Starla Pointer: Alone with my thoughts, invited to record them

Rusty Rae/News-Register##Writer Starla Pointer in the lobby of the Atticus Hotel.

For the first time in ages, I could pay attention to the voices in my head — a very good thing.

Instead of being distracted by daily life or my work — which I love; don’t get me wrong — I had the time, space and peace to focus on my own personal writing. For a writer, that’s a true gift — and a rare one.

I was chosen for a writing residency at the Atticus Hotel in downtown McMinnville. Hotel owners Erin Stephenson and Brian Shea launched the program in conjunction with the writing program at Linfield University.

More than 100 writers applied, and 26 were chosen. In addition to me, they included News-Register Managing Editor Kirby Neumann-Rea and McMinnville writer and teacher Kerrie Savage.

We received the chance to spend several days in the hotel — days that could be wholly devoted to thinking, relaxing and writing.

See also: The happiness shows through.

I applied without any expectations. Although I suffer from a lack of self-confidence, I sent in my resume, some recent stories from the News-Register as examples of my work, and a cover letter that I tried to make representative of my writing style — open, honest, down-to-earth and funny.

Just applying was a good exercise for me. It led me to reflect on my decades as a writer.

Most of my experience has come at the News-Register, where I’ve covered news and written features about people and events. But I wrote poetry when I was a student there, and have also written children’s stories to read to first- and second-graders while they drew illustrations.

I was thrilled, but also terrified, when I was chosen to spend Jan. 13-17 at the hotel. Would I be able to apply myself and produce quality writing during the residency, without the structure of a regular workday?

I’ve never believed in what people call “writer’s block.” If I’m momentarily stuck on something, I turn to another story rather than wring my typing fingers in angst.

Can’t think of a beginning? Work on the ending instead, or on a different project altogether, or make a list of ideas for future stories. Don’t be lazy; just write.

Writing feels good. It allows me to untangle my thoughts and put them in order, adding and subtracting and shaping something compelling that others will want to read.

Sometimes, the story or poem may never be read by anyone else; writing them is a way of understanding myself or working through a fear, an embarrassment or another emotion.

And writing is simply an expression of joy.

To kids, syllables

Are homework, hard work, ho-hum.

To me? They’re playthings.

I arrived at the hotel Jan. 13 with a loose plan to write about several topics, including memories of moments I’ve experienced over my 43 years as a community newspaper reporter. I’d work on each topic for an hour or two, then I’d switch to a different subject or form of writing.

Since I don’t have a laptop, I armed myself with several spiral notebooks and a handful of pens. My notes were in my head.

The Atticus staff greeted me enthusiastically and handed me a gold-colored key card, which I was able to keep as a much-treasured souvenir.

I rode up to my room in an elevator with a rug that said “Monday.” The elevator rugs are switched daily, a charming touch.

One funny thing about the Atticus for me: The front door is at approximately the same location where I parked for almost 35 years, as the hotel was built on the former site of the News-Register parking lot.

Over a window box full of purple pansies, one of my room’s windows looked out over the former News-Register office, now Nash & Nichol mercantile. The other window offered a view of the Mack Theater’s neon sign — the top three letters, MAC, at least.

The suite was incredible, but not ostentatious. A fireplace warmed the room, which featured a nice couch and easy chair made especially for the Atticus. Barn-style doors opened to the bedroom.

Lighting was bright, which I appreciate, but also dimmable. Books were waiting, including a volume about the hotel, a birdwatching guide and a small collection of New Yorker cat cartoons — perfect.

Fireplace: not real, yet

flames dance hypnotically

Welcome ambiance.

I sat down to write and enjoy the quiet of being alone with my thoughts, my pens and my unadulterated sheets of paper. At 7, I went down to Cypress for falafel and spicy chicken-artichoke soup.

It’s the best soup I’ve had. I hope they call me if it’s ever on the menu again!

Then I took a walk down Third Street. Though it was only 9 p.m., it was, frankly, a little scary.

A couple screamed at each other. A cluster of men blocked the sidewalk outside a bar, but it turned out they were just talking, and were friendly.

I hadn’t been downtown at night without a destination for years, and it made me reassess how safe it felt. I am older, and hopefully wiser, than when I was a young reporter who often walked to the office late at night.

The rest of the week, I went out a bit earlier. On Wednesday, I was able to listen to musicians, who play weekly at the Pinot Vista tasting room.

I learned about myself in other ways, as well. For instance, I had envisioned riding one of the hotel’s big, sturdy bikes one afternoon. But the cycle got the better of me, and I wisely wheeled it back before I toppled over. A moment of clarity.

Most of all, I gained some confidence in myself (other than my adventure with the bike). I was able to discipline myself to write without a deadline looming, and I was happy with the amount I wrote, as well as the direction and quality.

I spent each morning in the lobby, or the secret room, curled into a comfortable chair with paper, pens and a cup of Earl Grey tea beside me.

Between paragraphs, I observed the daily activities. Guests coming downstairs for a morning espresso, others asking for a quiet place to make business calls, some heading across the street to a conference, a few on their way to Alchemist’s Jam for a scone or 7-Eleven for a morning paper. And employees fielding calls, taking reservations, sharing the excitement of callers booking stays for special occasions.

Any of those things could spark an idea for a piece of writing, so I carried a notebook and pen with me at all times in case an idea winged toward me. One night at dinner, for instance, a server asked a man at the next table for his ID after he ordered a drink. “At my age, everyone looks young to me,” she said apologetically.

That young woman’s remark inspired a poem about how the people we trust for their knowledge and experience gradually seem younger and younger as we ourselves age.

I copied the poem and gave it to the server the next time I saw her. I’m not sure if I told her the subject had been niggling at my mind lately, anyway, as my birthday approached.

At the end of my residency, I packed my notebooks and pens into my suitcase and headed for the bus stop. As I’d done every day that week, I’d already spent the morning in the hotel lobby, writing, observing and drinking several cups of Earl Grey.

Perpetually early, I waited for the bus. It gave me time to write one last poem in the haiku style, 5/7/5 syllables, which I use as an exercise in word choice and economy.

The consequences

Of hot tea are … Excuse me,

I’ve got to go.

About the writer: Starla Pointer, pictured above in the Atticus lobby, is a Linfield University graduate who has written for the News-Register since February 1982. A native of the Southern Oregon Coast, she lives in Carlton with her husband and cats. She likes to read, cook, spruce up the yard, take walks and swim laps. She is always looking for someone to interview.