Ron Carlson Writes a Story

Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, host of Writers on Writing, welcomed writer Ron Carlson to her podcast this morning. Ron is the director of the MFA/Fiction Program at the University of California, Irvine, and was one of our workshop leaders at the Squaw Valley Writers’ Workshops this summer. Barbara and Ron discussed his new book, RON CARLSON WRITES A STORY.

During the interview, Ron said stories are created in the dark, and that we as writers must tolerate their ambiguity and trust our instincts when putting words to paper. He also said it’s important that writers stay with the writing, even when it feels substandard – a challenge he too finds daunting. He illustrated this point by stating when he gets stuck, he sometimes gets up from his chair and leaves the room, then wanders into another room – invariably the kitchen – to pour a cup of coffee and pray a sentence will emerge. Better to sit tight and work it out, he maintains -- dance with the desk what brung ya.

Tomales Bay Writers' Workshops

I returned last night from the Tomales Bay Writers’ Workshops, held at the Marconi Center in Marshall, California. The workshops entailed five days of intensive work with writers of fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Howard Norman, author of THE BIRD ARTIST, led our group of twelve. He’s not only an accomplished writer, but a great reader too, and he’s got a terrific sense of humor.

The days were full and the work strenuous, but tasty meals offset the rigors. And the setting was surreal – pebbled paths and Monterey pines, lace-lichen flowing from their branches.

Tomales Bay is a nature-lover’s Neverland. I spotted a buck and four does, one jackrabbit, two red-shouldered hawks, five California quail, five turkeys, a handful of downy woodpeckers and scrub jays, and several dozen hummingbirds, which I took for resident Annas. One evening a strange bird called from outside my window, and moments later a great horned owl replied. The next morning Howard said he’d heard it too, that the unfamiliar bird was a saw-whet owl. One afternoon, while hiking a trail beneath a dense canopy of bay laurels, some sixth sense kicked in, prompting me to halt and immediately turn around. The habitat had the feel of mountain lion country, and though a cat never appeared, I would not have been surprised to see one – or find my head lodged inside its mouth!

I'm home now, eager to tackle the work. Howard and my workshop-mates have inspired me to keep writing and keep striving, and above all, keep the faith.

Bird Artists and Book Towns

Off to the Tomales Bay Workshops tomorrow, where I (and 11 other workshop-mates) will receive tutelage from Howard Norman, author of THE BIRD ARTIST, a novel featuring an artist who murders the village lighthouse keeper in 1911’s Newfoundland. Michiko Kakutani, of The New York Times, calls the book “Bewitching…glows like a night light in the reader’s mind.” Mr. Norman asked that we bring along a favorite work (written in first person), and I have chosen Paul Collins’ SIXPENCE HOUSE, which Publishers Weekly calls “Witty and droll.” The book jacket states: “Paul Collins and his family abandoned the hills of San Francisco to move to the Welsh countryside – to move, in fact, to the village of Hay-on-Wye, the ‘town of books’ that boasts fifteen hundred inhabitants and forty bookstores. Inviting readers into a sanctuary for book lovers, SIXPENCE HOUSE is a heartfelt and often hilarious meditation on what books mean to us.”

Here is a taste:

I have never noticed the view from the Flatiron Building before. Manhattan, if you tilt your head just right, is a strangely compelling piece of sculpture.

“It’s a good thing,” my editor says, “that your book isn’t being published just now.”

“Oh?”

“Because” – he leans forward – “Harry Potter used up all our paper.”

“You’re joking.”

“Seriously.”

“No.”

He looks at me, a little crestfallen. “I’m telling you the truth. There’s two major paper producers for New York publishers, and with a five-million print run of an eight-hundred-page book, well…everybody else has to wait in line.”

I’ll report back next week on the Tomales experience – rumor has it the food is as good as the teaching.

Cattail Fluff is Flying

Northern California is at its best during the month of October. Leaves cartwheel down the street in the clean autumn breeze, and the air smells of earth and eucalyptus. Summer, at last, is closing. Cottonwoods and birch trees lose their leaves; the sweet gums quickly follow. And then a cattail bends and spreads its arms, welcoming the change of seasons.

Red on Yellow, Kill a Fellow

Red on yellow, kill a fellow; red on black, okay Jack. This is a primitive but effective method of determining whether the snake slithering across your path is a coral snake (potentially dangerous) or a Louisiana milk snake (harmless to humans). The coral snake has bright red, black and yellow bands encircling its body, whereas the milk snake has red bands bordered by black bands; hence, the significance of the rhyme. (If a red band touches a yellow band, the snake is likely venomous, but if a red band touches a black band, it’s probably not.)

When we lived on a wildlife refuge in South Texas, we encountered coral snakes regularly (coral snakes don't live in California), and were careful to watch out for them. It’s been 12 years since then, and at least that long since I’ve thought about coral snakes. But the other day, while walking the trails near my home, I encountered a yellow- and black-banded snake, which got my blood going. The snake was thin and small – maybe 14 inches long – and was heading across the trail toward a small pond adjacent to a soccer field. It paused as I approached, so I got a good look at it. As it turned out, I was inspecting a California kingsnake, which, according to californiaherps.com, is usually found in or around water – marshes, ponds, and even brushy suburban areas. It’s harmless to humans, and eats small mammals, frogs, birds, chicks, and even rattlesnakes.

And then yesterday I happened upon a common gartersnake. It too had paused in the middle of the trail, and I thought for a moment it was dead. I had planned to gently nudge it with a stick to see for sure, but before I got the chance it swung in the opposite direction and quickly scurried toward me, prompting heart palpitations and a screech (from me, not the snake).

When I got home, I looked it up, and learned that when handled, gartersnakes often release a “foul-smelling fluid” from the vent near the end of the tail, and that they have a reputation for striking at their handlers. They aren’t dangerous, but their saliva contains toxins which can cause redness and swelling at the site of the bite. This was surprising, as I’d always believed gartersnakes were creatures a kid could catch and play with. Not so. They’re feisty, and not interested in a kid’s interest or affection. Or, apparently, a nosy walker’s.

Be a Hero of Zero

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Jurors Read. Writers Market. Ten How-To Tips.

Those statistics we’ve been seeing of late – the ones telling us people aren’t buying or reading books – are entirely bogus. I know, because I spent eight bum-numbing hours at the courthouse yesterday waiting for my name NOT to be called by the county clerk, and plenty of people were reading books – the majority, in fact. More even than were text-messaging, talking on cell phones, or fiddling with Blackberries.

I am an experienced waiter-arounder, having gone through this ordeal just fifteen months prior, where in the state of California it is legal to torture law-abiding citizens once a year via the system known as Selecting a Jury for People Who’ve Committed Dumb-Ass Crimes. As a writer I came prepared, notepad in hand, intending to conduct a survey – you know, prove those reading statistics wrong. Here are a few of the books then, that potential jurors are reading, accompanied by quick reviews (courtesy mostly of Amazon.com) and marketing tips, in the event you’re a writer with a book to sell. (According to statistics we can actually believe, there are 16 million of us.)

DARKEST FEAR by Harlan Coban. (“Mystery featuring sports agent Myron Bolitar; seventh in series.”) Marketing lesson 1: C’mon, people! Who wants to read about love and cholera? It’s books about sports agents that sell!

INTO THE DARKNESS by Harry Turtledove. (An “epic fantasy.”) I assumed that the woman reading this book would possess long flowing hair, a black cape, and little silver swords, which she’d tucked into clunky pirate boots. The actual reader, however, sported short gray hair and navy-blue knee socks, which she’d stuffed into Birkenstocks. Marketing lesson 2: Aging hippies still enjoy a rocking hallucination – writers take note.

COAST GUARDSMAN’S MANUAL by George Kreitemeyer. (No review on Amazon, except for one customer who had evidently given his manual away and now regretted the decision. “Darn,” he said. “I wish I had of keep it.”) Marketing lesson 3: Mangled English is surprisingly endearing. Find friend will for you bungle.

THE SUNSET WARRIOR by Eric Van Lustbader. (“Vivid sword and sorcery adventure.”) This reader, a man in his fifties wearing a floppy multicolored hat, snapped at a potential juror after the man answered his ringing cell phone and proceeded to chitchat. We were sitting in the “Quiet Room,” and phone conversations were a violation of the rules, which the reader pointed out by jutting his chin toward the No Cell Phones sign and remarking, “Can’t you read English?” Marketing lesson 4: Print some of your books in German, so less attentive readers can whip them out and claim, “Nein, Ich spreche Deutsch. Achshole.”

RHYMES WITH WITCHES by Lauren Myracle. (“Darkly humorous young adult novel.”) Marketing lesson 5: Don’t be afraid to curse in your YA novel – even seventh-graders swear. And according to Good Morning America, they’re having sex too, and a fair amount of it. Marketing lesson 5a: Sex sells.

THE KING OF TORTS by John Grisham. (“Legal thriller with a fierce moral stance.”) Marketing lesson 6: John Grisham’s been the king way too long – time to dethrone him. Go ahead, fool. Give it your best shot.

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS by James Patterson. (“Adult’s nightmare.”) The man reading this book hadn’t shaved in six days and refused to make eye contact, which made me a little nervous. Marketing lesson 7: Write books that appeal to scary people at your own risk (courtesy of the Surgeon General).

FEDERAL TAXATION (No reviews available on Amazon.com.) Marketing lesson 8: Taxes are a dirty trick, and they give people headaches too. Anyway, it’s sex to seventh graders that sells.

LEONARDO’S SWANS by Karen Essex. (Review per The Washington Post, seen on Amazon.com: “This is a historical novel with way too much history.”) Marketing lesson 9: Accuracy is boring. Mix it up with entertainment and reality TV.

THE HOLY BIBLE by Kings and Fishermen et al. (Not reviewed by Amazon because, c’mon, who’s got the guts?) Marketing lesson 10: Make friends with priests and preachers and stuff. Word of mouth is everything.

Dogs Love a Dip Too

Steve and I attended the 5th annual Bark 'n' Splash Bash at the Folsom Aquatic Center over the weekend. We went for the first time last year, and had so much fun that we decided to check it out again on Saturday. Dogs of all shapes and sizes – from one very large and excited German shepherd to a stubby nothing-bothers-me Bassett – gathered at the activity pool (complete with sloping ledge and slide, where kids normally play) for three hours of frenetic barking, Frisbee fetching, and frolicking fun. It was a hoot. (As an aside, I should mention I was a little concerned about the potential health hazard of letting dogs swim in a community pool, until I learned the event is slated at the end of the swim season; afterward, the activity pool is drained, sanitized and inspected.)

As former owners of two golden retrievers, we’ve been contemplating for some time now which breed we’d like to try next. Being a duck hunter, Steve’s still set on another retriever, or possibly a yellow lab, but I’m less certain. If we owned 100 acres, say, in the middle of Montana, my personal tribe would consist of a golden retriever, yellow lab, border collie, blue heeler, Welsh corgi (ala Edward, in Anne Tyler’s ACCIDENTAL TOURIST), and possibly, a Newfoundland. But in the real world, we own a house situated on a lot in the middle of the suburbs, and one dog is all we can reasonably accommodate.

In contemplating which breed we’d like to try next, it was good fun to watch the dogs’ personalities emerge. One border collie was nearly beside himself, trying to herd a bunch of uncooperative retrievers and labs, who were far more interested in fetching tennis balls than adhering to a bossy dog’s commands. And one retriever in particular – a hefty fellow named Jake, pictured above – would have nothing to do with a ball at all, preferring to fetch the rock his owner repeatedly plunked to the bottom of the pool. First he’d eyeball it, then determine its exact location by feeling around with his front paws, then dip down to get it.

Enlightening too, was the knowledge we gleaned in terms of which breeds we’d never acquire, but I won’t share that here. (Suffice it to say, irresponsible owner, badly behaved dog.) The most contented dogs – and by extension, the best behaved – were those with owners who appeared to have spent time with them, and who were members of the family.

How to possibly decide?

Minimize Mailbox Clutter

Want to reduce mailbox clutter? So do I. Which is why catalogchoice.org is good for both of us. It lets us opt out of receiving catalogs we’ve no interest in (at no charge), reducing the production and discarding of some 19 billion paper catalogs per year. Joining is easy. I signed up today, and the process took maybe 10 minutes, including listing catalogs I don’t want to receive. (It apparently helps if you have your customer number, listed just above your name and address on the catalog itself, but it’s not mandatory.) As catalogs continue to pile up in my mailbox, I’ll continue to add them to the list.

It's been a great day for backyard birding -- cool and slightly drizzly, with no breeze at all. Regular species visiting include goldfinches (at the thistle feeder), black-chinned hummingbirds (on the fuschia), and black phoebes and common bushtits (generally kicking around). Migrants include yellow-rumped warblers, downy woodpeckers, and northern flickers, which Steve says are probably coming down from the foothills as we don't often see them in our oak-less yard. Now and again a Cooper's hawk visits -- lunches on the goldfinches, I confess -- but we haven't seen him for a while. We love fall!

Death by Plastic

Plastic! It’s everywhere, and although I knew it was bad (we all know it takes a bazillion years for the stuff to break down at the landfill), I didn’t realize how pervasive it was until I reviewed my morning routine: I wash my hair with shampoo stored in a giant plastic bottle, dry it with a plastic hairdryer, then style it with a brush that’s got a plastic handle. Downstairs, I make coffee in a plastic coffee maker and eat non-fat yogurt from a plastic carton while watching Good Morning America on a flat-screen TV framed in nice black plastic. By the time I’ve vacuumed the living room with my plastic vacuum cleaner, I no longer have the heart to continue my tally. I try not to think about the plastic permeating my life, but then I trek upstairs to my office, and guess what? There sits my plastic computer, keyboard, mouse, telephone, printer, shredder, fan, stapler, and about 50 CD jewel cases. Not that plastic is all bad – my husband and I can’t see without our plastic-framed eyeglasses. But still, can’t we do better?

I think we can, and I want to try.

The first step is eliminating bottled water. According to FastCompany.com, Americans “pitch into landfills 38 billion water bottles a year.” And here’s a crazy quote: “If the water we use at home cost what even cheap bottled water costs, our monthly water bills would run $9,000.” Scary.

I’m done with plastic bags too, as they’re just as bad. Happily, canvas bags (available at most local grocers) cost a pittance, and I’ve bought four so far, stashing them in the back seat of my car so I’ll actually remember to use them. So far, it’s working.

The next challenge is thinking before I buy. If it’s plastic, do I need it? And if so, how will I deal with the consequences? If you know, give me a holler. I promise to give it a try.

The Sound of Silence

If there is a God of Silence, he resides in a craggy homestead at Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge in northwest Nevada. There are no lawn mowers at Sheldon, no leaf blowers or Ninja bikes to assault the inner ear. There’s a road, but in early September, no cars are on it. There is only blessed quiet, save the clapping of a grasshopper and a lone bird’s song.

I sit beneath the shade of a juniper at the base of Yellow Peak, where I’ve hiked with Steve. The path is rugged and deeply rutted, owing to a rainstorm some six days prior. The air smells of sage and is as dry as paper, the sky a cerulean blue. A body can see forever. And at night, when the moon rises, an owl hoots from a fence post. There is the rustle of a sleeping bag and a low, contented sigh. And then there is nothing for six full hours, when the day begins anew.

Best Bee's Feet

The Christmas present from my husband arrived today. I know what it is, too, having circled in red ink the precise item in Pottery Barn’s fall catalog. I encouraged Steve to hurry and order it before it sold out. (It was marked down from $149 to $129, and would go fast, fast, fast!) Steve gave me The Look – the one that said, “I can’t believe I married a nerd. Why didn’t somebody warn me?” The Look has accompanied every nest, feather, and acorn I’ve carted home since my earliest forays outdoors. Not too long ago I found a snakeskin, another time a bee – the jumbo variety known as “bumble.” It was a perfect specimen and appeared to have died mid-flight, landing on the sidewalk on all fours. I picked it up, cradling it in the palm of one hand, and later perched it atop my computer. I taped its little bee feet to my hard drive, where it remained until its legs dried up and its wings fell off, and its body disintegrated.

But I digress.

The present is a shadowbox, a “unique collection of faux quail eggs,” painted and detailed to look like the real thing. There are twenty-five eggs in all, and the frame is suitable for hanging on the living-room wall, adjacent to the piano. I want desperately to have a peek, but I promise to refrain. Meanwhile, there’s an aging alder in the neighborhood with a splendid array of cones, each about the size of a peanut. I’m gonna get me some.