completely disconnecting from the outside world. Recently I listened to a podcast about a ladies-only critique group that meets quarterly in different cities away from their families, pulling all-nighters to assess each other's works.

    Most writers write in messy rooms where words pile up like last week's laundry. There are probably only a few who write from the perfect pristine spot, or from the log cabin of their dreams.

Copyright © 2023 by Mary Frances