Walden Pond is for Suckers!

Every year around this time, my mother begins calling and asking if I intend to visit the family cottage for the summer. Without fail, she uses the exact same argument to entice me.

"You can get some writing done while you're here," she tells me. "Maybe you can even work on your novel."

To her credit, it's a compelling argument. Our cottage - which my mother designed and built herself using the wood from an old barn - is located on an isolated peninsula in northern Michigan - smack dab in the middle of a forest that's about as far away from civilization as you can get. It's tempting to sneak away to the woods for a few months and devote myself entirely to writing. In fact, it's so tempting that one might easily be coaxed into staying indefinitely. The cottage has no TV or phones or internet connection or anything else that might distract me from the daunting task of finishing my next book.

KEEP ON READIN'



Like many writers and college students pursuing a useless degree in literature, I was once enamored by Henry David Thoreau. When I first read "Walden Pond", I was convinced that he had discovered some universal truth about creativity and the secrets to a happy existence. "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately," Thoreau wrote. "To front only the essential facts of life and see if I could not learn what they had to teach."

Yes, I thought, he's got the right idea. I'd like to live in a cabin, too. I want to cast off the shackles of the modern world and spend my days eating foliage, reading by candlelight and writing, writing, writing. Oh, what bliss that would be!

Every time my mother calls, dangling the proverbial carrot of a much-needed writing sabbatical, I'm briefly transfixed by the fantasy yet again. But then I remember that I've already attempted this particular experiment, and it didn't end well.

It happened many years ago, when I was still young and naive enough to believe in such things. I had been living in Chicago, and learning the hard way that supporting myself financially was difficult on a freelancer's salary. My mom offered up the cottage as a place to live rent-free while I figured out my next step, but I had other plots in mind. I decided to move there permanently - or at least for a year - and recreate myself in Thoreau's image. I would become the quiessential loner author, cut off from society and fully immersed in my own art. I knew it'd be difficult, but such selfless devotion to my craft would surely result in at least one book destined to join the canon of great American literature.

It didn't work out quite as I'd planned. Here are my notes from the year I learned that Thoreau was a lying bitch.



During the first few weeks, I'm staggeringly productive. It's not uncommon for me to write 60 pages in a single afternoon. I'm convinced that I've discovered an idyllic paradise - a Garden of Eden but without the pesky snake or Original Sin. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the weather is gorgeous, and the autumn leaves have provided a stunning backdrop. But winter is just around the corner, and the tourists are already boarding up their cottages and leaving for the city.

Before long, I'm the only one left on the peninsula. Without any social interaction to distract me, I finish a draft of my first book and I'm well into my second. Also, I've developed a fondness for the local wine, which tastes awful but has enough sugar to keep me going for days at a stretch.

I've stopped looking at the clock. Time has no meaning here. I eat when I'm hungry, and sleep when I'm tired. I feel like a creative machine, and the only thing that gives me pause is the somewhat disturbing idea that should I die, it might take weeks, even months, before somebody discovers my body. Best not to think about it too much. Just keep typing, and enjoy the isolation while it lasts.



When you've taken on the lifestyle of a hermit, personal hygiene becomes an afterthought. I can't remember the last time I shaved, and my beard has grown long enough to require constant grooming. But I've chosen to ignore it, allowing my facial hair to become a tangled mess of knots. I try to avoid mirrors, but when I catch a glimpse of myself, it's a little frightening. I could pass for King Lear - the act three Lear, when he's become a raving lunatic, wandering through a thunderstorm and muttering to mice.

What's more, I haven't bathed in weeks, and my stench is starting to offend even me. But I've been too industrious to care about such petty concerns. I think I'm on the verge of finishing the Great American Novel - possibly several of them.

Upon reviewing some of my latest work, however, I realize that most of my writing is gibberish. I've written at least seventeen pages about how a cardinal I've seen hovering just outside the window near my desk is actually speaking to me in code.

Have I gone mad? "Naw," I tell myself. "I'm just more attuned to nature because of the lack of urban distractions."

A few more swigs of the sugary-sweet Michigan wine and all self-doubt disappears.



Winter has come, and come hard. I seem to recall that I had a car at some point, but I can't locate it under the heavy layers of snow. No matter. Even if I found it, it's not like I have anywhere to go. The nearest town is 30 miles away, and there's nothing I could possibly need from that mass of men, with their lives of quiet desperation, that I can't provide for myself.

Other than wood. I need wood for the stove, to stay warm and cook the rations I've stored in the basement.



My attempts to use an axe are clumsy at best, and I'm scared of the chainsaw. So I journey by foot to a nearby farmer, who sells firewood by the rick. Apparently I've been craving human contact, because I try to make our transaction last much longer than should be necessary.

"Sounds good," I tell him, shaking a piece of wood and holding it up to my ear. "Not too hollow. Is it fresh? It sounds fresh."

The farmer just stares at me, perplexed. "Yeah, it's... fresh."

"I'm hearing an echo in this one. Is that normal? You're not trying to sell me skunk wood, are you?"

"S-skunk wood?" The farmer asks. "What do you-?"

I laugh just a little too hard. "I'm kidding. I'll take everything you've got. Do you have a truck? My car kinda disappeared. Long story." I shake the wood again, pressing it against my ear and listening intently. "Yeah, this is good stuff. Very ripe. It'll burn reaaaaaaaal nice."



When you haven't uttered more than a few words with another human being in weeks, it can take a toll. I've started talking to myself. Not just quiet mumbling, but full-blown arguments. Sometimes I have to put myself in my place, especially when I've had too much wine and I get uppity. On the bright side, I almost always win.

When I'm annoyed by the sound of my own voice, I waste hours trying to find music on the radio (no luck) or coming up with strange concoctions involving chicken broth and foods that don't belong in broth.

The luxuries of the city are now distant memories to me. My idea of takeout involves buying venison by the pound from local hunters, and the only newspaper I've read are the yellowing pages (the most recent being from 1984) left next to the stove for kindling.

I still write occasionally, but not nearly as often as I should. The few pages I've finished are disturbing even to me, as it could easily be confused with a manifesto.

The biggest chunk of my day is spent marking my territory. Because of all the snow, I'm acutely aware that animals - I suspect those conniving raccoons - have been urinating on my front lawn. Convinced that my land ownership is being challenged, I've taken to peeing outdoors. I pee on the intruder's pee, and for good measure, reestablish my property lines by peeing at strategic locations around the perimeter of the cottage, within twelve yards in every direction.

I've forgotten what it means to flush, and it appears that my genitals are developing frostbite, but I don't see that I have any other choice.



Spring is here and the tourists are finally coming back, not that I've noticed. I prefer being alone, and the sight of other human beings alarms me. Fortunately, my presence seems to alarm them, as well.

The only neighbors who bother to stop by and say hello happen to catch me while I'm standing out on the lawn, shirtless and barefoot, shooting bats out of the sky with a garden hose. I try to be friendly, but not being accustomed to speaking out loud, I manage only a few grunts.

I don't hear from them again.

The idiom "Kill what you eat and eat what you kill" has become my personal philosophy, despite the fact that I don't hunt and most of my food comes out of a can.

Without snow to indicate where trespassing forest creatures might be leaving their scent, I'm now peeing everywhere. I drink as much water as possible just for the urine. I haven't written anything in months, which is just as well. It's a waste of precious energy, and eats into my peeing time.

My mother shows up towards the end of the summer, and sensing that I've had a complete nervous collapse, she suggests that I move back to Chicago immediately. I think she might be right. I hear they've made some spectacular advances in non-log-burning heat. And to the best of my knowledge, their leases are more legally binding than piss.