5x5. My Cabin in the Woods for Yours, Part II: Holly Starley and Ramona Grigg on Bravery, Upcoming Projects, and Doors That Lead to Other Rooms

Yesterday, I sent you part I of my exchange with Holly Starley , who operates a blog called Holly Starley’s Rolling Desk, a clever take-off, since she lives most of the year vagabonding in her van.

This year Holly has decided to spend the winter in a cabin in Oregon, and since I’ve decided to spend the winter in my cabin in Michigan, we thought it would be fun to talk about our lives as women living alone in the woods. (Not that we’re totally alone, just as Thoreau wasn’t totally alone. There are people around when we want them or need them, but it’s the hours of quiet and solitude that draw us each to our chosen spaces.)

Here’s Part 2. Thank you all for your interest yesterday. And for hanging around for more today!

From Ramona’s island abode

HS. You’ve written about both the relief of solitude and the deliciousness of boredom (plus an intriguing hint of an “intruder” story to come) during your winter cottage stay. What do you see out your cottage window?

RG. What do I see out my cottage window? Right now snow is coming down and I can barely see the point at the end of the bay. The bay is completely snow-covered now. The open water is gone and I’m always sorry to see it go. No more blue when the sun shines. No more ducks or geese swimming around, though soon enough the deer will ease out onto the ice, for what reason nobody knows. There is no food out there. Nothing for them to do. And it seems odd that they would position themselves out in the open like that, marking themselves as easy prey for hungry coyotes or wolves or bobcats or whatever else we have here that might find venison to their liking. But they frolic out there! They run around and chase each other like a bunch of kids without a care in the world. 

The life I find here would be idyllic if it weren’t for having to worry about keeping the cottage going. Those worries are a constant presence and I know I could better deal with them if I were younger and more agile. But I’m not. So there’s always a downside to everything, isn’t there?

My island cabin nearing sunset.

HS. Indeed. You’re working on a book of essays you plan to publish soon. Yay! I look forward to it. You’re offering one-on-one editorial assists to other writers. You’ve experienced many evolutions of self, and at some point, writer became your identity. You were an instructor, a conference speaker, a resident at writers retreats, and deeply involved in Detroit’s writing community. In “On Writing Free and Brave,” an essay on a Eudora Welty collection and Kenneth Grahame’s Wind in the Willows, you wrote:

“It struck me that these books, each in their own way, are studies in bravery. (But then all writing for publication is rooted in bravery. As anyone who’s tried it knows. It’s not for wimps.)”

Do you have a favorite tip on being brave, in writing and/or in life?

RG. I don’t feel especially brave, but I do think my age has a lot to do with my attitude now. That, and being alone for the first time ever. It’s not exactly ‘I don’t give a shit’ but more like ‘What’s the worst that would happen if I did this?’ (Or better yet, “What’s the worst that would happen if I just said ‘no’?” I’m getting there!)

I’ve always been a people pleaser, willing to take the back seat to anyone and anything I think should have priority, and I’m still that way to a degree, but now, at 86, I’m proud of myself for not giving in to grief or loneliness or depression. For finally making myself my first priority.

I’m really uncomfortable when people, especially other writers, tell me they think I’m brave. Or honest. It’s odd to me that they see that, and I don’t know how to react. I think my writing is probably a little braver than before, mainly because I’m allowing that vulnerability to slip out, but I don’t think I’m any more honest than anyone else. After 12 years of my political blog I’m used to giving my opinion. If anything, I find myself trying to hold back from always expressing what I think. It gets me into trouble sometimes, especially at Substack, where vulnerability among writers is the watchword, and where I see my role, especially at Writer Everlasting, as the den mother who gets it and is there to pat heads and to give gentle if not always wanted advice.

I guess my tip to other writers would be, if you find yourself saying ‘I wish I could be that brave’, then work at being as brave as you can be without feeling as if you’re dying out there. Writing should be honest and fulfilling and as close a measure of who you are as you can make it. If you feel something deeply but you know it’ll be controversial, ask yourself who you’re writing it for. For those few who will give you a hard time? Or for those who may be feeling it, too, and need to know they’re not alone?  That should give you the answer you’re looking for.

And from Holly’s spot nestled in a valley

RG. I have to laugh that you wanted me to talk about being brave. You! Asking me!  So I’ll ask you right back. My question (questions, it turns out.) First of all, I love the word ‘vagabonding’. It looks like you’ve been living in your Ford van, Ruby van Jangles, for almost five years now, give or take a house-sit or some other happening that requires you to hang around where four walls don’t curve at the ceiling and where doors may lead to other rooms. You talk a lot about what draws you to that life, and I completely understand after reading the next of your adventures and the next after that, but what about fears? Has there ever been a time when you’ve thought about giving it up for a more ‘normal’ existence, possibly because of a close call or a dread you maybe hadn’t thought of until it seeped in at some point?  Do you think you’ll ever give up living on the road? What would make you do it?

HS. I made a deal early on in the vanlife with the fearful part of me. I was “sleeping” among the sand dunes of Samoa, California, outside Humboldt County, the ocean’s perfume curling in through my cracked window. I kept tensing at every little noise I thought I heard over the lull of the tide. The deal was this: “Thank you, fearful one. I know you’re trying to protect me. I will investigate anytime you think I should. If there’s any realistic danger, we’ll go—that very moment. If not, you must chill. Or this will be torture.” That has never led me astray. And I’ve rarely bolted. Instead, curiosity has had her turn.

I’m also smart. As a woman traveling alone, I think about this a lot more than men I’ve talked to. I back into most spots. I map a clear and easy exit in my mind. When I sleep, my shoes and keys are situated so I can move from bed to driver’s seat and leave quickly. Other precautions have become habit as well.

The van is for sure temporary. (Don’t tell Ruby just yet.) I doubt I’ll ever not want to live a life that facilitates travel in a way that I think of as roaming or vagabonding. But that’s already come in many forms for me (an RV, a truck, a bike, a backpack). And it’s been interspersed with long periods in walls sans curves (lovely way of saying it!). I imagine that will continue to be true, new forms of both roaming and staying, depending on what and who I find along the way. Doors that lead to other rooms, you might say.

The view from Holly’s winter cabin’s back porch in an early January ice storm. A couple weeks later, and it’s now green and swampy, and a chorus of frogs sings her to sleep nightly.

RG. And speaking of writing, do you have plans for different kinds of works this year? Longer pieces, or even a book?  Do you keep a writing calendar and plan your projects in advance? I’ve never been able to do that. Too intimidating, too much like a job, but then I’m old now and not looking for a job. I imagine you have outside work that demands your attention, so how do you work around it in order to write those more lyrical pieces that must be far more satisfying? Is it easier or harder to balance your time when you’re vagabonding?

HS. I’m working on a memoir and book proposal. I’m working on essays I hope to publish in various literary and outdoor mags. Having given myself permission, I’ve released a flood of work. And I’m nothing if not intrepid when I put my mind to something. 

My editorial calendar is planned out far in advance. I’ve been managing and assigning editor on projects, and I love thinking about a project as a whole and how all the parts work toward that vision. I’m definitely doing that here at the Rolling Desk. At first, I was throwing spaghetti at the wall. Now, I have a big-picture plan for roughly the whole of 2024 (which will change if noodles start falling). Whether it’s visible to anyone but me, I have no clue. But I geek out on it. As for balance, I’ve been freelancing since 2005, so I’ve gotten quite good at balancing my time no matter the situation.

Oh, and I’m launching a workshop next month I’m over the moon about. I’ve been systemizing ways to apply to my own work the strategies and perspectives I honed over decades as an editor working with others’ writing. It’s made my writing practice so much more joyful and free and, I think, upped my game. So, in the Be Your Own Editor workshops I’m really excited to share those systems with other writers.

Outside work is a whole story unto itself. I took a tiny hop of cutting back on other work, and then the universe gave me a push that made it more of a leap. I’m being cryptic. I’m a little bit in a whirlwind around it. Let’s just say this. I’d started to think, If not now, then when. A tentative voice whispered, “Now.” The universe said, “Roar, girl.” So, “NOW!”

Holly feeding the birds near the end of the ice storm. She had so many visitors. And they went through an entire feeder every day of that storm.

Our snow fence one winter. It did absolutely nothing! A complete waste of time.

I’d started to think, If not now, then when. A tentative voice whispered, “Now.” The universe said, “Roar, girl.” So, “NOW!”

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