DEC 2001 - JAN 2002 THE ON-LINE PUBLICATION OF THE FOREIGN CORRESPONDENTS' CLUB OF HONG KONG
		LIFE AS A COLONY RAT Novelist Xu Xi, who spoke at an FCC lunch in March, writes about life in writers' colonies in the US. There were no scheduled flights to Red Wing, Minnesota. Instead, a flock of mosquitoes greeted my arrival, feasting on my blood. "The mosquito's our state bird," said the director of the Anderson Center unapologetically, as he showed me around the colony where I was to be one of three writers-in-residence. "They'll get used to you." Colony Rat Novelist Xu Xi in front of Jack Kerouac's house in Orlando Florida. Photo Credit: George Skene/Orlando Sentinel Here was the world of the artist in solitude. My novel-in-progress submission was awarded with a month in the country, where nature's bounty would inspire my senses. On my first walk down this path one evening by the river, bluebottles and mayflies invaded my hair. I fled to indoor safety. During the past year, I've been a "colony rat" at four writing colonies or residencies, including one in Norway this past summer. Although residency terms vary, the basic idea of such places is the same: to provide a space for creative writers to do their thing --- write. For example, I spent three months living in the American writer Jack Kerouac's home in Orlando, Florida. It was where he hammered out Dharma Bums in 11 days on a rented typewriter in 1957. Kerouac was the first to use the term Beat Generation in reference to a group of American writers, including himself, who rejected mainstream society in the 1950s through their unconventional writings and alternative lifestyles. His best-known novel, On the Road, written in 1957, is a loosely structured and mostly autobiographical account of the Beat experience in America and regarded as one of the classic works of the Beat Generation. For years, I'd written novels while holding down a full-time job, envying writers who were housed and fed in these beautiful surroundings. I wrote wherever in between long hours, business trips and limited vacations, and slept very little. Now, having quit corporate life to write, here was my chance to indulge in that same "luxury". The first night at Kerouac's house, I hardly slept. It was freezing. Admittedly, this was December, but surely the climate in Florida was supposed to be warmer than in New York? By five, I left my unheated home for the streets of College Park in search of warmth and breakfast. My promised food subsidy had not been ready the day before when I arrived, and in Jack's kitchen, the cupboard was bare. Over coffee, biscuits and sausage gravy, I missed those mid-Western "birds." The Anderson Center is the estate of Dr Alexander P. Anderson, who invented the process for puffing grains. Place rice or wheat grains in a glass tube, heat the glass to just the right temperature and the grains will puff perfectly, not unlike novels inflating to a publishable length. Anderson's heirs bequeathed the centre to the spirit of creative inquiry, as long as those inquiring were residents of either Minnesota or New York, a funding stipulation. I got Mrs Anderson's room (the couple apparently slept separately, we were told in hushed tones). It was beautifully furnished, the largest and only room on the ground floor. Every Sunday, visitors to the "open house" would rattle my doorknob, despite signs indicating otherwise. Kerouac's house, by contrast, did not have a desk, presumably because he wrote under a tree. A desk appeared within a week, thanks to my nagging. Visitors rarely found the place - wonderful privacy - although that will change when the foundation installs a sign on the lawn. Being a newly-established historical site and residency (I was only the second writer), there were teething pains. I stayed in the front section of the house where his mother lived since the back section he occupied was not yet renovated. His ghost didn't hang out much, most likely because Jack preferred "the road," although I kept the 24-hour jazz station on to keep him company when he landed. It was the least I could do for taking over his space. Despite inauspicious beginnings, life as a colony rat has its advantages. I feasted on more than cheese, broke bread and drank (probably too much) wine with writers and artists, made friends, gave readings, experimented creatively, and generally enjoyed my stays. Sometimes, I even wrote.		PUBLICATIONS COMMITTEE Convenor: Paul Bayfield Editor: Saul Lockart Publications: Terry Duckham The Foreign Correspondents' Club Hong Kong 2 Lower Albert Rd Central Hong Kong Telephone: [852] 2521 1511 Fax: [852] 2868 4092 E-mail: fcc@fcchk.org