Tea at Trianon: I Moved to a Remote Cabin to Write, and I Hate It

John Wilson Croker on Marie-Antoinette

"We have followed the history of Marie Antoinette with the greatest diligence and scrupulosity. We have lived in those times. We have talked with some of her friends and some of her enemies; we have read, certainly not all, but hundreds of the libels written against her; and we have, in short, examined her life with– if we may be allowed to say so of ourselves– something of the accuracy of contemporaries, the diligence of inquirers, and the impartiality of historians, all combined; and we feel it our duty to declare, in as a solemn a manner as literature admits of, our well-matured opinion that every reproach against the morals of the queen was a gross calumny– that she was, as we have said, one of the purest of human beings."

~from History of the Guillotine by John Wilson Croker, 1844

Edmund Burke on Marie-Antoinette

"It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely there never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just begun to move in, glittering like a morning star full of life and splendor and joy. Oh, what a revolution....Little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fall upon her, in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers! I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look which threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded...."

~Edmund Burke, October 1790

Wednesday, December 15, 2021

I Moved to a Remote Cabin to Write, and I Hate It

I think just about every writer dreams of the solitude of a cabin in the wilderness, or of a beach shack, in which to write. But complete solitude all at once can be too much for many people, especially if not accompanied by prayer, reflection and mortification. Being a hermit was seen as the ultimate penance for the Desert Fathers, because it was hard to live the eremitical life well. Being alone is not for everyone. The author of this article is honest, funny and quite a good writer. From Outside:

Six months ago I took the biggest leap of my life: I quit my dead-end job, ended things for good with my on-again-off-again boyfriend, and moved to an off-the-grid cabin in the woods of Montana, with a wood stove and an outhouse. I’ve always loved to write, but never had the time and space to try a real writing project, and I figured big sky country would be the answer. Now I have nothing but space, and time: time to hike, to look at wildlife, to be close to the rhythms of nature, and to write my heart out. My best friend even made me a goodbye present to hang above my desk: a painted sign reading WALDEN II.

My plan for my new life was simple, or so I thought. I’d rise each morning, drink herbal tea, walk on the same trail, watch wildlife, and write down my meditations about the natural world. Then I would come home to my little cabin and have the whole afternoon to work on my book: a combination of memoir and reflection on nature. I have with me the crates of books that I hauled down four flights of stairs from my old apartment, thinking they would inspire me—not just to write, but to work through the trauma that I felt I couldn’t process in my old life. I wanted to find myself here, through a combination of nature and art. But now, day after day, I have nothing interesting to say about nature, and I feel terrified that there is no me to find.

I haven’t written anything. I’m bored with the little trail by my house, and the only wildlife I’ve watched are geese. I don’t know anybody here. My plan was to be self-sufficient, a one-person retreat, but I didn’t plan on the kind of loneliness that would make me want to text my ex. My friends back home—in my old home, anyway—are nothing but supportive, and tell me they can’t wait to read my writing. But I have nothing to show them, and I’m afraid to tell them that I’m not even enjoying a world they often tell me they’re jealous I get to experience. I thought this was what I needed to find my true self, but something is wrong, and I’m afraid it’s me. (Read more.)