Jennifer R. Hubbard's Blog, page 27
September 18, 2015
Migration
Today was a day for Hawk Mountain Sanctuary, which is, as its website says, "One of the best places in northeastern North America to view the annual autumn hawk migration." Apparently the configuration of this Pennsylvania ridge, and its wind patterns, funnels the migrating raptors into a relatively narrow area. Every fall, people gather on the rocky overlooks to enjoy the stunning scenery, watch, and count the birds.
My husband and I only did concentrated bird watching for about 15 minutes, as we also had plans to hike the sanctuary's challenging trails, but we saw dozens of raptors: circling, wheeling, passing over the ridge. (We also saw a monarch buttefly flutter by.) The sanctuary's official count for today was 1589 migrating birds observed, including 1532 broad-winged hawks.
In Pennsylvania, it's not uncommon to see hawks. But today I had a special thrill over each one I saw, because in this place and at this time, each was part of something bigger: this migration, this mass flight. It has been happening since long before I was born and will, I hope, continue long after I'm gone. It's one of the patterns we find on this planet, a milestone in the turning of the year and in the lives of the creatures around us.
My husband and I only did concentrated bird watching for about 15 minutes, as we also had plans to hike the sanctuary's challenging trails, but we saw dozens of raptors: circling, wheeling, passing over the ridge. (We also saw a monarch buttefly flutter by.) The sanctuary's official count for today was 1589 migrating birds observed, including 1532 broad-winged hawks.
In Pennsylvania, it's not uncommon to see hawks. But today I had a special thrill over each one I saw, because in this place and at this time, each was part of something bigger: this migration, this mass flight. It has been happening since long before I was born and will, I hope, continue long after I'm gone. It's one of the patterns we find on this planet, a milestone in the turning of the year and in the lives of the creatures around us.
September 13, 2015
The great outdoors
This morning, my husband and I took to the woods.
It was a perfect hiking day: cool, dry, with a hint of breeze. The leaves are just starting to turn, a few bright accents of scarlet and yellow among the greenery. It refreshed me, the way it always does.
I've noticed that my fictional characters often run to nature when they need to regroup: Colt in The Secret Year heads for the river; Ryan in Try Not to Breathe explores the woods and the waterfall around his home; Maggie in Until It Hurts to Stop climbs mountains. This echoes my own fondness for the natural world, and my regular forays into it. My characters' experiences reflect my own childhood seeking out any scrap of woods, any "unimproved" lot I could find. Those lots have become fewer and fewer, and I worry about children who don't have some tree or rock to climb, some bed of moss or sand to rest on, some trickle of water to explore. It doesn't have to be deep wilderness--mine certainly wasn't, and a child's imagination can turn a quarter-acre lot into a vast tract of frontier land. I have found pockets of nature even in the most urban neighborhoods I've lived in, in places as built up as Atlanta and Philadelphia.
I do realize that not every finds, or needs to find, solace in the outdoors. But I only understand that in theory. In practice, it seems, all my characters seek out that very solace. I only vary the ecological niche, the environment in which they seek it out.
Some parts of ourselves make it into our characters whether we consciously plan it or not.
It was a perfect hiking day: cool, dry, with a hint of breeze. The leaves are just starting to turn, a few bright accents of scarlet and yellow among the greenery. It refreshed me, the way it always does.
I've noticed that my fictional characters often run to nature when they need to regroup: Colt in The Secret Year heads for the river; Ryan in Try Not to Breathe explores the woods and the waterfall around his home; Maggie in Until It Hurts to Stop climbs mountains. This echoes my own fondness for the natural world, and my regular forays into it. My characters' experiences reflect my own childhood seeking out any scrap of woods, any "unimproved" lot I could find. Those lots have become fewer and fewer, and I worry about children who don't have some tree or rock to climb, some bed of moss or sand to rest on, some trickle of water to explore. It doesn't have to be deep wilderness--mine certainly wasn't, and a child's imagination can turn a quarter-acre lot into a vast tract of frontier land. I have found pockets of nature even in the most urban neighborhoods I've lived in, in places as built up as Atlanta and Philadelphia.
I do realize that not every finds, or needs to find, solace in the outdoors. But I only understand that in theory. In practice, it seems, all my characters seek out that very solace. I only vary the ecological niche, the environment in which they seek it out.
Some parts of ourselves make it into our characters whether we consciously plan it or not.
September 10, 2015
Acorns
I have a note here for a blog post I wanted to write: "The stories we tell ourselves."
I wonder what I meant by that?
It's not unusual for me to be puzzled like this by my jottings, my story ideas. It's not unusual for me to be completely unable to recall what I meant. (It's also not unusual for me to recall what I meant, but to find it unimpressive and not worth writing after all.)
It's okay. I figure that anything really worth writing about will excite enough neurons to resurface when given the prompt. If the prompt fails to elicit anything, then that little spark that seemed so brilliant in the moment must've flamed out pretty quickly.
At least once a week, I get a story idea that seizes me, convinces me of its depth and brilliance. I can envision the finished story in my head, complex, juicy, powerful. Over and over, these ideas lose their luster within days. Sometimes hours.
So few acorns sprout into oaks. My notebooks are full of acorns.
In closing, I'll note this upcoming appearance, for those of you in or near New Jersey:
September 17, 7 PM. Author panel and Q&A: "So You Want to Write a Book!" Gloucester County Library, Mullica Hill Branch, 389 Wolfert Station Road Mullica Hill, NJ 08062. Appearing with members of the New Jersey Authors Network.
I wonder what I meant by that?
It's not unusual for me to be puzzled like this by my jottings, my story ideas. It's not unusual for me to be completely unable to recall what I meant. (It's also not unusual for me to recall what I meant, but to find it unimpressive and not worth writing after all.)
It's okay. I figure that anything really worth writing about will excite enough neurons to resurface when given the prompt. If the prompt fails to elicit anything, then that little spark that seemed so brilliant in the moment must've flamed out pretty quickly.
At least once a week, I get a story idea that seizes me, convinces me of its depth and brilliance. I can envision the finished story in my head, complex, juicy, powerful. Over and over, these ideas lose their luster within days. Sometimes hours.
So few acorns sprout into oaks. My notebooks are full of acorns.
In closing, I'll note this upcoming appearance, for those of you in or near New Jersey:
September 17, 7 PM. Author panel and Q&A: "So You Want to Write a Book!" Gloucester County Library, Mullica Hill Branch, 389 Wolfert Station Road Mullica Hill, NJ 08062. Appearing with members of the New Jersey Authors Network.
September 7, 2015
Going all out
Sometimes it seems that the biggest lesson in writing, and the one I have to keep learning over and over, is not to pull my punches.
And I keep seeing reminders everywhere: in tennis players who run all out and lunge at the ball; in singers who seem to draw their voices up from their toes; in dancers who pour fire into their performances. I want to write that way.
But the more you invest in a work, the more vulnerable you are. It runs counter to our instincts--or to mine, anyway--to drop self-protectiveness, to take risks. It's like sending up a balloon and hoping nobody sticks a pin in it.
It also takes tremendous energy--physical, mental, emotional--to give 100% at the writing desk.
Many things about writing become easier with time and practice. This part doesn't. In fact, I think it gets more difficult.
And I keep seeing reminders everywhere: in tennis players who run all out and lunge at the ball; in singers who seem to draw their voices up from their toes; in dancers who pour fire into their performances. I want to write that way.
But the more you invest in a work, the more vulnerable you are. It runs counter to our instincts--or to mine, anyway--to drop self-protectiveness, to take risks. It's like sending up a balloon and hoping nobody sticks a pin in it.
It also takes tremendous energy--physical, mental, emotional--to give 100% at the writing desk.
Many things about writing become easier with time and practice. This part doesn't. In fact, I think it gets more difficult.
September 3, 2015
Insecurity
In Hold Still, Sally Mann writes, "And then, as often happens to me, the self-doubt that had dammed up so much behind its seemingly impermeable wall allowed the first trickles of hope and optimism to seep out, and through the widening crack possibility flooded forth. Insecurity, for an artist, can ultimately be a gift, albeit an excruciating one."
I've read that last sentence many times, turning it over and over. Whenever insecurity appears in my writing life, it generally cuts into my productivity and the quality of my writing, so I wouldn't call it a gift. But is there a post-insecurity rebound, a feast to follow the famine, as Mann describes?
Writers can turn almost anything into fodder for work, even insecurity, so there's that. Does self-doubt serve other purposes--not just by keeping us humble, but by prodding us to certain questions and self-examination that we might otherwise skip?
As you can probably tell, I'm thinking a lot about this.
I've read that last sentence many times, turning it over and over. Whenever insecurity appears in my writing life, it generally cuts into my productivity and the quality of my writing, so I wouldn't call it a gift. But is there a post-insecurity rebound, a feast to follow the famine, as Mann describes?
Writers can turn almost anything into fodder for work, even insecurity, so there's that. Does self-doubt serve other purposes--not just by keeping us humble, but by prodding us to certain questions and self-examination that we might otherwise skip?
As you can probably tell, I'm thinking a lot about this.
August 30, 2015
Last scene
I've been reworking an ending. Which reminds me of all the other endings I've reworked. There are many.
Endings are tricky. Beginnings are, too--they must hook the reader, set up the proper expectations, introduce us to the voice. But endings are what determine whether the promise to the reader has been fulfilled. Endings are what make the reader recommend a book to someone else, or set it aside in disappointment. Endings are where everything comes together--or falls apart.
Knowing how the story ends is different from knowing how to write the ending. Sentence by sentence, actually bringing to life the scene in my head, sounding the right note, conveying the main character's growth (or lack of it) ... it's a challenge. The wrong sentence can send the scene in the wrong direction, and there's no more room to recover if this scene deflates.
So I rewrite, again.
Endings are tricky. Beginnings are, too--they must hook the reader, set up the proper expectations, introduce us to the voice. But endings are what determine whether the promise to the reader has been fulfilled. Endings are what make the reader recommend a book to someone else, or set it aside in disappointment. Endings are where everything comes together--or falls apart.
Knowing how the story ends is different from knowing how to write the ending. Sentence by sentence, actually bringing to life the scene in my head, sounding the right note, conveying the main character's growth (or lack of it) ... it's a challenge. The wrong sentence can send the scene in the wrong direction, and there's no more room to recover if this scene deflates.
So I rewrite, again.
August 27, 2015
August
August is a bit of a nostalgic month, and I reflected on this at my monthly YA Outside the Lines post. A sample: "August was the sunset of summer, the final golden days of freedom. August was the month when I realized summer really was finite."
I love August and hate to see the summer end. Most people adore autumn, but that's the hardest season for me. It's getting easier every year, though--partly because time passes so quickly now that I know I will just about blink and the season will change again.
Meanwhile, it's still August, for a little while longer.
I love August and hate to see the summer end. Most people adore autumn, but that's the hardest season for me. It's getting easier every year, though--partly because time passes so quickly now that I know I will just about blink and the season will change again.
Meanwhile, it's still August, for a little while longer.
August 24, 2015
What if
There's nothing like nearing the end of a book revision and thinking, "What if that character went in a WHOLE DIFFERENT DIRECTION?"
*All elements subject to change without notice.*
*All elements subject to change without notice.*
August 21, 2015
On not writing
"Writers write." "Write every day." You may have heard these or similar sayings, and there's truth in them. Writers cannot only talk about writing, or dream about it, or plan to do it; at some point, actual writing must be involved.
But not necessarily every day or all the time. Many writers have variable schedules. They write regularly, but not every day. Or they write in intense bursts, with rests in between.
Many writers also go through phases of not writing--by which I mean a time when they are not just "between projects" but depleted, out of ideas or the desire to write, or needing to attend to something else in life--health, family, career, whatever. Often, writers enter such a period not sure whether they will ever write again.
Most writers do seem to return to writing eventually. The well refills and starts flowing. If it doesn't, they may turn to other activities or creative outlets.
When I recently interviewed several writers who debuted with me in 2010, one question I asked was whether they had taken a break from writing within the past 5 years. Many had, including me. I suspect it's very common.
Writing is a creative act that takes energy. No surprise that we may need a hiatus, a wintertime, a break, a retreat, a leave of absence, a rejuvenation, or whatever you may call it. It can be a time to reevaluate what we've been doing, and where we want to go next.
But not necessarily every day or all the time. Many writers have variable schedules. They write regularly, but not every day. Or they write in intense bursts, with rests in between.
Many writers also go through phases of not writing--by which I mean a time when they are not just "between projects" but depleted, out of ideas or the desire to write, or needing to attend to something else in life--health, family, career, whatever. Often, writers enter such a period not sure whether they will ever write again.
Most writers do seem to return to writing eventually. The well refills and starts flowing. If it doesn't, they may turn to other activities or creative outlets.
When I recently interviewed several writers who debuted with me in 2010, one question I asked was whether they had taken a break from writing within the past 5 years. Many had, including me. I suspect it's very common.
Writing is a creative act that takes energy. No surprise that we may need a hiatus, a wintertime, a break, a retreat, a leave of absence, a rejuvenation, or whatever you may call it. It can be a time to reevaluate what we've been doing, and where we want to go next.
August 17, 2015
Pieces of the past
My husband and I have been watching episodes of "Who Do You Think You Are?," a show in which people* study their genealogy. In the process, they find out about how their ancestors lived through historical events, as well as unearthing family stories (sometimes scandals). A few of them have also found living relatives.
My husband traced my family tree and his own, and so the discovery process we see on the show is familiar: the sometimes startling or amusing hints you find in old records (like the ancestor who started out in one census as 10 years her husband's senior, but downplayed her age in each succeeding census until they were finally recorded as being only a year apart). We didn't have cameras following us around, nor the budget to fly all over the world visiting archives, nor did we get personal one-on-one visits with historians and genealogists. But even without the resources that the people on the show have, you can still find plenty of information from local records repositories, family papers, and the internet.**
The information is never complete, though. You can see that a family lost several young children, or that a widow and her daughter married the neighbor and his son and all moved in together. You can see that a young man took off to a new territory, that one person sued another, that a person fought in a war. But you don't know the whys and wherefores; you don't know what they thought or how they felt. On the TV show, the people who are researching their families piece together the facts they've found and reach conclusions: "They must have really loved each other." "He really believed in something." "This shows his courage." Sometimes, watching, I've reached different conclusions from the same set of facts. You don't know if people married for love, money, self-preservation, or other reasons. You don't know if a soldier fought because he was idealistic about a cause or because he thought the millitary could give him more freedom than the indentured servitude he left behind. You don't know if a separated couple was happier apart than together.
For writers, for storytellers, these hints and bare-bones outlines of stories suggest all sorts of possibilities. They can serve as jumping-off points, because a single fact can be the seed for a thousand different tales.
*The people on the show happen to be celebrities, but that isn't really the draw. The real stars of the show are their previously unknown ancestors, whose stories come alive during the research. I have a feeling the celebrity angle was the initial hook to get the show made, but it would work just as well with random people pulled off the street.
**One thing that's striking about the show is just how many local historical societies, archives, and small libraries there are around the world, how many people devote themselves to these specialized fragments of history. Many of them seem to toil in tiny buildings with little funding. But they are keeping these stories alive.
My husband traced my family tree and his own, and so the discovery process we see on the show is familiar: the sometimes startling or amusing hints you find in old records (like the ancestor who started out in one census as 10 years her husband's senior, but downplayed her age in each succeeding census until they were finally recorded as being only a year apart). We didn't have cameras following us around, nor the budget to fly all over the world visiting archives, nor did we get personal one-on-one visits with historians and genealogists. But even without the resources that the people on the show have, you can still find plenty of information from local records repositories, family papers, and the internet.**
The information is never complete, though. You can see that a family lost several young children, or that a widow and her daughter married the neighbor and his son and all moved in together. You can see that a young man took off to a new territory, that one person sued another, that a person fought in a war. But you don't know the whys and wherefores; you don't know what they thought or how they felt. On the TV show, the people who are researching their families piece together the facts they've found and reach conclusions: "They must have really loved each other." "He really believed in something." "This shows his courage." Sometimes, watching, I've reached different conclusions from the same set of facts. You don't know if people married for love, money, self-preservation, or other reasons. You don't know if a soldier fought because he was idealistic about a cause or because he thought the millitary could give him more freedom than the indentured servitude he left behind. You don't know if a separated couple was happier apart than together.
For writers, for storytellers, these hints and bare-bones outlines of stories suggest all sorts of possibilities. They can serve as jumping-off points, because a single fact can be the seed for a thousand different tales.
*The people on the show happen to be celebrities, but that isn't really the draw. The real stars of the show are their previously unknown ancestors, whose stories come alive during the research. I have a feeling the celebrity angle was the initial hook to get the show made, but it would work just as well with random people pulled off the street.
**One thing that's striking about the show is just how many local historical societies, archives, and small libraries there are around the world, how many people devote themselves to these specialized fragments of history. Many of them seem to toil in tiny buildings with little funding. But they are keeping these stories alive.
