The Real Farmer Writer
For purposes of promotional shorthand I am regularly referred to as a farmer, and I suppose in the slightest sense it’s true, as we have two coops worth of chickens and over the winter I fed them corn and oats planted by my own hand and harvested by my own sweat (and – ahem – help from the family) and most years we raise some pigs, but the truth is I’m away from our 37 acres way too often to rightly be called a farmer, and it appears this year we’re taking time off from the creatures in order that I might get some other things in order (and written, and produced, and crossed off the dang list) and decide whether to keep the dream of those grass-grazed beefers (the autocorrect on this WordPress software is not farmer-friendly, it keeps changing “beefers” to “beepers”) alive. The fact is, as much as I want to make fence and wrangle pigs and plant stuff, I am able to more productively provide for my family (and our ever-swelling health insurance premium) by writing, singing, and yapping. It’s a glorious problem, and it’ll work itself out one way or the other, but I’m typing all of this just to say that every time someone calls me a farmer/writer, I feel compelled to say, check out Justin Isherwood. And more of his work here.
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