Writing Process Blog Hop

At every reading or workshop I give, a hand will raise and the question is asked: Where do I get my ideas from? And here’s the god’s honest truth: I don’t know! Who can keep track of what comes and goes through the labyrinth of flesh known as the brain? That’s not what I say though. What I say is that ideas are cheap. They are everywhere, all the time. They are the constant stream of images and words at the bottom of the mind’s screen. The trick of writing is not coming up with ideas, but of grasping one or two and turning them into art, which means having the discipline to actually sit down and get them on paper. For that, it helps to have a process to get you in the chair. Arcane rituals don’t hurt either, and neither does a thesaurus and sheer pluck.

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So when Mindy Mejia, one of my fellow authors at Ashland Creek Press, asked me to join a writing process blog hop, I said yes. Process can be examined; ideas, not so much. Mindy is the author of The Dragon Keeper, a touching novel about the relationship between a zookeeper and a Komodo Dragon. I never thought I could feel such strong emotions for a reptile, but by the time I finished reading her book, I wanted to marry one.

But I have no time to take on another relationship right now. I have to answer these questions.

1.) What am I working on?

Although I usually write fiction, right now I’m working on a true crime memoir that I’ve been picking up and putting down for close to 15 years, tentatively titled Fair Game. I work on it for a few months, then I let myself get distracted with other writing projects, like, oh say, a novel. But sometimes it’s family matters, like a wedding, which is what distracts me at the moment.

2.) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

By its nature, true crime memoirs are always different from one another because the writer is remembering and trying to make sense of his or her own relationship to the crime. In my case, Fair Game is about the murder of a woman I knew in the mid-70’s in Stamford, Ct. She was killed with a bow-and-arrow and hastily buried in the woods. Her murder is technically unsolved. This is my take on her story, which I thought I knew then, but turns out I knew nothing.

3.) Why do I write what I write?

The better question is why write at all? What makes me sit down at my desk every day and put down words that form in my head? It’s like holding a séance with a laptop instead of a Ouija board. Having said that, my subject matter might seem capricious, but I do have themes. Whether I’m writing fiction or non-fiction, poetry or drama, the underlying questions usually have to do with environmental issues (Float), social justice (Fair Game), or animals (Addled).

4.) How does my writing process work?

With novels, and very often with short stories, I have this odd tic of starting with the title, and work from there. For instance, with Float, all I had was the word float. I opened a document and typed it in. Over the next few months, while I was working on other things, I’d write down different meanings of the word, like floating on water, or floating on air, or to float a loan or an opinion. Flotsam is from the French word flotter, to float, and there’s lots of floating garbage in the book. A float can be a glass ball used to suspend a fishing net, and a float can be the flat, wooden part of a dock. You can float through the day like a jellyfish, or float over stress in order to survive. Then one day I had an image of a man in a failing fish processing plant, and I sent him to the beach to read words in the sand. I wrote the first chapter, sat for a while, then wrote the book. The important thing is to sit down everyday to write, at a scheduled time, even if you don’t have a plan. Just write, or take notes, it will come, and you’ll want to be there when it does. A story might take me one to six months, a novel two years or more. The non-fiction project is taking much longer. That’s probably because being non-fiction, I can’t just make it all up in my head and must rely on the cold, hard facts.

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There you have it. My process, such as it. Let’s hear from someone else for a while. I went to a wonderful reading last week at Toad Hall, the independent Rockport, Ma, bookstore that donates its profits to environmental causes. We were entertained by friend and local author Thomas Hauck as he read from his new book, The Body on the Rocks. It is a collection of murder mystery short stories set here in Gloucester, and I can’t wait to read it. He’ll be up next in the #Mywritingprocess blog hop. Watch for Tom’s writing process blog coming soon.

 

 


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Writing Wild

Writing Wild
Forming a Creative Partnership With Nature
By Tina Welling
New World Library, 2014
 
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My favorite quote from Writing Wild is one Tina Welling borrows from Jesus, of all people: “If you bring forth what is within you, what is within you will save you.” This comes from the non-canonical Gospel of Thomas, which was considered too New Age in its day, and promptly buried. Likewise, with its touchy-feely Spirit Walks, Writing Wild has a whiff of New Age about it, but should by no means be buried. Taken with the right pragmatic attitude, the walks are touchy-feely in the best possible way. As Welling says, “We create a relationship with nature the same way we create a relationship with a person. We spend time in their presence.” By the end of the book, I felt her wisdom was not just constructive for writers, but for anyone who seeks a more deliberate relationship with the natural world.

When using all the senses to name, describe, and interact with the world — conscious acts designed to encourage readers to go beyond surface impressions — it is possible, as Welling puts it, to become fully awake on the planet. It is not unlike journaling, which I did for many years in a journal group (yes, I know, as New Age as it gets, but that was then and this is now). The theory behind journaling is that it doesn’t much matter what the writing prompt is, because what is currently going on inside will find a way out through the words. Free associative writing — which is done for a timed period without lifting pen from paper, and without crossing out or making corrections — will eventually sneak past the inner censor and reveal one’s themes, so to speak. The same for Welling’s walks, which go somewhat like this: One: venture out into nature; Two: focus on one object or scene, listing its characteristics; then, Three: write about the personal meaning those characteristics have for you. The results might reveal buried or unresolved conflicts, or simply tap interesting memories and psychological information.

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This is the raw material with which writers mold their work. but as in journaling, finding personal meaning in the world around you seems a useful tool for everyone. My journal group (of whom there were only a couple of members who considered themselves writers) met monthly in rotating homes, and in late May we would gather at Babette’s house by the quarry. Our ‘prompt’ for the evening was a walk through the woods where lasciviously pink Lady Slippers were in bloom. Every year, we’d laugh at the flowers’ resemblance to deeply-veined scrotums, then we’d go back to her house and write. In reading our work out loud to one another, the unworldly Lady Slippers never failed to stir up fervent, often emotionally complicated responses. Then last year, on the heels of Lady Slipper season, a year after her husband’s death, Babette took her own life. No one knows what to make of it. I tell myself a story of grief, love, and Lady Slippers.

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There, you see. I begin writing about one thing, and I am led away with the mere mention of a Lady Slipper. My unresolved sadness and confusion is still dangerously close to the surface, and bubbles up with the written word. Nature bleeds with meaning such as this.

Welling believes we can interpret the world in the same way we might interpret a dream, in that the outer world often reflects our inner condition if we open ourselves to the possibility. When a deer crosses our path in our sleep, we wake up and wonder what it could mean, often contemplating what is going on in our lives and who or what the deer might represent. When a deer crosses our path in real life, why not ask the same questions? It can lead to unexplored territory. To the wildness inside.

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Here is one of Welling’s exercises to steer you in that direction: Take a deep breath, close your eyes, open your eyes, then make a quick list of everything that catches your attention using all five senses. Then do a brief interpretation of the list. What is the tone? Negative? Positive? What images are symbols for you? How might the list inform a question you have about your life today? Go where it leads you, and watch out for the inner censor. “Eventually,” says Welling, “the wildness outside leads to the wildness within, that place that gives space and reflects truth and accepts everything.”

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Accepting everything might be too grand a goal for any exercise, but making space for wildness, there’s something worth walking for, New Age or not.

 

(Originally posted on EcoLit Books, June 16, 2014)

 

 

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Dorothy Addams Brown, 1923 – 2014

This Saturday we said good by to Dotty Brown at the UU Church in Gloucester. Dotty was a friend to all, and benefactress to the city and beyond. She was in the first generation of American women to be college educated, and because of this, had high expectations placed upon them. Dotty showed us how it’s done, and will be sorely missed.

Along with other friends and relations, I spoke at her memorial, and I am reprinting my short reflection here, if not by popular demand, then at least by a few requests.

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There’s a lot of talk these days about reducing our carbon footprint, which is the amount of harmful greenhouse gas emissions each of us produces while driving our cars and heating our homes. There are on-line calculators that can tell us our individual contribution to climate change by asking questions about the way we live, and then gives suggestions on how to lower our negative impact on the planet.

Then there is the Dotty footprint, one in which we may calculate the amount of positive impact we can have on the world.

It’s been my pleasure to have lived down the road from Dotty since I moved to Eastern Point in 1979. She was working in Boston then, coming to Gloucester only on weekends and vacations. Her brother Lawrence was still alive, a man I remember for knowing the names of every one of Hannibal’s elephants that crossed the Alps. Dotty shared his curiosity about the world, and although elephant names were not on the top of her need-to-know list, she was delighted to have the information. She beheld the world with open wonder. She never tired of it. She was never bored.

When she retired to Eastern Point full-time and no longer needed to look bankerish, she bequeathed her collection of enormous and colorful clip-on earrings to my girls for dress-up, then began the work of creating the footprint she would leave on the North Shore. For all her comforts and privileges, she was keenly aware of the private struggles of individuals and the public needs of institutions, remedying them as she could, thus greatly increasing the sum of human happiness through education and exposure to the arts. Her civic and charitable accomplishments are extensive, but it would be the rare subject that would bore her no end. She would want, instead, to be remembered for her great gift of friendship.

Dotty was an epicenter of warmth, a footprint that advanced in ever-widening circles from her house on the water, embracing us all in a hug. She never forgot anyone. She greeted people as if they’d been gone too long from her life, no matter if it had been a single day or many years. Even after Dotty slowed down and was no longer able to travel, which was only fairly recently, she kept close tabs on her friends in their wanderings. On her calendar she noted where people in her life were at any given time, as if she saw the world as a game board, with all the moving pieces connecting back to her. And since she’d been everywhere, she was a vital source of information. Before I left for Iceland last year, where Dotty had been with Sarah on a birding expedition, she had this to say of the cuisine: “Roast breast of puffin, delectable!” She was open to everything, even the eating of endangered species, who, in another part of her life she was seeking to save from extinction.

Dotty understood that people were often a mess of contradictions, and did not exclude herself from that understanding. In her own community on Eastern Point, where she developed some of her strongest relationships and her most bemused entertainment, she welcomed neighborhood news that came with a side bit of dish, but would not tolerate a mean word about anyone. She appreciated the grand comedy of personal drama, and never held human fragility against anyone human. She knew that in the face of absurdity, the only thing to do was laugh.

She suffered pain and losses, as must we all, but she remained resolutely grateful for life and the lives of those around her, and did not cultivate sadness. Life was for the living, she’d say, and then she lived it fully. As we aspire to lower our carbon footprint and do less harm, let us also raise our Dotty footprint, and try to leave the world a better place, as she did, and so gracefully at that.

 

 

 

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The Human Shore, Seacoasts in History by John R. Gillis

 

The Human Shore, by John Gillis University of Chicago Press, 2012
The Human Shore, University of Chicago Press, 2012

 

The interior section of Cape Ann, which includes Gloucester and Rockport, is called Dogtown. It was the earliest part of the Cape to be settled, and was later abandoned, so that its only occupants for many years were dogs, witches, and other assorted outcasts. It is still largely undeveloped. “Why here?” visitors ask,when I show off our Colonial cellar holes. “Why would people settle here when water is just a few miles away?”

Why? Because an ocean view was dangerous thing to have. Today, nothing says success like a front row seat to the sea, but this is a very modern development, and as the water continues to rise, it might turn out to be a passing fad. The place where water meets land has always been a treacherous spot, exposed not just to storms and tides, but to pirates as well. It wasn’t until there was strength in numbers, along with political stability, that folks ventured to the water’s edge and actually lived there. In The Human Shore, John Gillis documents the history of our relationship to the coast, going back 160,000 years or more, when a particularly cunning primate said ta-ta to the other hominids in the African savannas and wandered east towards the sea. When this early ancestor got to the water, she found seafood and shellfish, rich in the fatty acids necessary to develop large brains, and we were on our way to becoming the Homo sapiens we are today.

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Gillis, bless his heart, embraces the aquatic ape theory, which posits that modern humans evolved in close association with the water. The evidence is that we are fat and naked, looking in some ways more like a dolphin than an ape. This theory was recently considered so far out that I handed it to a character in my novel Float to espouse, so I was thrilled to see it mentioned in The Human Shore, a largely academic book.

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Whether aquatic apes or early hominids, they only lived near enough to the shore to forage seafood, but then, like the early Dogtown inhabitants, set up house-keeping in safety elsewhere. It wasn’t until the end of the 19th c. that the shore lost its association with danger to become a place of pleasure, so that today, half of all of earth’s population live within 100 miles of the sea. We are creatures of the edge, as unstable as it might be. The present sea levels were not even set until 6500 BC. Before that, Europe extended to Britain by means of a forested land called Doggerland, only just being explored by archeologists.

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Gillis writes a great deal about coasting as the norm for travel for most of our history. We hugged the shore. When the Norse got to North America, they did not so much cross the ocean as skim along the Cold Coast of Greenland and the Faroe Islands, coasting and island hopping in the manner of ancient mariners everywhere. When Columbus hit North America, he did not understand that it was an impassable landmass, but thought it was one of a series of islands. Even as recently as the arrival of the Mayflower, Frances Billington, one of the passengers, climbed a tall tree to see if he could spot the Pacific. He did! The pond is still called the Billington Sea, in honor of optimists everywhere.

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What the Europeans did find was natural abundance, but it was not all that natural, and it was not as wild as we imagine, according Gillis. The land had long been cultivated by burning, and the animals of land and sea heavily harvested. It was a delicate balance of humans and resources. When the Europeans arrived, they brought disease and slaughter, reducing the native population to less than 6 percent of its pre-contact level. Stocks rebounded, giving Europeans the impression of unlimited bounty, and began to fish and hunt North America to extinction.

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Gillis writes movingly about the plight of the fishing industry in these days of global fishing and shipping, and I’m pleased to see him mention Gloucester as resisting the trend towards ye old fishing village. We still has a working harbor, such as it is, even though we have a red line to lead tourists around town to show them where the industry used to be. But at least we are not quaint, like Rockport and most other former fishing villages, who thrive on romantic notions of a coastal past that never was. Of all the statistics in Gillis’s excellent book, this one takes the cake: Maine’s working waterfront occupy 20 of 5300 miles of coastline. Today, many fishermen commute to work, since they can no longer afford to live where they work.

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Read this book and understand the shore. We have evolved with it, and will continue to do so, sooner rather than later. From Float: “Slocum believed that fat was the secret to the success of the species. Humans were not just the fattest primates, they also had ten times as many fat cells as would be expected in any animal of its size, which, to Slocum, pointed to one obvious conclusion: Humans were descended from aquatic apes. And, he believed, they needed to maintain those fat deposits for when – perhaps not so far in the future – the rising tides of global warming forced Homo sapiens back to the sea.”

 

Book review originally published at Eco-Lit Books.

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The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2013

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Edited by Siddhartha Mukherjee.Tim Folger, Series Editor.

Science is a scary word. At least, it used to be for those of us who grew up messing around in the hazy world of literature and art, not empirical facts. Science was what made it possible to go to the moon, so science meant rocket science. But it seems to me now that a fear of science is a result of a rigid (and, in my day, gender-biased) educational system, where disciplines are divvied up into discrete categories, as if one had nothing to do with the other. 

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 How wrong, and how sad. Science seeks answers to the same questions that the humanities do: Who are we? What is our purpose? Where did we come from? It is all about observation. Galileo studied the moon and determined that it was not flat, and from this went on to claim that the Earth was not the center of the universe. In the Foreword of The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2013, series editor Tim Folger points out that Galileo’s discovery was rejected in his time, not unlike climate change in ours. And so it goes.

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I’m glad to see Nature Writing is part of this series, and not because it makes for an easy segueway to “science,” but because we need to rethink nature altogether. We have made nature plush and Disney-like by removing most all of our predators, as J.B. MacKinnon writes in “False Idyll” (originally published in Orion). “We have rendered nature an easy god to worship,” MacKinnon says. “Nature is not a temple but a ruin.” If Man against Nature is one of the great recurring themes of literature, then we have been battling a straw dog. In “Our Place in the Universe” (Harper’s) Alan Lightman contemplates the enormity of the universe and wonders how such a remote concept can ever fit into our idea of nature. He notes that in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay “Nature,” Emerson separates humans from nature, and crowns nature as being morally superior. To Lightman, we are not separate so much as insignificant.

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The essays in this collection, each a small revelation unto itself, cover the waterfront, what is left of it. From “Which Species Will Live?” (Scientific America), Michelle Nijhuis argues that it is not enough to save specific species, but the eco-systems in which they live, or what is the point? Sylvia Earle, in “The Sweet Spot in Time” (VQR) writes about the disappearance of coral, the sad state of ocean life as a whole, and how this is the moment to take action, “the next ten years will determine the direction of the next ten thousand.” In “Recall of the Wild” (The New Yorker) Elizabeth Kolbert (whose most recent book is The Sixth Extinction), writes about the strange re-wilding programs taking place around the world. Governments in Europe are using marginal land to introduce herds of animals, like feral horses and deer, and letting them roam under the high power lines. The article raises questions about the ultimate purpose or benefits of re-wilding, with the sober realization that now even wilderness is a human creation.

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In “Out of the Wild” (Popular Science), David Quammen writes about our most dangerous predator, and the smallest, the zoonotic viruses that are transferable from animals to humans, such as Ebola, SARS, and AIDS. Tim Zimmerman in “Talk To Me” (Outside magazine) interviews researchers who are attempting to communicate with dolphins, even though the sentiment is that we might very well have nothing to talk about. It is a sentiment that ties in to Nathaniel Rich’s “Can a Jellyfish Unlock the Secret of Immortality?” (The NYT Magazine), which looks at Turritopsis dohrnii, a jellyfish that instead of dying, returns to being a polyp to start its life cycle over. The conclusion of which is that we are perhaps intelligent enough to achieve biological immortality, but we don’t deserve it.

The benefits of a book like this is that it directs the lay reader to the best in science writing, and that will help make us all more science literate. And we’d better pay close attention to science, because it is going to have to save us from ourselves. “As Sylvia Earle says, “We may be the planet’s worst nightmare, but we are also its best hope.”

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The Greening of Literature

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Last week at the AWP conference in Seattle, I participated in a panel called The Greening of Literature: Eco-Fiction and Poetry to Enlighten and Inspire. The discussion was led by John Yunker of Ashland Creek, an environmentally conscious press in Oregon, (and publisher of Float). I was joined by poet Gretchen Primack, and fiction writers Ann Pancake and Mindy Mejia. We had such a scintillating program, I am moved to share my short talk here, starting with a quote from Ian McEwan’s 2010 novel, Solar:

 “Professor Beard would not have believed it possible that he would be in a room drinking with so many seized by the same particular assumption, that it was art in its highest forms – poetry, sculpture, dance, abstract music, conceptual art – that would lift climate change as a subject, gild it, palpate it, reveal all the horror and lost beauty and awesome threat and inspire the public to take thought, take action, or demand it of others.”

Professor Beard, with his Nobel prize in physics clutched to his chest, is offended by the idea that art might be a better tool for curing a sick planet than his analytical facts. But for all his scientific knowledge, he fails to understand that art has power. Images created by art by-pass the modern cerebral cortex and go straight to our ancient limbic brain which controls memory and emotion, the part of the brain where we process value judgments, judgments that exert a strong influence on our behavior.

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Professor Beard may be fictional, but I know his work. I have read the academic articles of his real life peers, as well as the mainstream essays and books that spring from their scientific research. In writing my novel, Float, which involves plastics in the ocean, I wanted to get the science right in order to make my fictional world real. As John Clancy said, the difference between reality and fiction, is that fiction has to make sense. So when I started Float, I began reading about marine plastics, which turned out to be not just unsightly, immortal, and deadly to sea animals, but toxic to humans as well. As the writing continued, my interest in the health of the oceans expanded. I read about dead zones, overfishing, bottom-trawling, acidification, and the opportunistic appetite of the jellyfish. I learned a lot about the sea, but much of it was pretty dry. Pages and pages of one damn fact after another. No racy scenes, no humor. No plot, no narrative, no characters. No Pauline tied to the train tracks. It was informative, but not particularly engaging. Intellectually, I was concerned, emotionally, I was on the outside looking in. Cerebral writing has a cerebral effect. Academic papers and straight journalism cannot convey human suffering, they can only calculate or report it.

But most readers don’t want to hear about populations, they want a specific person. Not the planet, but a particular place in a moment of time. In reading Solar, I understand environmental product development through the emotions of the characters surrounding Professor Beard. I become disgusted with the brutal competition in scientific circles which prevents many of the best ideas from coming to fruition. I am touched by the simple yearning for love, angered because of an injustice done to an innocent, and then laugh because humans are such idiots. At the end of a novel like Solar, I come to understand that our biggest problem is almost always ourselves.

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In an essay published in 2007, Tom Wolfe argued that the newspaper industry would stand a much better chance of survival if editors encouraged reporters to “provide the emotional reality of the news, for it is the emotions, not the facts, that most engage and excite readers and in the end are the heart of most stories.”

Art, not science, creates that emotional reality. Through the use of image, the visual arts have the emotional power to create change. Literary arts have that power too, in spite of the fact that words on a page are the most pathetic and least effective means of communication. Fiction writers and poets tap into the emotions by working with what we’ve got, which is the ability to create images and people with words. A novel engages the reader by relying on fiction’s strength, the exploration of the human condition. And lately, the natural world is pressing hard against that condition.

But if I’d set out to write a novel about the ecological devastation of the oceans and its effects on humans, I would have froze at my keyboard. Instead, I began with the image of a man on a beach looking at some words in the sand. And as I’m writing the scene, I thought to myself, so what does he see at the beach? Sand, water, wind, seagulls, and, sadly, washed-up plastic. So I put them together, and had the man rescue a seagull being strangled by a six-pack holder, which set off a series of events that led to a search for alternative plastics. I hadn’t intended for my protagonist to get so environmentally involved, but just the act of having him notice the plastic was enough to move the plot in that direction. I needed to start with a character and see where he wanted to go.

Where will your characters go in the future? As fiction writers, we want to make a positive change for the planet, but it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. With our current obsession with ‘place,’ we let our characters experience the beauty and ravages of the natural world, as they stand on the rocky shore with the wind blowing through their hair, but they are too often protected from human accountability. It’s hard to make characters aware of something they can’t do much about, because helplessness makes for a sorry plot. But that doesn’t mean they have to do nothing. They can bear witness. We can bear witness.

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Not that I think fiction writers are under any special mandate to raise awareness. But I do think that those of us who already are, should not be afraid of letting it into our work. As individuals we recycle and consider our carbon footprints, so why not ask the same of our characters? Some writers may be afraid of opening up the Pandora’s Box of climate change or toxic waste because they don’t know what can be done about it. But fiction does not have to provide the answers, as Chekov said, it only has to ask the right questions.

The flip side of introducing environmentalism to our work is the danger of sounding preachy. Fiction cannot be a cast of straw dogs for the author’s opinions. All a writer can do is tell a good story, introduce challenges, and allow the characters to wrestle with the issues. And wrestle is the operative word, because no issue is black and white. In his memoir, Nothing to be Frightened Of, Julian Barnes wrote, “literature tells us best what the world consists of. It can also tell us how best to live in that world, though it does that most effectively when appearing not to do so.”

Humor helps. Humor lets us deal with our own absurdity, because laughter is often the result of a sudden truth about ourselves. Here we are, big-brained humans in the twenty-first century, supposedly the smartest animals who ever walked the earth, and we are killing ourselves and our world with our own cleverness. What else can you do but laugh? The saving grace in all this is that I believe that the cleverness that got us into this environmental mess will get us out of it. If that doesn’t happen before it’s too late, well then, the joke will be on us.

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As writers, our most sustainable energy source is creativity, and we should use it freely. Literature teaches us to notice, to care, and to create meaning. Professor Beard is wrong. We can inspire the public. I’m going to end with another excerpt from Solar, where the professor is being considerably annoyed by another scientist.

“On his weekly rounds, Professor Beard hoped to avoid running into Aldous alone, for the young man was always trying to convince him of photovoltaics, or his quantum explanation of photovoltaics, or to oppress him generally with friendliness and enthusiasm. There were developments in contemporary music he thought Beard should be aware of, and movies that were of particular relevance, documentaries about climate change which Aldous had seen at least twice but would happily see again. There were novels Aldous wanted him to read – novels!”

 

 

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Winter Burial

better goat

Two days before Christmas, Mr. Black Goat, of ancient years, had a stroke which left him unable to walk. I fed, watered, and cleaned his bedding three times a day, each day expecting it to be his last. His brother, Mr. White Goat, had died of a quick series of strokes the year before, and I thought Black Goat was going to go the same way. I waited for another stroke to take him, or for him to turn his head to the wall and go. I’d never had a goat who didn’t know when it was time, except for him. He was not ever going to walk again, but he seemed not to care. His appetite was robust, and he was engaged with Mr. Pig and the chickens.

Mr. Piggie

This went on for thirty days, and it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere. But I was. I had to travel, and I could not leave him to another’s care, and I did not trust Mr. Pig to let anyone near Mr. Goat even so. I make a promise to all my animals that I will not let them suffer when the end comes. And the goat was going to suffer. If not now, then soon. As this brutal winter slogs on, his damaged body would weaken with bed sores and chronic pain. I called the vet and he came to the barn and gently put Mr. Goat down. It was so frigid, the tears froze on my face.

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We had dug a grave back in November, not expecting him to live through the winter. He was old, he was arthritic, and he did not have his brother to help keep warm the long winter nights. When his brother died, almost a year to the day before, it was unexpected and the ground was hard. We’d had to do a winter burial, which means to create a secure, above-ground crypt until the ground thaws. I was so moved by that experience I wrote a poem — my first ever, and most likely my last. It was published in Harpur Palate this past fall, and I reprint it here in both their memories.

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Winter Burial

He met her at the gate with the cart
and she covered the animal with a sheet.
They pulled together to the place
behind the barn.
The ground was frozen.
They laid their friend on the hard earth
adjusting his head, his yellowed horns
ridged with years.
She tucked the sheet around him,
collecting his dignity.
It’s a dirty business
storing a body for the winter.
They carried the black box
and covered him.
Stacking heavy stones on that
against the predators.
Snow was coming.
They might not see the box for a long while.
Say a prayer, he said.
I have no words.
Write a poem then, later.
I don’t write poetry, she said.
You will, he said.

The ground opened in March,
a sudden, violent thaw.
They peeled away wet leaves made dark by time.
The shovels cut through fibrous roots
like matted fur.
Runners hard as shins were severed.
The water table was high.
Life coursed beneath their feet.
They removed the stones
then the black box, letting it fall aside.
The body was fresh
as if they just found him in the barn,
the morning sun a shaft of dusty light.
Worn hooves and gloved hands met
for the unseemly haul to the pit
which swallowed him whole.
Then relief. He is where he was meant to be.
She tilted his horns to display his glory,
and said a prayer.
God.
Nothing else came.

When the hole was filled
they went to the shed for rakes
to smooth over what’d been done.
On return, a goat was standing on the grave
staring down, comprehending,
or not,
as his friend got ready to do
the hard work of becoming one
with the land.

goat

 

 

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Stung!

 

I read an entire book on jellyfish, and it was worth every gelatinous minute. Here is my review, originally published on ecolitbooks.com.

 

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Stung! On Jellyfish Blooms and the Future of the Ocean, by Lisa-ann Gershwin (The University of Chicago Press, 2013)

 

They’re here, and we’ve not just cleared out the guest room for them, we’re opened up the front parlor, the master bedroom, rumpus room, and kitchen. Soon we’ll be barricaded in the basement with a stinging, gelatinous substance dripping on us through the cracks in the ceiling. I’m talking about jellyfish. Our relationship with them has changed for the worse. As they fill our fishing nets and clog our nuclear plant intake valves around the world, they reflect our relationship with the entire eco-system. And now it’s time to say goodnight. DNA research has recently stripped the title of First Multi-Cellular Animal from the sponge and handed it to the jellyfish, and they might very well turn out to be the Last.

When I wrote jellyfish into the plot of Float, which was released in early 2013, I could not have imagined how dire the situation would get in such a short period of time. I was still thinking that if we could find a use for them — like turning them into a true bio-plastic — there might be hope. After reading Stung! by Lisa-ann Gershwin, I am not so sure about that anymore. No matter how many we harvest, more jellyfish will just bloom in their place, because the problem isn’t just that there are too many of them, it’s that they are the bellwether for a very sick ocean. As oceanographer Sylvia Earle writes in the intro, As seas become stressed, the jellyfish are there, like an eagle to an injured lamb or golden staph to a postoperative patient – more than just a symptom of weakness, more like the angel of death.

Gershwin puts jellies in the greater perspective of the general ocean health, discussing at length how jellyfish blooms (population explosions) are the result of degraded ecosystems as well as the driver of further decline. So a large part of the book is spent explaining, in layperson’s language but with the fastidiousness of a researcher, how, exactly, jellies are able to take advantage of even the smallest anthropogenic perturbation, the fancy word for manmade disturbances. These include the usual culprits of ocean acidification and warming climates from our carbon waste, pesticides, herbicides, fungicides, oil spills, leaching plastics, and radioactive material.

One of the worst perturbations is over-fishing, which creates imbalance, music to jellyfish ears if they had them. When a fisheries collapse, it’s not just the target species that disappears, every plant or animal that was dependent on it goes as well. Then its prey goes postal, causing a cascade of problems up and down the food chain. When the Bering Sea was fished out of Pollock by humans, the seals and sea lions disappeared, and the killer whales had nothing to eat but sea otters. When the otters disappeared, their favorite food, the sea urchin, ate up all the kelp forests, destroying the nursery for any remaining species, taking the seabirds with it. Enter the jellyfish to feast on the single-celled muck. An entire area of the Bering Sea is now called the slime bank. When the kilka, the main food fish of the beluga sturgeon, of beluga caviar fame, was fished to extinction, the sturgeon followed. Then who steps in? The mnemiopsis jellyfish, making any sort of re-stocking impossible, since they devour the eggs of both the kilka and sturgeon. They might not have caused the problem, but they prevent any cure.

Farmed salmon, already so bad for the ocean environment, was made for jellyfish, who bloom luxuriously by feeding on all the nutritious salmon poo. The situation is made worse when the swimming vortex of the caged fish sucks the jellies against the mesh and the fish are suffocated. No so the jellyfish, who can survive in very low levels of oxygen.  It was the environment they grew up in, hundreds of millions of years ago. The same goes for warmer water. It is their natal soup. Jellies have withstood the ‘big five’ mass  extinctions because they didn’t need to change as the environment warmed, and they will survive the next.

Jellies come in all sizes and colors and shapes, able to fill any ecological niche. Fifteen hundred species have been named and classified, with more being discovered on a regular basis. They have self-descriptive names: moon jellies, comb jellies, rainbow jellies, box jellies, fire jellies, sea wasps, sea nettles, sea tomatoes, sea walnuts, and on and on, including “the long stingy stringy thingy,” which is a wake-up call for budding scientists to take more creative writing classes. Some of them area as small as 1/5th of a grain of rice, others as large as a refrigerator. They are found in all latitudes and depths, all seasons of the year, with a few freshwater jellies thrown in the mix. Even Antarctica is changing to a jellyfish-dominated ecosystem. The demand for krill to feed fish farms has denuded the waters of the main food for penguins, seals, and whales. The jellies have taken their place, because they are able to eat the tiny phytoplankton known as copepods that have replaced the krill, but the others can’t. They are too small to see, but since the jellyfish don’t have eyes, and hunt by touch, they can. The same goes for the silt storms created by trawlers scraping the bottom of the sea beds for fish. Only jellies can navigate in the dark waters. The rest of the fish, meaning those not caught up in the trawl nets, starve because they can’t see their prey.

Speaking of prey, the omnivorous jellyfish can eat both high and low on the food chain. First by eating the eggs and larvae of big species, but also by eating the food that the larvae of that species would eat. This hat trick makes them both predator and competitor of species bigger, faster, and smarter than themselves. They can also survive long stretches of famine, shrinking in size until food is available again. When they are not eating, they are reproducing, often simultaneously. They can create more of themselves by hermaphroditism, self-fertilization, external fertilization, courtship and copulation, fusion and fission. This last is why cleaning the farmed salmon cages is futile, because it just stimulates more growth. They are not just prolific, they are practically immortal. Even putting aside the fact that cloning is a form of immortality, the cells of one species, Turritopsis dohrnii, reorganizes itself after death to form new colonies of polyps, the equivalent of a dead butterfly’s cells reforming into a caterpillar.

Jellyfish, what are they good for? Aside from a few good Asian dishes, which we might be well advised to develop a taste for, jellies have some medical uses. The discovery of a jellyfish protein that glows green won the Nobel prize in chemistry in 2008, and is used to track the growth of cells, mapping the neural circuits of the human brain. We’ll come up with more uses as time goes by, because one day, they’ll be all we’ll have to work with.

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Remember the 1958 sci-fi movie The Blob, with Steve McQueen? Where an alien glob of goo takes over a town, and no one is listening to the teenagers until it’s too late? Think of jellyfish as the aliens. The teenager is played by Lisa-ann Gershwin, except that she’s stopped trying to get the adults to take her seriously and do something. Now she is calmly cataloging the cause and effect of the invasion for posterity. She believes that we have pushed the ocean too far, beyond a tipping point we never saw coming. The New York Times reported recently that the change won’t be gradual. Several human and natural systems are in danger of rapid and catastrophic collapse, meaning mass extinctions. Due to rising heat and lowered oxygen, the ocean is on its way to developing vast dead zones. No fish, no coral, no whales, no penguins, just algae and jellyfish. Lots of jellyfish. Radical simplification is what this is called, as the seas revert back to where they began. Gershwin has no suggestion beyond the single word: Adapt.

 

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New Fiction from Terrain

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This story was recently published in Terrain, A Journal of the Built and Natural Environments. I wrote it based on a real estate ad, so it leans very much towards the built environment, and was a finalist for their Elemental contest.

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Rare Offering. Paneled library, garden room, Sensational  distant views, historical landscape. Gated community. Great room with stone fireplace. Traditional charm, idyllic family setting. Call Leslie for a private viewing. An exclusive property of Brancaleone Realty.

Gail Meyers contemplated the rosewood sham-book in her hand, a box made to resemble the spines of classics such as Treasure Island, Great Expectations, andVanity Fair. It was an old ruse for hiding valuables, but its joints were loose and the laminate was buckling. Inside was the same disintegrating tangle of rubberbands that had been there since her childhood. She emptied the contents onto the cold ashes in the fireplace, then in a fit of pique, followed it with the box itself. Arching back, she massaged her spine with her knuckles and contemplated the intricate network of cracks on the ceiling. The two of them, her and the house, growing old together like some enchanted couple in a fairy tale.

Click here to read the rest, or go to, where you may also listen to me read the story:     http://terrain.org/2013/fiction/rare-offering/
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Hothouse Magazine Interview

This interview with Karin Davidson was originally published in Hothouse Magazine on Oct. 13, 2013.

Boston area folks, I’ll be reading from Float at the Boston Book Festival tomorrow, Saturday October 19th, at 3:30 pm at the Trinity Forum.

And next Thursday, Oct. 14th, I’ll be part of the Concord Festival of Authors, on a panel title “Why We Write.” At Kerem Shalom in Concord, 7:30 pm.

 

The Coastal Concerns of JoeAnn Hart

“While he lamented the shipwreck that was his marriage, he mourned the equally disastrous changes in his old route. It was no longer the road of his blissfully rudderless youth, when this stretch was a wild and untamed curve of the bay, dotted with signs of warning—“Swim at your own risk” and “Caution, strong tides”—which had only encouraged recklessness. This area had once been so sparsely settled that, at low tide, he and his older brother, Nod, could walk the few rocky miles from their house to their dad’s office without ever touching the civilization of the sidewalk. They loved the damp band of earth that was neither wholly sea nor entirely land, a constantly changing landscape that offered their prepubescent souls new, exciting dangers to overcome. Duncan and Nod had felt themselves gifted at avoiding the perils of the seaweed slicks. They had leaped across the cracks and crevices with ease, even grace, and had waded unafraid through tide pools full of barnacles and crabs. They had scratched their bare legs on wire lobster traps and tripped on minefields of trash, surviving to tell the tale. As boys, they were masters of their world, demi-gods of the water’s edge. Now their infinite kingdom was gone.”

–      from Float by JoeAnn Hart

 

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by Joeann hart

JoeAnn Hart writes about environmental concerns that affect coastal regions, where sea and land meet, and where ecosystems are made even more fragile by man’s irresponsible pursuits. Her characters are observant and engaging, her prose layered with metaphor, her setting lush with realism, and her themes linked to the beauty and tragedy of the natural world. In this interview she speaks of her novel, Float, and the environment, as well as community and collaboration.

 

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lobster_pot

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JoeAnn, tell us about your background. Has Gloucester always been your home? And how has that coastal landscape influenced your writing?

I grew up in the Bronx, then Westchester, before escaping to the Rocky Mountains, which is where young people went in the 70’s. Most of New York was cavorting about in Boulder, including the man who would be my husband. He was from Manhattan, but had just inherited a creaky house in Gloucester, and so I was dragged, somewhat kicking and screaming, from the sunny mountains to the icy sea. It was January, 1979. The sky was gray, the snow was gray, and the harbor was frozen over for the first time in decades. It was no Coastal Living magazine spread. I was only 22, and I wasn’t sure I had the fortitude for maritime life, but love being what it is, I stayed, and Gloucester became a part of me, and me of it. I didn’t start writing until much later, when the working waterfront had already begun its decline. The fisheries were decimated by the industrial fleet with their bottom-scraping trawls, and plastic debris was becoming the main harvest in the nets. In Float, I’ve tried to come to grips with the crippling of the local fishing fleet, and the ecological devastation of the seas. Most writers attack these problems through journalism and other non-fiction formats, but I am comfortable writing about these issues in fiction. I believe that environmentally conscious fiction can forge a strong connection between the brain and the heart, and become a catalyst for social change.

 

Cover image of JoeAnn Hart’s novel, Float - Art by Karen Ristuben / Design by John YunkerJoeAnn Hart’s novel, Float – Art by Karen Ristuben / Design by John Yunker

“A wry tale of financial desperation, conceptual art, insanity, infertility, seagulls, marital crisis, jellyfish, organized crime, and the plight of a plastic-filled ocean, JoeAnn Hart’s novel takes a smart, satirical look at family, the environment, and life in a hardscrabble seaside town in Maine.”

I love this description of Float. Would you tell us the details of what inspired you to write this novel? And how you decided on the title and on Duncan Leland, the man whose “infinite kingdom” is facing rising tides, as the character through which the story is revealed?

 As with my first novel, Addled, I started out with the title, Float, then dove in to play with all the many different meanings and images. The concept of Float began when I heard a friend tell me what her therapist told her, that she had to learn to float over her stress, that she couldn’t struggle against every crisis or else she would get pulled under and drown. So she learned to just say the word float whenever she was stressed and it helped get her through. I thought that was brilliant, and started building on it. I developed a main character, Duncan Leland, who had both his personal and business life in jeopardy, then I gave him a crazy mother to boot. Through the course of the book, he must learn to float, or sink. I used ‘float’ not just in this psychological sense but also in its financial meaning, as in, to float a loan. Then there are the things that float in the ocean, such as plastic, or dead humans. A float is also a wooden platform connected to a dock by a ramp, and it moves up and down with the tides. Not to mention, floating on air.

 

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dog

Tidal pools, salt marshes, or white-capped seas?

Since I am a total wimp, no white-capped seas for me. I enjoy watching them from a distance, inside. Near a fireplace. And when I think salt marsh, I think greenhead flies, who will rip the flesh off your bones during breeding season. There are a few toe-biting crabs scuttling along the bottom, but you won’t ever find a shark in a tide pool.

 

JoeAnn Hart with Daisy - Photo credit: Morgan Baird

JoeAnn Hart with Daisy – Photo credit: Morgan Baird

What has been the most memorable harbor sighting from your dory? And does Daisy, your rescue pup, share these fair-weather outings?

The most wonderful part of rowing around the harbor in a silent vessel like a dory is the seals. They are as curious about us as we are about them, so we – me and my rowing partner, Sarah – always have an eye out for a mammalian head peeking out of the water. It is amazing to think of these large animals, these air-breathing animals like us, living under the ocean’s surface. It is not just a parallel universe to ours, but a completely foreign landscape, and here is an ambassador from that country –  a seal – saying hello. To them, we are a dark lozenge shape moving slowly over their heads. They see the tips of our oars enter the water, then disappear. What are we doing, they wonder. What are they doing, we wonder. Daisy doesn’t come on the dory with us – she much prefers luxury motor yachts with staff – but when I walk her on Brace Cove and it is low tide and the seals are sunning themselves on the rocks, they seem to know one another. The seals arch up, as she goes by, and stare. Perhaps they feel their vestigial leg bones twitch, just a little, as they watch her jump from rock to rock.

 

Seals at Brace Cove

Seals at Brace Cove

Zach & Abe

Zach & Abe

You are active in the Gloucester writing community—including the Gloucester Writers Center and the Rocky Neck Art Colony—as well as environmental alliances and animal rescues—NAMA: Northwest Atlantic Marine Alliance, Save Your Ass Long Ear Rescue, and more. It seems you’ve found a way to traverse the worlds of art and environment. Collaboration is also evident in your choice of artist Karen Ristuben’s cover image for Float,and your partnered gallery reading/artist discussion this September. With your past, present, and future endeavors in mind, is the environmental path of your writing career ever overwhelming? Or does the support of community and collaboration keep you energized and inspired?

In almost all cases, I get back more from an organization than I give. Usually, that pay-back is in the form of satisfaction of having at least tried to make a difference in the world, especially when it comes to the environment. There is also the payback of connection. I’ve met wonderful people working with groups. I’ve also met a few clunkers, but it’s all grist for the mill. Humans just crack me up. We say one thing, and do another, and we almost always work against our own best interests, especially when it has to do with the environment. Here we are, a species destroying our own habitat, and we just continue on our way as if it’s not happening. So I have nothing but admiration for organizations that keep fighting the good fight even as we’re sinking. Especially the arts and humanities, which are too often viewed as if they were an accessory to our culture, and not the defining aspect of our species. Science can make us think, but the arts make us feel, and in order to make the right decisions for the future of the world, we need to use the whole brain, not just half of it. We should all try to approach the world with the wonder of an artist and the curiosity of the scientist. Gloucester artist, Karen Ristuben, who did the cover art for Float, has this sensibility, so I was thrilled when Ashland Creek, who specializes in environmental literature, chose her photographs for Float. We were on a panel together this summer with other environmental artists and writers – Kyle Brown and David Abrams – to talk  about how the arts can be used to enhance environmental action. It was the hottest night of the year in an un-air-conditioned space, and we had a packed house, which demonstrates a great deal of interest in the collaboration between the arts and the environmental sciences.

NAMA is important because they promote local fishing in the same way that the plight of the family farm was brought to our attention. We can fish and save the fish at the same time if we have the right international policies, and if people understand where their fish comes from and how it is caught. And of course, Save Your Ass is close to my heart because we got Abe and Zach from them. We love our donkeys, and we like to think they love us too.

 

Photos by JoeAnn Hart, Morgan Baird, and Brendan Pike.

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Karin C. DavidsonKarin C. Davidson’s stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Los Angeles Review, Passages North, Post Road, and elsewhere. She has an MFA from Lesley University and awards including the Orlando Prize for Short Fiction and the Waasmode Short Fiction Prize. Originally from the Gulf Coast, she also writes at karincdavidson.com.

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