The Contrast Between the Two

Last night I skied home from chores at Melvin’s on the trailing edge of the storm. The snow was tapering, but the beam of my headlamp created the illusion of gathering intensity, as if I were gliding into the opening maw of a blizzard. And the cold: Zero and dropping, but I carried the warmth of the barn with and in me. I’d fed out a fat second-cut round bale, shoulder-leaning into it with the full force of what mass and muscle I could muster, rolling it down the lane like one pushes a broken car for a jump start. A week-old Jersey bull calf nudged my legs as I worked; he’d been born a week early, tiny, too small to ship for beef, too sweet to put down by hand. So. For now, a pet, future uncertain.

After hay, chop the softwood sawdust with a double-bit axe to loosen it. It is green sawdust, with enough moisture to freeze solid on a winter like this. I chopped a few shovelfuls worth at a time, slowly filled the wheelbarrow. The calf now nestled in the hay I’d fed out. Waiting for his bottle.

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My first post on this blog was almost five years ago. It was a begrudging post because it was a begrudging blog, launched in a begrudging response to the notion that its presence was somehow essential to my future as a writer. Ridiculous, of course, and I would never advise anyone to write anything, in any medium, for these reasons. But like most people, I do not always heed the advice I give to others.

I posted sporadically for about two years until, for no particular reason, I decided to commit. I honestly can’t remember why I made that decision. It wasn’t making any money off it. I wasn’t getting enough traffic to having a meaningful impact on book sales. I wasn’t even getting enough traffic to have a meaningful impact on my sense of whether or not my work here was of value to anyone. I guess I just decided not to begrudge it anymore. I think it was simple as that.

I’ve posted a lot of pretty low quality work here. Out of all the writing I’ve done here, I can recall only a handful of posts that I believe qualify as truly good writing, though I realize that I’m not always the best judge of my own work. That doesn’t mean there’s no value in the other posts, since the quality of the writing is only one component of the work I do here, though it might be the component that’s most important to me. And in truth, part of the value of the lesser quality posts is precisely that they’re lesser quality: I’ve come to understand that it’s impossible for me to produce good writing without producing a lot of less-good writing. Which is to say, the latter is part-and-parcel of the former. They cannot be separated. One is dependent on the other, it is the contrast between the two that makes each of them what they are. Like happiness and sadness, I suppose. Fullness and emptiness, coldness and warmth.

I never imagined I’d receive the amount of support I currently receive via this space. It’s huge, it’s humbling, almost overwhelming at times. I’m not talking about money – though I’m not not talking about money, either, and thank you for that. But even more, I mean the kind, thoughtful, generous comments and notes. Some by hand, even. Amazing. And the strangest thing (though it’s actually probably not the strangest thing, it’s probably the most logical thing in the world, it’s just that I’m only now learning to recognize it as such) is that they always arrive precisely when I most need them. I guess what I’m saying is, again, “thank you.”

I am sold out of the new book, but have more on order. I will ship them out just as soon as I am restocked. Another thing to thank you for, all those orders. I guess I can maybe now humble myself enough to say that if you like the book, I would deeply appreciate it if you’d mention it to others. If you have the time and inclination, if it feels right to you, maybe you could write a review somewhere. Yes, even Amazon, though I still encourage you to support your local bookseller when it comes time to part with your money.

It’s probably obvious by now, but this space has become pretty important to me. It is the only truly unfiltered, unmediated public outlet I have for my writing: I write what I want, when I want, how I want. In one sense, it’s risky as hell, a high wire act. But I try not to dwell on the risk, or the self-consciousness that results when I do. There’s already plentiful fear of risk in this world to go around. There’s more than enough self-consciousness, too. I needn’t add mine to the mix.

Anyway. Cold again this morning. Thirteen below. When I came in from chores, Penny had just dropped kefir doughnuts into a pot of the lard we rendered last week. I warmed my hands a bit over the wood stove. I shucked out of my insulated overalls, kicked out of my boots. I thought of that little Jersey bull. I don’t know why.

I sat down with my family. My fingers were still chilled, but the doughnuts were hot, and the contrast between the two felt good in my hands.