Guest Post: Novelist-Turned-Filmmaker Natalie Baszile on Her SFFILM Djerassi Fellowship Experience
June: Good News
It’s mid-June at Chicago O’Hare, and I’m standing at the edge of Terminal C food court, debating whether a quick bite at Billy Goat Tavern or Manchu Wok is less likely to kill me, when I check my phone and see a new email from the folks at SFFILM. The email says they’re offering me a month-long residency at Djerassi Resident Arts Program. They want to know if I’m interested and available. I’ve been to artists residencies a small handful of times although it’s been many years. I’ve been so busy trying to get my new novel on its feet and write the accompanying screenplay that I haven’t applied for any, not wanting to pester friends for recommendations. I keep telling myself I’ll get around to it “next year,” but “next year” never seems to come. Still, I know they are magical spaces where time slows and the world falls away. I know how glorious it feels to step away from the daily grind and completely lose one’s self in one’s work. I know that even two weeks at a residency can be as productive as three months at home.
It takes me approximately 5 seconds to respond to the invitation. “I’m In!” I write back.
August: Breaking Away
It’s one thing to accept a 30-day residency; it’s another thing to prepare for it. There are bills to pay, dogs to board, laundry to do, plants to water. Normally, there’d be a husband to console, but he packed his bags two weeks ago and relocated to Los Angeles. He’s a lawyer and has a big trial that’s demanding every ounce of his time and attention. THANK GOD. Otherwise, I’d have to watch him mope and listen to him sigh dramatically about spending a month by himself. “Man up!” I fantasize about saying. “You don’t hear me complaining when you travel for your job.” It’s an old response to an old dynamic; one that arose years ago when I was struggling to write while taking care of kids and pets and managing the challenges that come along with having creative life and a family. But those days are long gone. Our daughters are young adults with lives of their own. It’s just the two of us. We’re Empty Nesters. And the truth is, he’s happy for me, excited for this new phase I have pivoted into as a novelist-turned-filmmaker. So, I give myself a little pep talk. “Come on, Baszile. Be fair.” Then I head down to the garage where I’ve set aside one of the super-sturdy cardboard boxes from Sunbasket, the meal delivery service we subscribe to now that we don’t have to cook for kids. I drag it up to my office and for the next two weeks toss in every novel, craft book and film script I think will inspire me, along with all the notecards, notepads, and Post-Its on which I’ve scribbled notes for my story. I shove in the three-ring binder that houses my novel draft and the folder where I keep the different versions of my script. A bundle of Ticonderoga #2 Pencils. A ream of paper just in case I need to print pages. Extra pens. A fresh pack of highlighters. Poetry books. A hole punch and paperclips. Everything I can think goes into my box. If I were stranded on a desert island, I could keep myself occupied — no problem — until the rescue party arrived. By the time I finish packing everything I think I might need, I can’t lift the box.
September
In the past, I’ve always flown to the residencies I’ve attended, but now, for the first time, I can drive. Djerassi is a little over an hour south of Oakland; 50 minutes if I time the traffic just right. My Toyota Prius is packed with everything I think I might need and then some. In addition to my box of work stuff, I’ve stocked up on gummy bears, potato chips, those sinfully delicious baked Cheeto-type-things from Trader Joes. I never eat this stuff at home (well, not too often, and certainly not in these quantities) but I’ve never been away for a month and Dejerassi is located on a sprawling 600-acre ranch in the middle of nowhere. Who knows when I’ll next see civilization. I’ve packed my special tea and my favorite ceramic mug with the thick handle, along with two containers of whipped honey. I don’t have a lot of writing rituals, but a morning cup of tea is essential. I cram everything into my car, double-check the front door, and set off by 11:00 am. For the last three months I have dreamed about this day, wondered how I’d get everything done so I could step away, but now I seem to have done it.
Yield To Whim
That’s what the sign on the Djerassi Property reads as I pull through the big iron gates and make my way down along the winding road to the barn. I’ve actually seen that sign once before — 10 years ago when I visited a friend who had a residency here. She invited me down for dinner and we spent the late afternoon hiking around the property — past the enormous nest made of fallen branches and across the babbling stream that cut through the redwood grove. She showed me the watercolors she painted on the private deck outside her room and introduced me to a French dancer whose tumble of blond curls and child-like figure made me think of pixies and wood nymphs. After dinner he handed out hand-drawn maps and invited everyone to his performance, which he held in a cave somewhere on the property. Gripping our flashlights in one hand and each other’s elbows with the other, we stumbled through the dark until we found the cave entrance then inched our way through the tunnel until we reached the den where he lay naked except for a baby-blue blanket. We all huddled around shivering as he recited poetry. It might sound crazy, but it was a magical.
Now, as I pull up to the barn, I think about that night, that dancer. I can already feel myself relaxing.
But it’s when I get to my Middlebrook studio that the real magic happens. The moment I open the door and step into my room overlooking the wide meadow and the ocean beyond, I know I’ve made the right decision in coming here. There is nothing to hear but the wind in the grass and the occasional screech of a hawk overhead. The quiet is ABSOLUTE and for the first time in so long I can’t remember, I can actually hear myself think. The silence is revelation — a reminder of how noisy my life is with constant drone of BART trains and the low din of traffic, the text notifications and the occasional sing-song of my neighbors’ voices. The news. The News. THE NEWS! No wonder I haven’t been able to dream my way into my story that way I need to. No wonder I haven’t been able to hear what my characters have to say. No wonder that for months I’ve felt like I had cotton in my ears and a layer of cement spread over the top of my brain. No wonder.
Kabuki Dancers, Playwrights, Painters, Poets & Mountain Lions
Just as I suspected, my fellow residents are a fascinating bunch. They hail from states as far as Vermont and Main, and countries as far as Australia and Argentina. They are visual artists and playwrights, memoirists and Kabuki dancers. There’s a young composer who sings like an angel, a woman who paints by shooting ink through tanks of water, and another who fashions rope from items she finds in the natural world. On our first group hike, we all show up with our sunhats, water bottles filled, and our long pants tucked into our socks.
We are a gentle group, curious about each others’ work and various life’s journeys. Over the next 30 days we will laugh together and cook together, listen to presentations on each others’ work and engage in deep conversation about music and the power of dance and poetry. We will reveal our vulnerabilities and insecurities. Drink too much wine and kombucha and eat too many avocados and chocolate chip cookies. We will bond over many things, most of all a shared preoccupation with mountain lions which we’ve been told roam the property. At dinner every evening, we talk about what we might do it we were to encounter one on the trail. We keep an eye out for their scat. We listen for their cries in the night. And when one resident celebrates her birthday, we toast her with a homemade mountain lion-themed card and a toy someone bought on their trip to town.
October: Souvenirs
How do you sum up 30 days of uninterrupted creativity? What price to do put on 30 days of peace and quiet? How do you measure the gift of time and space? I don’t know.
What I do know is that as I packed up my studio and returned everything I’d brought with me to my cardboard box, I promised to take a bit of Djerassi home with me. I vowed to remember the stunning quiet and the view of the rolling hills unfurling all around. I promised to remember friends I’d made and the conversations I’d had. The redwood groves and the sunsets.
December: Reflections
I’ve been home for exactly two months and I am happy to report I’m still able to slip back into that space. The difference my Djerassi residency made has been profound.
So, thank you to SFFILM for the generous gift of time, space and quiet. I had no idea I needed it as much as I did.
For more information about SFFILM’s artist development programs, visit sffilm.org/makers.
