Words4Wildlife
Notes from the fieldSentimental
To prepare for an upcoming move, I’m going through possessions with an eye toward getting rid of things. Cut the clutter now, and make packing simpler in April.
I’m not a packrat, but I am sentimental. So the hardest decisions in this process are about items that have sentimental rather than practical value. I could argue such value is a “use” all its own; a special category, if you will. But I admit it’s not the same type of “use” as a spatula, telephone or towel.
And so, each time I move, I look over the items kept for sentimental rather than practical reasons, and shake my head. It’s a large pile, and the passage of time is not shrinking it at all. What should I keep? What am I ready to get rid of?
In some ways, these decisions feel the same as editing a first draft. I typically cut my word count 10% just by removing extra words no reader will ever miss—words such as “will,” as described in my January post. Then I go deeper, which involves more thought and time as I rework structural material to clarify the text for readers.
At some point, the cuts start to hurt. It’s possible to go too far, removing words that create tone, rhythm, nuance: voice.
I’m not a bad editor, but on occasion, I have cut too deep. The worst fight I ever had with a writer was when I did him the “favor” of deleting all the fluff words in his first draft—showing my work so he could see and learn from it.
He felt I had crushed his voice. Maybe so; it’s possible his voice consists of material I will always hear as extraneous. I don’t edit him anymore. I just correct the outright errors and pass the text to someone who can hear him.
Back to my moving process. Some sentimental items weigh me down, to be frank. I keep certain items because I’ve always kept them, or because they mark a part of my history, even a part I’m not happy to claim.
It’s like treating every word in your first draft as sacred. Does taking it out make the text lighter, cleaner? Then do it. Does getting rid of the item make the burden of worldly possessions less heavy? Heave ho.
On the other hand, some of these sentimental possessions define me to myself: the unicorn poster that hung on my wall when I was in junior high, for example. Having the poster reminds me of the girl I was.
Are writers particularly prone to this kind of sentimental hoarding, especially writers of memoir? Things spark memories, and memories can become bestsellers. This is, of course, an argument for keeping every single piece of memorabilia, every photo, every piece of paper I’ve ever scribbled on … you see the problem.
In my process of getting rid of things that have sentimental value, I’m trying to keep those items that trace the route of my history, which someday may provide fodder for memoir or at least for fun trips down memory lane. Like a writer’s voice, these things help define me. But I am ready to let go of the rest.
Just because it’s in your first draft doesn’t mean it belongs in your final. Just because you picked it up along the way doesn’t mean you have to keep it forever.
Where There’s a Will
“Bald eagles will form lifelong pair bonds, and return to the same breeding location year after year.”
Question: Is there an extra word in this sentence?
Since you already know I’m trying to make a point, probably you answered, “Yes.” What is it? I suppose the post’s title gave it away: The word is “will.”
People who write about wildlife sometimes use “will” without noticing they’ve fallen into a bad habit. It’s bad, because it is the reflexive use of a word that is unnecessary. Writers are duty-bound to notice such habits and slay them. Tight writing is energetic writing. As editor William Zinsser wrote, “There is no sentence that’s too short in the eyes of God.”
So why do we fall into using this extra word “will” when we’re not trying to indicate an action in the future? I think we’re seeing a shade of meaning we want to show the reader: For any given behavior typically observed in an animal, certain animals under certain conditions won’t exhibit that behavior. Animals tend to behave in such-and-such way, but they don’t always.
To the writer’s eye, “Bald eagles will form lifelong pair bonds” looks the same as “Bald eagles tend to form lifelong pair bonds” or “Bald eagles usually form lifelong pair bonds.”
We may see this shade of meaning, but I doubt readers wear the same glasses. When you run across “will” in this context, consider how the sentence would sound without it. “Bald eagles form lifelong pair bonds” sounds fine, doesn’t it? Nobody’s going to hold them to it 100% of the time based on this statement. Deleting “will” doesn’t affect the sentence’s meaning.
When the wandering “will” is pointed out to a writer, its shade of meaning fades. Most writers take a closer look and agree it’s not real: They’ve been seeing a ghost. And as we know, ghosts will fade when the sun rises. Or “will” they?
Once a Birder
I bird attentively in Arizona, not only keeping a backyard bird list, but planning magazine stories to promote the hobby and vacationing in places birders enjoy, whether those visits become magazine stories or not.
None of which explains how I found myself birding or, more accurately, wishing desperately for a field guide and binoculars last month. I wasn’t anywhere near close to home. I was in London’s St. James’s Park, near Buckingham Palace.
In warm fall weather, this most civilized of parks was dressed in autumn finery, but the tourist hordes were blissfully absent. There was just me, and a couple pushing a pram, and one or two men in sharp suits striding purposefully toward Whitehall.
And there were birds. Small songbirds flitted through the foliage, and ducks of at least seven different species paddled the pond’s peaceful waters. Everything looked almost familiar yet not quite: ducks I could identify as dabblers but not by species, singers I could guess to be nuthatches or warblers by their behavior, yet not identify conclusively.
Surrounded by this fine city with all its entertainments and distractions, I had eyes only for the unfamiliar ducks, and ears tuned to hear the strange songs coming from the bushes. So many wishes had come true just to get me to London in the first place, yet now I had one more wish: for binoculars, a field guide, a friendly birder to explain what I was seeing.
I love London for many reasons, not the least of which is that it’s enough like America to be accessible yet different enough from home to be exciting. Its residents speak the same language I hear at home every day, yet the words are pronounced differently enough to remind me I truly am in a foreign country.
It was the same with the birds of St. James’s Park: They looked like those I see at home, yet closer inspection revealed that none were exactly the species with which I’m familiar.
And just as I wanted to stay longer in London and keep exploring its lively streets, I wanted to linger in that lovely park and get to know those birds.
Once a birder, always a birder.
A Squirrel at Play
Tassel-eared squirrels: Do you know them? They are fluffy gray squirrels with a rust-colored back, a downy white tail and (during the winter) furry tassels on their ears.
A tassel-eared squirrel lives in the ponderosa pines beside my home. He’s rather a funny critter. Here he is now, bounding across the needles. His paws seem to barely touch the earth, as if the exuberance of being young in the forest in autumn has freed him from gravity.
What’s this? A pine cone! All at once the squirrel “trips” on the cone. Pretending it attacked him, the squirrel tumbles over and over, caught in its clutches. Oh, the vicious cone. For a few seconds it is touch-and-go: Which of the two will win?
Finally, the brave squirrel bests his craven-hearted attacker. Off he scampers on a victory lap, up a tree and down without pause, up the next and down again, only to be tripped by a branch. Now this evil tree branch is the enemy … and on it goes.
Have you watched a cat play this way? My cat sometimes “trips” over a tennis ball, turns and grabs it, then falls on his side to disembowel it with his back paws. The way I see it—and I love this cat like a member of the family—he can’t possibly believe the tennis ball is alive; and yet he pretends it is. Why else, but for the sake of fun?
I do think animals have fun, don’t you? Meaning I think they do things just for the pleasure of doing them. Sure, my cat is acting out a behavior that helped his ancestors take down prey. But Viggo isn’t going to eat the tennis ball, just as the squirrel knows the pine cone and the branch aren’t really his mortal enemies. So, they can play.
Now and then I get to write about the pleasures of watching wildlife. I’m privileged to see a moment in a wild animal’s life, and even more privileged to share it. And what can I say about a squirrel that behaves as if a pine cone has attacked it? What else can I say, but that it’s fun to see him suspend disbelief, for the sake of a momentary joy. It’s fun to see a squirrel at play.
Her Quiet Voice
A few weeks ago, on assignment for Arizona Wildlife Views magazine, I went to visit a bison herd.
A lot of my job involves sitting in an office chair and moving pieces of information around on my computer. Glamorous as that sounds, every now and then I need a break from all the excitement.
Going out on assignment can be stressful, though. Every traveler knows the challenges of leaving routine behind and facing the unfamiliar. On assignment, there’s the added stress of not knowing whether the story will work out. I hate the thought of wasting time in pursuit of something that fails. Also, the state pays me to get stories. I’m lucky to have this job and would hate to squander my employer’s good will on wild goose chases.
And then there’s the fear that the words won’t come. As a writer, you think they will, you hope and believe it, but in the back of your mind there’s always the question: What if this time, nothing?
All that angst was rattling in my head as I turned off I-40 onto the 10-mile dirt road to Raymond Wildlife Area. As the truck slowed from 75 to 15 miles an hour, something in me eased up as well. For a moment, a tiny, peaceful space opened up in my mind. It felt like a quiet clearing between the thorny tasks waiting on my desk and the unknown pitfalls of entering unfamiliar territory.
Into that clear space, shy as deer, a few words came pacing on slender legs. Not much: Just a note about the flight of sparrows scared up by my truck’s passage, their wings spread like bristles on a paintbrush, splattering shadows across the ground.
I recognized that quiet voice. My muse’s voice.
Of course, it’s inconvenient of her to visit when I’m driving. But you can’t schedule this stuff. You can only create an opportunity and hope something happens. When it does, how ungrateful would I be to say, “Not now, I’m busy!”
So I pulled over, grabbed the notebook and scribbled down a few words. It was more a gesture of respect than anything else. Those words might turn into something; or, they might not. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. What mattered was capturing them as they came—promising my quiet muse that whenever she chooses to speak, I’m listening.
***
Here’s poet Kay Ryan’s take on this:
“Her Politeness”
It’s her politeness
One loathes: how she
isn’t insistent, how
she won’t impose, how
nothing’s so urgent
it won’t wait. Like
a meek guest you tolerate
she goes her way—the muse
you’d have leap at your throat,
you’d spring to obey.
Perfect
A writer who is working on a story for the next issue of Arizona Wildlife Views told me he was facing writer’s block. “I don’t know how to overcome the obstacle of thinking I could have written this or that better,” he said.
His question got me thinking. I don’t know all the answers, but I’ll share some ideas here.
First, when you sit down to make that messy, wild, wonderful first draft, do anything you can to take fear out of the picture. The goal is to face that blank piece of paper with some energy you want to share. Maybe it’s curiosity or excitement, or maybe you’re angry; whatever it is, just let it flow onto the page. Get those fingers dancing.
Fear that you might say something wrong is the opposite of energy. It’s a black hole, sucking in writers with false logic. Fear says, “I won’t start typing so I can never say anything wrong.” True, but see how silly that is? Start typing anyway. Soon enough, you’ll see how much you can get right.
I also think, once the piece is published, don’t read it for a month or two. Sure, admire your byline. Give yourself a pat on the back for getting something published. Then, put it away. Because if you read it now, you’ll find words that can be rearranged. You’ll think that moving them around makes them better. But it generally doesn’t—it just makes them different.
Trust me: Words can always be rearranged. Say it this way, say it that way, shift the meaning, change the emphasis a degree or two … sentences are malleable. Playing with them is great fun. There’s no one right way to say something. Writing isn’t a science, it’s an art form, and no art form is perfect.
Frankly, “perfect” is not even a goal to reach for. I’m not even sure what “perfect” means, in terms of the written word. And I’m a perfectionist, so that’s saying something. But when it comes to writing, perfect isn’t the target. Accurate, yes. Well-said, certainly. True to your original vision, I hope. But perfect? Trying to get there isn’t useful, just painful.
What Motivates a Wildlife Writer
Recently my colleagues at Arizona Wildlife Views magazine and I were asked what motivates us when it comes to work.
I haven’t asked myself that question in a while, so it made me stop and think. What gets me into this computer chair five days a week? Well, there’s force of habit, of course. There’s the opportunity to connect with readers on a topic of mutual interest. There’s the chance one of my stories might win an award. And there’s the paycheck, for which I am grateful (though the desire to make money can’t keep anyone working at a state job).
I am definitely motivated by curiosity about wildlife and natural resources management. If I’m hearing about something called a “safe harbor agreement,” I can indulge my curiosity and ask someone who uses them every day to save native fish from extinction. If I want to know where to watch wildlife, I can just ask around. We have amazing naturalists on the staff at Arizona Game and Fish. My job lets me indulge my lifelong curiosity about nature, and that’s part of what motivates me to keep doing it.
The answer that sprang to mind first, though, was not curiosity. It was the opportunity to do something I love, which is writing, and occasionally, to try something new. Just last week, I started working on a new story. Arizona was only the second state in the nation to hire a full-time herpetologist. His job was to find out how the state’s reptiles and amphibians were doing, and work for their conservation. This person did ground-breaking work. He has retired from Game and Fish, but he’s still around, so I decided to interview him.
Partly, I’m curious what it was like to start a brand-new program. But also, I have never done a story based on interviewing one person. I am excited to try it. Taking my writing in this direction will be new for me. I don’t know how this process will go, but I’m eager to explore the territory.
Who knows? Maybe it won’t work. Maybe I can’t pull it off. But even the fact that I’m nervous feels good. It’s a signpost showing I’m going in the right direction … taking my writing someplace new.
Last night we went to a great concert. Sam Bush is a singer and a mandolin and fiddle player—a musician at the top of his game, after decades of dedication. In the bio notes in the program, Bush says, “I love to play, and the older I get, the more I love it. And I love new things.” That’s how I feel. I love to write, and I love to try new things. Having a job that lets me do both is great motivation.
On Magazine Time
Magazine time isn’t like normal time. I’m not talking about the deadlines, which come with many jobs besides this one. What’s unique about magazines is how they force you think ahead. And I mean, way ahead. We already have a full editorial calendar for Arizona Wildlife Views 2012.
In the normal course of events, some stories will drop off the calendar and a few others will be added. But the point is, here in September 2011 we have a fairly solid idea of the topics our readers will be looking at in September 2012.
I want to write for the magazine in 2012, of course. This meant I had to come up with story ideas for 2012 before meeting with the magazine editor to set the calendar in July 2011. So while the magazine is planned as much as a year in advance, I start thinking about my writing projects as much as a year and a half ahead of their publication.
It goes a step further: If I want to do a story that is timely for a fall issue, and it requires traveling to an area so I can experience that place in autumn, I have to go there in autumn 2010, pitch the story in summer 2011, and write the story in the summer of 2012 for fall publication. I don’t know what I’m having for dinner tonight, but I do know what I’ll be writing about a year from now.
As one of my favorite television characters, Monk, would say, “It’s a blessing … and a curse.” This lengthy planning cycle is a challenge, but it keeps me thinking ahead. I’m always developing story ideas, and if they involve travel, I’m planning my schedule at least one year out, and sometimes up to two.
This is fine with me; as I mentioned in an earlier post, one of my stories published this year took five years between the first seeds of an idea and the date of publication. It’s a good thing that by temperatment, I’m kind of a marathon runner. A person who writes for a bimonthly magazine can’t be a sprinter—impatience is not a trait this job rewards.
So, want to know what you will be reading in September 2012? Ask an editor!
Collaboration
I’ve just seen the first draft layout for the condor story, and I’m thrilled. The art director “got” what I was trying to do.
This is one thing I love about writing for magazines: collaborating with graphic designers. You may think when it comes to magazine stories, all the artistic decisions are reserved for the writer and his or her muse. Not so. Final text is final text, but there are many more artistic decisions to be made before the finished project is revealed.
Until a graphic designer gets involved, text is just text, black lines on white paper, a sea of ink … boring.
Once the editor approves your text and sends it to design, the magazine’s art director or graphic designer reads the story and develops a vision for presenting it. The goal is to use visual cues to reinforce key themes, bringing out the central point in a whole different language, one of form and color.
With that vision in mind, the art director looks for images or illustrations. If you supplied photos with your words, you may think they go together like peanut butter and jelly. But magazines don’t necessarily publish an author’s photos with the text. The art director may choose honey, or chocolate chips, or even bananas instead. And this is a good thing … not every brilliant writer is also a brilliant photographer, after all. It’s thrilling when the art director or photo editor pairs your text with someone else’s fine art.
Once the story goes to design, you may or may not get to see layout proofs. When you do, the request is usually for cutlines (photo captions). You may be asked for feedback on photo choice or, more rarely, overall design theme. Don’t try to re-edit your text at this point—you’re sure to earn an editorial growl. Layout is not the time to fuss with text.
My advice is, sit back and let this process happen. Collaborating with another artist is fun!
