Anywhere But Here: How to Create a Sense of Place Without Leaving Your Couch

It's a glamorous life.

I've been thinking a lot about the weather lately, as one is wont to do when one lives in a state that recently set an all-time snowfall record. For the past two months, I have been at the mercy of Place. The snow has given me extra chores (most notably, shoveling the roof), forced me to improvise (substituted husband's dirty socks when I couldn't find my gloves), and fussed with my plans (let's pretend, for the purpose of this blog post, that I am the type of conscientious person that worries about the success of the company that employs me when it has to close for inclement weather.) Come May, the comings and goings of my life could conceivably take place anywhere, but this winter, my adventures could only be set in a small New England town with an insufficient road maintenance budget. Setting has very much been a character in the story of my winter, which is mostly the story of complaining, overeating, and watching entirely too much television.

When You're Not Where You Want To Be, There You Are.

I turn another year older tomorrow. (I'm not going to tell you my age, but I will say that I'm snugly ensconced in my thirties. I'm no beginner, but the proverbial hill is still safely in the distance.) Birthdays are difficult, I think, for us creative types. I've been sitting here all day with my buddies Snowstorm, Flu, and Time of the Month drinking cup after cup of whine, bemoaning the fact that I'm (lip quiver) not where I want to be.

Instead of devoting all of my time to my creative endeavors, I have to show up at the gray cubicle every day, doing work that's rote and often unfulfilling, because I'm a talentless hack.  My novel isn't progressing as quickly or as ingeniously as I want it to, because I'm a talentless hack.  After three years in New England, I'm still stumbling over the basic cultural mores of living here, because I'm a socially inept talentless hack. (For anyone considering relocation: it's essential to know what team Tom Brady plays for, own clothing that's not black, and if it's snowing, you still have to go to work.) I feel itchy and out of place and terminally scattered and unproductive and very capable of run-on sentences.

I'll pause here, so you can all cry for the tragedy of talentless hackery that is me.

The Man with the Dog: Writing Tips From Anton Chekhov

Because we're super-committed to keeping our marriage super-spicy, my husband and I recently did something super-radical: We got off the couch, we put on clothing that did not contain elastic, and we trotted our date-ready selves off to the theater to take in Christopher Durang's ode to Chekhov, Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike. I don't say this often, but it really was worth leaving the house for. The first act was big and loud and riotously funny, woven with references that made you feel good about yourself for catching. The second act grounded the play, ending in a quiet burst of compassion.

All this Chekhovian love prompted me to give some of his short stories a re-read. I started with The Lady with the Dog, which Tennessee Williams referred to as "one of the greatest short stories ever written." I don't disagree, although Chekhov could have described the dog more, or given the dog a name, or maybe written it from the dog's perspective. (I don't say this out of simple dog motherhood. Chekhov was actually a devoted dachshund owner, too, so he had an obligation.) Four-legged representation aside, the economy in this story is dazzling. Here are some takeaways.

Writing Tips From the Master of Melancholy: A Guest Post by Michelle Gates

Today's post comes to us from my friend, Michelle Gates. Michelle is currently at work on her delicious Gothic novel, The Boiling Girl. She's also an Edgar Allan Poe aficionado, and I'm so thrilled that she agreed to share some of her insights with us!