My desk faces three windows with deep windowsills that have become, over time, shrines to this writing life. Living in a community of numerous studio artists, most of my friends have similar places in their homes. Picture bulletin boards in a potter’s studio, a gallery owner with a kitchen cabinet full of ceramic mugs (each with a story), or a blacksmith with a manhole cover collection. No matter the medium, it seems all artists have small collections of items in their homes and studios that remind them of their true calling.

The central window of my “shrine” is perhaps most revealing, as it lays to bare my deepest aspirations and connections. Items include: Andew Bird paraphernalia, ticket stub from train ride in Alaska (where I met the engineer, god help me), hunks of mica from Fork Mountain day hikes, and a handblown glass replica of the moon, among other things.

The windowsill directly behind my computer and the one I stare at most naturally, serves as an ode to writing friends and mentors who inspire me. A card from Wesley in the shape if Virginia Wolf, clamshell “angel’s wings” from Jan, a Valentine from Britt, an Alaska postcard from Cam, lavender from Loy, and my grandfather’s Daily Register calendar (1979). Several quotes are taped to the window, including: “Write with precise abandon.”

The windowsill to the far right houses two distinct stacks of paper: “Rejections” and “Acceptances.” Totalled, they add up to about ½ ream of paper, with rejections in only a slight lead.

As I pack my shrine in anticipation of one year on the road, I can’t help but wonder. What does an artist’s shrine say about him or her? Does it tend toward the nostalgic or the obsessive? The future or the antique? Is it meant to comfort or provoke thought?

“How do you hide a tree?” asks Hanshi. We’re sparring again and I’m slow to react.

“In a forest,” answers Nate, the 2^nd degree black belt.

“Good. And how do you hide movement?” Hanshi turns to me.

“Within movement,” I say.

“That’s right.” He steps into fighting stance and bounces his body a little, keeping his feet poised for action but not letting them leave the floor. In this way, it’s more difficult for an opponent to see where the next move is coming from because every part of his body is moving a little bit already. “Katey, Nate—bow to each other. Fighting stance. Ready? Kumite!”

And we’re off, a snap kick here, lead punch there. Backfist to the head then reverse punch to the solar plexus. Fake footsweep and round kick to the kidney. For my rank as yankyu (purple belt), I’m far behind on sparring experience, having only been in about 15 very casual matches at the dojo. Some karateka get that many matches into one month, yet I’ve been at this almost two years.

Kumite translates to deciding hands and that is precisely where I struggle. I square off with an opponent and I know his hands are faster than my feet so I hesitate to kick. (Have you ever taken an elbow jab into the top of your foot? Sounds simple enough but it stings, let me tell you.) Struggling to decide what next, I step past the kicking zone into the punching zone and either luck out because my opponent doesn’t attack (which is unrealistic) or I take a snap kick to the ribs. Either way I’d be done for if it was a street fight.

Once inside the punching zone, I can get a decent haky ryu, backfist, or lead jab in but I never fully commit my body—I’ll send my arm and fist out full force and on target, but if you stop time and look at my stance, I never bring my body into my technique, therefore the entire move is only 20% as effective as it could be. In other words, my body reveals that I haven’t actually committed to my technique and therefore am poor at making decisions on the spot.

“Yame! Stop!” Hanshi yells. Nate and I disengage and stand at attention. Hanshi turns to me. “You’re thinking too much. What is wu wei?”

“To act without thinking, Sir,” I say.

“That’s right. Now do it. Ready? Kumite!”

You know you’re committed to your career when you sell your vehicle in service of it. Reluctantly but rationally, when I decided to embark on “one year of writing residencies on the road,” I understood this would mean selling Lady Blue. A few weeks ago I found a buyer. Like me, he needs it for his difficult driveway, and also like me, he understand just how beat up this old Ford Ranger really is.

I took her up Fork Mountain one last time and my friend took this photo of me wielding a mighty pen—the instrument I’ll use the most in the coming year. Would you trade a truck for a year with a pen? I just did.

For the next 7 weeks, I’ll be hiking ½ mile up a steep grade to get to and from my house (flashback to winter 2007).

We signed the papers, had the title notarized, and I accepted a check for $450. That covers the money I put into Lady Blue in the one year that I owned her—including the initial purchase of the vehicle. I’m breaking even but it still feels like a financial boost. Every penny is going into savings for 2010, which is already looking like an epic year.

STATS:

No from Shenandoah (with the word “thanks” spelled incorrectly)

No from Nano Fiction (but a personal rejection requesting more work)

No from New Southerner (again, a personal rejection)

Radio silence from Seneca Review

Still holding my breath for Flash Fiction Online and Vermont Studio Center

YES from the International Art Critics Association & Creative Capitol Foundation accepting me as a Arts Writing Workshop Fellow (all expenses paid, 4 days, NYC)

12 submissions still out there…

NOTED:

I still think about Alaska approximately once every six hours. Two months ago today I walked on a glacier whose source was as high as 16,000 feet in the alpine peaks of the Wrangells in this country’s largest National Park.

Interlochen, Michigan received 209 inches of snow last winter. That is where I will be a writer in residence for four months this winter.

There are more vehicles of note in Mitchell & Yancey Counties than there are hound dogs. I do not purport to represent them all here. We all have those places and things on the side of the road that our eyes gravitate toward each time we drive past. Here are a few that keep my attention:

First, the artist/baker’s anti-war/pro-feminist truck. To be technically anti-war, it should probably be a bike, but there wouldn’t have been enough room to paint all the bombs.

Second, the creepy dude’s hideout bus. Into the Wild, anyone? As meticulous as his wood pile is, the owner won’t be around this winter to enjoy it. He was thrown in jail last month for threatening his lawyer. The threat? “I will kill your dog and eat it in front of your children.” Like I said—creepy.

Third, a local gardener’s truck. Did he get stuck in quicksand and the truck saved his life? Was he merely playing games, alone with the bliss of his work in the mid-afternoon sun?

Fourth, a rarity—the Volkswagon Rabbit Pickup Truck. What I find almost as interesting is the fact that this vehicle, along with the others nearby, is parked on top of old 2x4’s. Not a bridge. Just slats of wood laid side-by-side. Beneath the wood? A tributary of Cane Creek.

Fifth, this clever variation on the oft-altered TOYOTA logo:

Sixth, my truck. Meet Lady Blue, the $150 Queen of Fork Mountain. Key feature: "Havoc Unleashed," a barbaric plastic figurine given to me by none other than Dad Schultz.