Susan Imhoff Bird's Blog, page 6

the book critic I am not

if there is an art of critiquing the writing of others, it is a talent/skill/ability I fear I do not possess.  I am a terrible critic.  I like what I like, obscure and sometimes irrelevant segments of a work often make me deliriously happy, I react subjectively to the entire experience of reading a work, and I am not skilled in justifying my reactions.  I like books or I love them or I consider the experience of reading them good training, and I cannot always explain exactly why.

the other day I read a review of cheryl strayed’s wild.  it was detailed, provided examples to explain the author’s critique, and was in itself a work of art.  I read it, silently agreeing and cheering the reviewer on, yes, yes, I agree, you’ve got it!    he was able to put into words what I experienced while reading the book;  he helped me understand my reaction to the book.  he read the book, reacted to it, and put great thought into explaining his reactions. wow; I was impressed.  I—on the other hand—read, feel, experience, and don’t really want to have to work that hard to explain my feelings.

a friend gave me two cormac mccarthy books to read a while back, the road, and the crossing.  I read the road (I know, many years after the rest of the world did), and am now making my way through the crossing.  while the setting and story of the road weren’t easy to love, I was from the very beginning awed by mccarthy’s storytelling skill.  I moved quickly into his style, his way of describing sights cleanly and artistically, of explaining experiences in such detail that the reader falls into the scene with the characters.  I read the book both to learn the story and to be immersed in the style, mccarthy’s incredible talent leaping from pages and swallowing me.

reading the crossing feels somewhat the same, though it’s settings are rounder, richer, more varied, less–usually–bleak.  mccarthy has more to say in this book than in the road because the world is more full.  but his style, his talent, his view, are what remain consistent and are obviously a gift he was given at birth, one he has honed and perfected.  no one will write as he does for no one sees and experiences as he does.  I picture mccarthy at his writing table, paper and pen (or laptop or keyboard) at hand, and I know his mind swims in a river most of us only hope to one day dip our body parts in.  I see him lost in other worlds, visiting ours only to write down the words, draw us pictures, spin us into lands and stories we would never by ourselves find.

and that is the kind of thing I have to say about books I read.  I don’t want to speak critically of word usage, semantics, grammar, metaphor, symbolism, themes, setting, plot, characters . . . I want to tell you how I felt.  what I experienced.  how I got lost or how I didn’t truly care.  how I fell into scenes with characters or how I was left alone on my couch as the characters woodenly went through the motions.  I’m not willing to work hard to critique what I read because I have so many, many more books in my stack that I still need to experience . . . my time is precious, and I’m happy to stop with just feeling what I feel, acknowledging it, and moving on.

so I’ll leave the book critiquing to the book critics.  I’ll keep on writing my meagre reviews that say I loved it, I got lost in it, the characters still live within me, I learned a million and one things, I want this book to be part of my collection forever and ever . . . and leave it at that.

because a book critic I am not.

 

 

hibernation

last may I began a project, a book about wolves.  since that time I’ve traveled to montana, yellowstone, wyoming, idaho, montana again, yellowstone again.  I’ve read a towering stack of books, and perused articles and op eds galore.  I’ve interviewed dozens of people, from hunters to ranchers to conservationists, attorneys, retired schoolteachers, biologists.  I’ve written, I’ve listened, I’ve reflected, I’ve written more.  and more, and more, shaping and crafting it into something worth reading.

and yesterday, I took my manuscript–after giving it a thorough polishing–and put it down for a nap.  it’s going to rest, now, for a few weeks.  I’m going to leave it alone, no checking to see if its breathing, for I’m going to trust that it’ll be just fine without me.

a small period of dormancy is good for both of us.  I’m going to focus on other projects, other areas in my life that might need a little attention, and I’m purposefully not going to think about wolves.  I’m going to tidy up my living spaces, maybe go for a walk.  catch up on all those things I’ve let slip to the bottom of the pile.  maybe sing a little bit.  sweep out a few corners.  think about the cover of the published book, envision it on people’s tables and nightstands, in their hands, in their minds.

this period of enforced hibernation is a trick used by many writers, a way to view something with fresh eyes.  it’s crucial to be able to step away from your work, to be able to see it from a witnessing viewpoint.  to read it as if you were someone else.  and this is impossible to do when you’re engrossed in the writing, the creation of it.  some parts of my manuscript I wrote 6, maybe 7 months ago, and during my most recent full-manuscript assessment and edit, I had no memory of writing them.  some parts I’d written just 2 or 3 months back, and I read them as if for the first time.  I know when I pick the manuscript back up a few weeks from now I won’t have forgotten it all, but hopefully the time away will have dulled my memory enough to let it speak to me in a different way.  perhaps parts will be less clear, perhaps new ideas will jump out at me, different ways to organize, to express thoughts, to make the story better hold together, intrigue, delight.

when I return to the manuscript a few weeks from now, I will read it from end to end, I will try to forget that I wrote any of it, I will let it speak to me.  and hopefully it will howl.

 

taking it to the woods

I am writing a book about wolves.  about people and wolves.  about what people think, feel, and believe about wolves.  about what it’s like to be a human in a world where there are wolves.  it is an awesome book, one I’m extremely grateful to be writing.

currently I am working on a section about nature and its impact on us humans.  richard louv has written a book about children and nature titled “last child in the woods” in which he suggests that much of our population suffer from what he calls nature deficit disorder, especially our children.  this resonates with me.  in a sentence I find particularly meaningful for its insight he states:

“Given a chance, a child will bring the confusion of the world to the woods, wash it in the creek, turn it over to see what lives on the unseen side of that confusion.”

it isn’t only children who benefit from that time in the woods;  we adults, too, can take our confusion, wash it in the creek, and explore nuances and understandings we hadn’t yet discovered.  the only one who won’t benefit from time spent alone in nature is the one who isn’t yet ready to face oneself.  children–blessedly–are naturally open to this kind of exploration and will remain so until the world convinces them they’re not.  the answers, the solutions and understandings, rarely come as lightning bolts ~ though they may ~ more often adjusting us minutely and softly, helping us to breathe more deeply and corral the strength that resides within.

often we aren’t even able to articulate a question, but have an awareness that we’re unsettled.  taking that to the woods, to the river, to the mountain, is important therapy, inexpensive and wildly effective.

much can be learned from studying wildlife, and the way wolves live is especially instructive for us humans.  they form bonds with others, and are extremely loyal and protective of the space they share with their family.  they nurture and teach and play with their offspring.  they persevere; they only give up when it’s necessary to give up.  they roam and explore but always come home.  they howl.

it’s possible they take their confusion to the creek, splash around a bit, and come away better.

when we listen to our hearts and souls and remember who we truly are, we are drawn to the land, to the wild.  and it is there that we can embrace our truths and let nature work its magic on us.