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I loved my fast-paced, grab onto the rocket and scream yee–haa, career, living and working in India, Taiwan and Hong Kong. I loved it—until I didn’t. A line from Mary Oliver’s poem said it all, “…are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?” I started writing a memoir, and after attending the Port Townsend Writers Conference, I “retired” to spend more time writing. I naively jumped into buying a hobby farm and opened a B&B on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. As a morning person who loves to cook, it seemed like a clever idea at the time. Caring for llamas, ducks, geese, rabbits, sheep, and chickens seemed doable after my zany career and single motherhood. I served very fresh eggs for breakfast. Even in the slow winter months, guests and farm chores left little time for writing. I sold the farm and moved to a beach cottage that couldn’t be more rural—or quiet, with eagles overhead and owls calling in the night. The surrounding quiet makes creativity possible, both in my writing and in the design work I do for other authors. I may have hated this kind of life when I was younger—who knows—but I do know, it’s what I need now.
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