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| The Reading Room |
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Appropriate Chewing
by Ann Pai
Annabelle, a black lab-terrier mix, waits for my arrival home at noon. She dances close at my heels; I
patrol the house to see if she's chewed any more furniture. Annabelle pads up the stairs beside me
when I head to the computer. I've finished my morning's work writing software manuals; I'll soon
start my afternoon's work, writing one query letter for an article on fibromyalgia and another for an
account of Lasik surgery. At least, that's what I've planned to do.
Freelance writing is fresh ground for me. I'm still finding my way toward the success of steady
productivity and clear goals. Every day I remind myself, this is your shot. Give it all you have. And I
refocus on the day's writing, resist the urge to be afraid of failure, pull together resources of
stubborn belief. Every day, I sit down to write. But first, I check the house to see what Annabelle
may have chewed.
Dog behaviorists call it "inappropriate chewing." Of course Annabelle will chew—the Labrador in her
is bred to mouth hard objects—sticks, bones, game; the terrier in her was bred to clench objects in
the jaws—objects, that is, like furniture. Annabelle has splintered a cherry-wood chair leg. She's
pocked and nibbled a door frame. And I must forgive her. Like any dog, she obeys her body's
instincts and anxieties. She needs more exercise. Until I started my freelance writing schedule, I
wasn't here to run her. So I forgave her the end table. I forgave her the chair leg. I forgave her the
splintered picture window sill, which must be tempting at tooth level when she lurks on her belly,
monitoring sidewalk traffic.
It's harder to forgive her latest escapade. She's chewed a card my husband gave me. We found it, a
pulpy rag gnawed to three-fourths its size, and Annabelle slinked into a corner, lowered her sleek
head and shifted her worried eyes from one to the other of our faces. The card was ruined. I kept it,
damp and masticated proof of love. In it, my husband had written: You can do it. I love you.
He's talking about my freelance writing career. "You can do it," he says, though I haven't proven yet
that I can. Only the work can answer the question, and I've barely started building. ("I love you," he
says. The two sentences are not co-dependent. And therein—oh, therein lies their power.)
Now, I know that about business matters my spouse never lofts verbal soap bubbles of unfounded
optimism. He wouldn't merely pretend to believe in me, would not falsely encourage—not this razor-
edged capitalist, wielder of comma-studded corporate budgets, laser-targeted to the bottom line. So
he must see a commitment here, a discipline.
But I see more. I see that, like Annabelle, I need exercise. Without it, the taste for safe, unproven
dreams can overwhelm the discipline needed to keep writing when success is not yet certain.
Without writing daily, I could find occupation in doubt, indecision, and household distraction—those
bones I chew to stall anxiety. Unexercised, I can become, like Annabelle, destructive—shaving away
minutes and hours of opportunity. So I decide daily that I'll write. I turn on the computer. I choose a
topic, a first sentence, a first word. And not for posterity, or planned productivity, but because it
soothes my jitters, I write.
I've started, as before me other beginning writers have started, the rounds of queries and the
hashing of ideas into form. I chip away at a longer work of nonfiction, one that won't be finished for
many months; I seize ideas for short pieces so I can see myself finishing work. And I supervise
Annabelle—scamper and play at lunchtime until she's tired, make her heel as she follows me to the
study, leave her for time alone to nap in the sun or to chew her appropriate toys of rubber and rope.
She's proving new habits along with me.
"You can do it," I tell her. "I love you." She lays her glossy head in my lap and wags her whole body,
the barrel chest out to the limb-whip tail. With my arm draped on her for a moment, my hand skewed
toward the keyboard, I write on.
Annabelle, a black lab-terrier mix, waits for my arrival home at noon. She dances close at my heels; I
patrol the house to see if she's chewed any more furniture. Annabelle pads up the stairs beside me
when I head to the computer. I've finished my morning's work writing software manuals; I'll soon
start my afternoon's work, writing one query letter for an article on fibromyalgia and another for an
account of Lasik surgery. At least, that's what I've planned to do.
Freelance writing is fresh ground for me. I'm still finding my way toward the success of steady
productivity and clear goals. Every day I remind myself, this is your shot. Give it all you have. And I
refocus on the day's writing, resist the urge to be afraid of failure, pull together resources of
stubborn belief. Every day, I sit down to write. But first, I check the house to see what Annabelle
may have chewed.
Dog behaviorists call it "inappropriate chewing." Of course Annabelle will chew—the Labrador in her
is bred to mouth hard objects—sticks, bones, game; the terrier in her was bred to clench objects in
the jaws—objects, that is, like furniture. Annabelle has splintered a cherry-wood chair leg. She's
pocked and nibbled a door frame. And I must forgive her. Like any dog, she obeys her body's
instincts and anxieties. She needs more exercise. Until I started my freelance writing schedule, I
wasn't here to run her. So I forgave her the end table. I forgave her the chair leg. I forgave her the
splintered picture window sill, which must be tempting at tooth level when she lurks on her belly,
monitoring sidewalk traffic.
It's harder to forgive her latest escapade. She's chewed a card my husband gave me. We found it, a
pulpy rag gnawed to three-fourths its size, and Annabelle slinked into a corner, lowered her sleek
head and shifted her worried eyes from one to the other of our faces. The card was ruined. I kept it,
damp and masticated proof of love. In it, my husband had written: You can do it. I love you.
He's talking about my freelance writing career. "You can do it," he says, though I haven't proven yet
that I can. Only the work can answer the question, and I've barely started building. ("I love you," he
says. The two sentences are not co-dependent. And therein—oh, therein lies their power.)
Now, I know that about business matters my spouse never lofts verbal soap bubbles of unfounded
optimism. He wouldn't merely pretend to believe in me, would not falsely encourage—not this razor-
edged capitalist, wielder of comma-studded corporate budgets, laser-targeted to the bottom line. So
he must see a commitment here, a discipline.
But I see more. I see that, like Annabelle, I need exercise. Without it, the taste for safe, unproven
dreams can overwhelm the discipline needed to keep writing when success is not yet certain.
Without writing daily, I could find occupation in doubt, indecision, and household distraction—those
bones I chew to stall anxiety. Unexercised, I can become, like Annabelle, destructive—shaving away
minutes and hours of opportunity. So I decide daily that I'll write. I turn on the computer. I choose a
topic, a first sentence, a first word. And not for posterity, or planned productivity, but because it
soothes my jitters, I write.
I've started, as before me other beginning writers have started, the rounds of queries and the
hashing of ideas into form. I chip away at a longer work of nonfiction, one that won't be finished for
many months; I seize ideas for short pieces so I can see myself finishing work. And I supervise
Annabelle—scamper and play at lunchtime until she's tired, make her heel as she follows me to the
study, leave her for time alone to nap in the sun or to chew her appropriate toys of rubber and rope.
She's proving new habits along with me.
"You can do it," I tell her. "I love you." She lays her glossy head in my lap and wags her whole body,
the barrel chest out to the limb-whip tail. With my arm draped on her for a moment, my hand skewed
toward the keyboard, I write on.
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This essay originally appeared in Byline magazine.