Hunting for Words.

As soon as I walked in, I knew something was wrong. Blood was spattered at the entry way and then up each step. Large drops. Up one flight. More blood on the landing. Drip. Drop. Up the second flight. Through the second floor fire door.

And, the trail stopped. At room 201. I knocked nervously.

“Come in.”

And, there he was. A bloody knife in his hand.

“What did you do, Rick?” I asked in disbelief. But, it was obvious. His victim lay in plain view. Limp. Lifeless.Who would’ve imagined, here in Stevens Point, Wisconsin? Right here in my college dorm. Actually, it wasn’t too hard to believe. Rick was also the one who would hang upside down in his closet from gravity boots. And, wear shorts when it was 20-below on the way to class. It was only a matter of time.

“Why? How?” I stammered.

“It was easy,” he explained, “I just opened the window and took my shot. Never saw it coming.”

“A shot with what?”

“My blowgun.”

“What? You have a blowgun?"

“Yeh.”

“You shot all the way from the second floor?"

“Yep.”

“Nice shot!”

“Thanks. Yeah, I saw the rabbit in the bushes and nailed it with a dart.”

And, Rick proceeded to skin that rabbit at his study desk. Right there in front of us in his dorm room. This was central Wisconsin. No big deal. He grew up hunting, like everyone else.

Well, except me.

I’ve never been hunting. Which is probably fine. I like the idyllic picture of it. Like I like fishing. The solitude and the search. But, my fear would be that I would actually shoot something. Or catch something: “Dear God, now what?”

Often, I think, writing is like hunting. Or at least chasing rabbits in a thicket. I know some people say that the writing is “in them”. They just have to dig it up. I’m not that confident in myself as a rich container. I actually think that words are “out there”. They are elusive and wild. It feels, for me, that they have to be chased. Hunted. Baited. Coaxed. Called. Tracked.

Thus, I am in adulation when a word actually wanders into my sights. In deep thanksgiving when I can dress one on my desk. In awe when I can put a few together on my stringer. Lord, I am a dork: “Ah-yep. Just got back from a word hunt. Look at the size of this 900-word beauty. Had to land her with MS Word ‘98, but it made for a good fight. O‘ course I’m gonna have her mounted.” My Uncle Mike would be none too impressed; he gets 300-point bucks and 300-pound muskies every season.

But, in writing, as in hunting, you have to strike while the iron is hot. And, in order to strike the hot iron, or whatever, you have to, well, check the temperature of the iron regularly, or however it works. You gotta show up. Like Rick from his second floor window. He was ready to strike. Eyes peeled and blowgun at the ready. Or, the guy in his underwear, you always hear about, who shoots the buck from his kitchen window while he’s drinking his coffee. Why does that guy keep his rifle right there next to the creamer? That was probably Rick, too. But, last week I jumped out of the shower ‘cause I had to write something down for fear of losing it. I ended up forgetting to wash my hair. I probably wouldn’t have to do that if I just showed up each day and wrote. I would catch more rabbits that way.

Often, however, I don’t have the wherewithal for the chase. Actually, I am forcing myself to stay in this “word blind” right this very minute. Well, it’s not really a duck blind or a tree stand. It’s a chair at the Drink Coffee Café in Sister Bay. But, I could bolt at any second. And check my e-mail. Or go to the bathroom. Or buy another coffee. Or check my e-mail. Maybe I’m afraid of what I’ll catch if I write too much. Or, the work of hauling it in. So, I am envious of all my prolific writer friends who can churn out words daily. They are more brave than I. It’s said that the famous and prolific Wisconsin writer, August Derleth, could crank out 5000 words a day. 15,000 if he needed to. Courageous jerk.

Less a hunter, I am more like a driver hoping to hit a deer. Serendipitous, glorious road kill; the prey, the capture, the gutting, the vehicle for delivery, all at the same place at the same time. Do you remember that story a few years ago of the dozen or so white tails in Wisconsin that got on a highway overpass and ended up jumping over the guard rail? Head over hoof. Deer raining from above onto the interstate and cars below. If only I were that lucky.