About once a month, I hear a voice from the back room of The Beachcomber that yells, “Austin! Write something!”
That drill-sergeant-esque tiding tells me there is a big white spot in the paper and I need to put ink on it. Usually I run to my desk and joyfully start typing away, but this time was different. At first I thought I had a case of writer’s block, so I promptly went out and bought a book on how to overcome said writer’s block, then promptly learned I had reader’s block.
In the past, I have treated my author’s constipation by setting a laptop beside a comfortable chair, opening my writing program and having a beverage handy. I try to make a welcoming little writer’s nook. Usually what happens, though, is I end up tiptoeing around the computer as if it were a spouse in a bad mood.
Yet, even though I willed myself to sit down and write, I ended up losing a staring contest with Microsoft Word, again. As a last resort, I decided to clean my house. Yes, this metaphorical cleaning of the mind never fails. I don’t know if it’s the yard-long wad of hairs I pull out of the shower drain or the hour spent scrubbing the burnt lasagna pan or cleaning the bolts on the toilet seat with the guest toothbrush, but eventually my brain says, “If you had an idea, you wouldn’t have to do these things!” Then, clunk, an idea plops out.
So, why was I having such a hard time doing what I love to do? It wasn’t writer’s block, it was much worse. It was the realization that this would be the very last article I would ever write for my friend and editor Natalie Martin. She is moving to Anchorage, Alaska, just like that, without even asking me.
Anchorage? Really? It is so far up there you can see Sarah Palin’s house. It is so close to the North Pole that you can watch polar bears drink Coca-Cola. There is so much snow flying around, it is considered the state bird, barely beating out the mosquito. Do you know that the people who live there have ten different words for “oil spill?”
OK, to be honest I don’t want Natalie to leave for a very practical reason: Working the phones at The Beachcomber, you hear some very unusual things. For instance, someone will call us and ask, “What kind of tree is in my yard?” or “When does Thriftway close?” and I always say, “I don’t know, but I am sure Natalie does.” A few button clicks later, and it is her problem. And when I pick up the phone and hear, “I have an ingrown toenail that looks like President Lincoln. You should put a picture of it in the paper,” or “I can control fish using my mind and I think you should do a story on it,” I always reply, “I think that is an excellent idea, and I am sure our editor would love to do an in-depth story. Let me transfer you to Natalie.” To date she has never thanked me for encouraging these budding contributors.
In all seriousness, Natalie has never shied away from the difficult stories that a newspaper must tell, and yet as both sides accuse her of favoritism (sometimes in the crudest terms imaginable) she has always handled the situation with wisdom and aplomb that belies her age. She does us all proud here at The Beachcomber.
But, Natalie, it seems like your mind is made up, so I wish you all the luck and best wishes in the world. We will all miss you. You owe us one, Alaska!
— Chris Austin is a writer, VoV radio host and the circulation
manager at The Beachcomber.
