Katy McDermott

“Watership Down” is one of my favorite books of all time – and I believe there’s a lot of wisdom in it too, assuming you can get past the whole “but they’re rabbits” thing. I even think it’s relevant to the current business setting. Here are some thoughts I had about the main character…

Has there ever been a more unlikely hero than Hazel? Not very big, not unusually intelligent, not even particularly charismatic, he nonetheless leads his friends through “a sea of troubles,” as Shakespeare would say, and sees them safely home. How on earth does he manage it, this unassuming Everyrabbit?

The first thing we see Hazel do is trust. His brother Fiver, a prophet of sorts, is terrified by a vision of nameless horror that threatens to destroy their home. Hazel believes him, and determines to escape with his brother – and anyone else who wants to go. And several do: Bigwig, Blackberry, Dandelion, Silver, Buckthorn, Pipkin, Hawkbit, Speedwell, and Acorn.

 Hazel is decisive. Even in the face of uncertainty, he takes a position and sticks to it. He is generous – how much easier it would have been for him to sneak away with just his brother, saving his own skin with no one else to worry about! But he chooses his course, swallows his fear, and sets off into an unknown night.

Their first night’s wandering is surely the worst. Venturing into strange country, no one knows who is in charge. Why should Hazel be the leader, simply because it was he who decided to go? Bigwig and Silver are stronger; Blackberry is smarter. Nothing has been proved to them, no authority has yet been earned.

Early on, the rabbits are forced to cross an unfamiliar stretch of land where any manner of dangers might lurk. Hazel goes first, to make sure it’s safe, and with his quiet courage sows the first seeds of his leadership. The rabbits make it through that first night, but in the morning, a fresh challenge is laid before them – a river that must be crossed.

Hazel’s tenuous leadership is put to the test. His friends are weary in body and spirit, Pipkin appears to be hurt – and Bigwig simply doesn’t like to swim. Challenged by Hazel to test the waters, Bigwig reluctantly crosses the river, only to return moments later with news that means they must all swim immediately or risk being killed. But Hazel will not leave the injured Pipkin.

Enter Blackberry, with the clever idea of floating Pipkin across the river on a loose board. Hazel doesn’t entirely understand Blackberry’s idea, but he agrees on faith and orders them all into the water. The crossing made, he searches for a safer place while the others finally sleep.

What a manager Hazel would make! Who hasn’t worked, at one time or another, for someone who is threatened by the talents of a subordinate, who looks to increase his or her own importance by diminishing a colleague? Not Hazel. He seeks the greater good – a better life for those who have chosen to follow him – and is grateful to have so intelligent a comrade as Blackberry. When morale is low, he does not try to inspire his friends with grand speeches, but turns to Dandelion – who has a way with a story – to hearten them with tales of the great rabbit hero El-ahrairah.

Hazel recognizes, and appreciates, the strengths of his compatriots. He knows that he belongs to them, as they belong to him, and he values that belonging.

Hazel isn’t perfect, though. His greatest faults, shared by many a suddenly-elevated leader, are pride and overconfidence. When misplaced certainty almost costs Bigwig his life, Hazel loses no time in rallying the rabbits to save their wounded friend. He admits his mistake, learns from it, and guides the group to the high hills where Fiver assures him they’ll be safe.

Hazel may be effective in a crisis, but he displays his leadership most strongly in his ability to see the big picture. It is Hazel who realizes that the new warren will die out unless they can find female rabbits to join them; Hazel who suggests that they befriend an injured but threatening bird and use him as a scout; Hazel who organizes the expedition to free the imprisoned females of a faraway warren and secure the future of the rabbits of Watership Down. He marshals the unique talents of each of his followers to achieve the result they all need.

He asks for help.

He leads by example.

Above all else, Hazel never gives up; his love for his friends won’t let him. Diplomat, strategist, CEO, general – he manages to be all of these things simply because he cares so much. Witness our greatest leaders:  Abraham Lincoln fighting to hold a nation together; Harriet Tubman guiding slaves to freedom in the face of overwhelming danger; Winston Churchill battling the ultimate evil of Hitler.

Their dedication transformed these once-ordinary people into history’s heroes.

When you think about it, they’re a lot like Hazel.

Unless you’re a drug kingpin or a Real Housewife of Wherever, chances are you live in a normal-sized house and don’t need roller skates to navigate your faux-Italian-granite floors. In other words, you’ve settled.

I’ve gotten pretty interested in residential real estate lately. I’ve spent a number of weekends helping to get my mother’s house ready for sale, and I’ve also been looking at new homes for my own family. The operative word here is “new.” There’s nothing like sorting through 30 years worth of belongings in an old house – books, clothes, photos, letters, dust, and (it must be said) rodent droppings – to make you appreciate a just-being-built development.

I used to have a bias against new construction. It was so – well – new. All that Tyvek I would see as I drove past. All that flimsy-looking plywood framing. Yuck.

Now I feel differently. I’m not interested in character or history in my house anymore. I’ve embraced the Tyvek, made my peace with the plywood framing. I want cathedral ceilings, 42” cherry-finish cabinets, and a full finished basement, thank you very much. The latest energy-efficient appliances, please. And, of course, a “Great Room” – I’m not sure exactly what its function is, but I feel certain I’d be inspired to heroic feats just by being in it.

Part of my problem with new developments used to be that I felt like such a sucker when I visited. I’d stroll, goggle-eyed, though the model home, ready to mortgage my very soul to own it, only to discover that the model boasted around $100,000 worth of “upgrades.” If you bought the base house at the base amount (pretty pricey to begin with, in this area), all you were guaranteed was a certain number of square feet, several walls, and possibly a roof. Those lovely chocolate-colored marble countertops you fell in love with in the model? An upgrade.

One thing you learn pretty quickly when touring model homes is that, if any item is part of a “package,” it automatically costs triple. My husband and I investigated a recently-built home last weekend, and were impressed to see that every windowsill boasted a recessed candle-shaped light that could be raised in December. Turns out, these lights (and only these lights) comprised the neutrally-named Holiday Package – and were, of course, an upgrade.

But my complaints don’t really matter. You see, I’ve got a raging case of REF, or Real Estate Fever.

Perhaps you’re familiar with this disorder? Perhaps you’ve even suffered from it yourself at some point? Symptoms: pupils that dilate when you’re presented with a model home floor plan. Palms that sweat from pure longing when you’re confronted with a list of house options. (Did you ever think that crown molding and chair rails could inspire such passion? Me neither.)

REF has some interesting side effects. For one thing, even the most progressive, independent, non-dinner-cooking female becomes inordinately interested in kitchen storage. Lack of pantry? Devastating. Built-in spice rack? Mania-inducing.

Women can also develop a previously unknown fascination with window treatments. Blinds versus shutters, shades, swags, and valances – all the topics that used to be viable only at Linens & Things staff meetings – suddenly become objects of intense speculation. Sconces and chandeliers are a whole other conversation – don’t get me started!

Men, of course, just compare the size of their decks and call it a day…

REF can cause another intriguing symptom. Call it Price Obsession. Call it Money Hyper-Awareness. Regardless, it simply means that part of the “courtesy lobe” in your brain is temporarily removed. Think about it. Would you ever ask someone how much their recent vacation cost? Their new car? The snazzy new wardrobe they just bought?

Didn’t think so.

And yet, when we’re in the grip of REF, we think nothing of starting a sentence with the utterly meaningless “Do you mind if I ask you…?” and pry into interest rates, down payments, and mortgage terms. (And what an awkward position that places the hapless homeowner in! It’s tantamount to inquiring about someone’s salary.)

There are some housing developments that you should know better than to even visit unless you make half a million dollars a year (in which case, can I have your job?) Anything named “The Estates at…,” for example. Trust me on this. “The Villages at…” probably means townhomes, which are affordable to middle-class folks (if not particularly spacious). “The Estates at…”? Go win the lottery, and then we’ll talk.

A few weeks ago, I decided to torture myself by looking at an “Estates at…” property. Mistake. Now, the perfectly nice townhome my husband and I can actually afford pales in comparison to the sprawling compound I saw with its 3-car garage, sub-zero freezer (what does that mean, exactly? Isn’t “frozen” frozen?), and master bathroom the size of a small cottage.

But we’ve crunched the numbers, reviewed our options, and it looks like we’re going to wind up officially buying a new construction home sometime in the near future. In spite of the inherent hassles, we’re kind of looking forward to it.

It will be uncharted territory for us both, to be sure. The builder is sort of like a car mechanic. He can say, “You need enclosed wiring in the HVAC room to comply with state code regulations,” and how am I supposed to respond? “I have no idea what you’re talking about?” He knows that already.

So we may not get that 3-car garage.

But at least there won’t be any rodent droppings.

Remember those kits we had as children? A box of watercolors or crayons or even magic markers (belated apologies to my mother on that last one), a black and white drawing of a princess or a field of horses… all we had to do was follow the diagram, and soon there would be a four-color masterpiece. (Well, it seemed masterful to me at age 6, anyway…)

I miss them sometimes, those kits. And I find myself applying a similar principle to my writing: drawing = outline, painting = book. I’ve learned to do most of my outlining on the weekends, when what time I have is  little less structured. Since I try to write almost every day, and most weeknights I can only fiind an hour or so to do it, it helps to have a template.

What I do is make a super-short list of the scenes I need to write for my next chapter, then try to outline the first few scenes over the weekend. Often, by the time Wednesday night rolls around and I’ve written all the scenes I’ve outlined, I’m “into” the book to keep going – flying without a net, you might say. And, of course, I never need to outline the scenes with my main characters, Laurie and Tim. I know then pretty well by now.

But I’ll admit – as much as I appreciate the model, I hope my fnished product is just a little more professional than a paint-by-nunbers picture!

Open letter to my next (fictional) victim: sorry, but there’ll be no midnight call from the governor granting you a last-minute reprieve. Despite the fact that an interview subject helpfully suggested not long ago that I change my intent (because a similar victim was featured in a 20-year-old mystery novel), I’ve decided against it.

In other words, you’re still toast.

Now I know I haven’t started actually writing my second book yet. But I’ve already filled a notebook (and some of my trusty whiteboard) with character profiles, suspects, motives, clues, and the beginnings of a plot outline. I’ve got the bones of the story – and if I can write it properly, it should be a good one.

I tried to spare your life – I really did. For over a week, on my lengthy commute to and from work, I imagined different scenarios, different victims, different motives. In the end though, I always came back to the original story. (Well, okay, it wasn’t quite the original story – I changed it a lot from the one I started out with – I gave a lot of thought to the question of why someone would want to kill you.)

To quote a banal pop song, “you’re still the one.” My apologies. But in a murder mystery, someone has to die, right? I guess you just pulled the short straw this time.

Wish I had some. I’ve been dragging my feet on admitting it, but for the next two months (at least), I’m probably not going to have much chance to write. Not to get all “economic woes” on you, but they laid off a bunch of people from my company recently (including my boss), and since the Powers That Be aren’t planning to replace them anytime soon, my workload’s just tripled.

Nights? At the office. Weekends? Working from home – when I’m not attending to the usual chores and errands that every weekend brings. (I think there are a few major holidays coming up too – have to get ready for those…) Vacation? Ha!

Hopefully, things will ease up in January. I’m going to keep writing. It seems I’ll just have to take a small hiatus. If I can (translation: if I have anything to say about the new book, or any news or reviews to report for Meeting Murder), I’ll keep posting every Sunday night.

Otherwise, I won’t take up your time, either. After all, it doesn’t come bottled.