Lifescapes

Small beauties & a few thoughts on formulas

Even in the winter, there's always something beautiful to see, if you look hard enough. A miniature garden of lichen growing on a branch, for instance, or a delicately frosted rock or a glistening tangle of grasses, heavy with dew. Foggy and chilly this morning--26 degrees when the dogs and I went out for our walk. Afterwards, hot oatmeal with raisins and Bill's pecans, a mug of hot cocoa, and the Sunday New York Times online. Out here in the country, until the Internet, there was no such thing as the Sunday Times. It didn't arrive until Thursday, and by that time, it was out of date. These days, I'm spoiled: the Sunday paper on Sunday. Good news, whatever the news it brings.

I've been wanting to comment on an observation I read on a blog last week, by a reader who has just encountered Thyme of Death, the first of the China Bayles mysteries. She found the book too "formulaic," with a lawyer who left the fast track, bought a shop in a small town, grew a garden, etc.--not quoting exactly, but that was the gist. The problem for her: the book was just too much like other books she reads. So she's decided not to read the rest of the series.

For me as an author, this is an interesting problem, for in 1991, when I was writing this book, I knew of no lawyers who had left the fast track, no small-town shops (except for Carolyn Hart's book shop in her Death on Demand series), and only one gardener (a short-lived British series featuring a landscape gardener). There were no recipes in books, except for a few in Virginia Rich's early 80s mysteries. The elements that were fresh and new in Thyme of Death and the other early China mysteries have been borrowed, spun, and reused so often that they now seem formulaic to readers who are just entering the series.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not whining about being "copied" or "misread," and I'm quite aware of the many problems I didn't solve very well in Thyme of Death--although formula isn't one of them. I am, however, suggesting that when you pick up a new (to you) author, you might want to do a little homework, especially if you're publishing your ideas about the book. Look at the copyright date and think about where the book fits in the genre. Is it 10 years old? (Thyme of Death is nearly 20.) If it reminds you of other work, look to see if those books are earlier or later. Look at lists of the author's other work--that's very easy to do on the Internet. Even if you're not blogging or reviewing a book, you'll find that considering it in the context of its first publication and in the context of the author's other work will give you a better understanding of it. What differences can you see, for instance, between the author's 20-year-old publications and her latest novel? (There ought to be a whole lot of them, I'd say--or the author hasn't learned very much about writing as the years have gone by!)

And one more thing: never underestimate the temptations of formulas or the efforts of authors who try their damndest to resist them. The hardest thing about writing a long-running series (I'm sure Sue Grafton and Carolyn Hart and Robert B. Parker would agree) is to avoid repeating yourself. What you can't avoid is other authors' repetitions of your work.

I'll be interested in your comments on this subject, so do weigh in with your opinions.

Reading note, on formulas: Cleaning out his desk after he left the Warner Brothers writing factory in Hollywood, co-workers found the fruits of William Faulkner's labor: an empty whiskey bottle and a piece of paper on which he had written, 500 times, "Boy meets girl."--Robert Hendrickson

First daffodil

It's chilly and gray this morning, but the gloom is brightened by the first daffodil, blooming bravely along the woods. We won't have very many this year, because of our long drought. Daffodils are hardy, but the bulbs do need a minimum of soil moisture to persist and multiply. They didn't get much in the summers of 2008 and 2009. The bluebonnets are looking very good, though--the December rains made for strong germination, and the nearly 3" we got last week will encourage good root growth.

Got home from New Mexico last Monday, to a huge pile of mail, laundry, housekeeping, and the usual stuff that accumulates over a six-week absence. I was expecting to see the copyedited manuscript of The Darling Dahlias and the Cucumber Tree, but it's not ready yet, so I'm pushing ahead with Mourning Gloria. Also helping Peggy with the SCN conference, coming up in just under three weeks--worked on the 20-page program yesterday, getting it ready for Robin, who is setting it up for the printer. What in the world did we do before email? If we had to rely on the telephone (who remembers?) or face/face meetings, we could never pull something like this off. Just too complicated, too many details. Do check out the program: it's very strong this year.

Out in the garden, the spinach, carrots, and kale look good, the lettuce is a little woody but will probably be okay if I make wilted lettuce, the way my mother used to make it. Think we'll have that tonight. I need to start weeding the paths between the raised beds and putting down some new mulch--newspapers topped by shavings from Bill's wood-turning enterprise. I've ordered seed potatoes: the folks at potatogarden.com are truly helpful and offer varieties for many different parts of the country. I like the way they list their seed stock, by early/mid/late varieties. Makes choosing easier. I've also got to clean out my seed-starting area and set it up for spring seeding. Too much to do, but all exciting. There's nothing like a new gardening year to rev up my enthusiasm, and the prospect of real rain this spring (thanks to El Nino) is helping mightily.

Reading note: We learn from our gardens to deal with the most urgent question of the time: How much is enough?—Wendell Berry

 

Sunset over snow

 

The sunsets here are often lovely, but this one was gorgeous. The reflected glow brushed the trees and the snow with a pinky-golden color. It's cold this morning--a couple of degrees below zero--and snowing lightly. There were turkeys around the bird feeder this morning, deer on the mountain, and elk in the valley below, grazing with the cattle. A neighbor with an elk permit shot one in early December and gave us some of the meat. Last night, a couple of friends came over for lasagna, made with the elk meat. It was wonderful, and as we ate, I thought of the elk and blessed it for the gift of its meat--for becoming a part of my life. I no longer eat factory-farmed meat, and felt grateful that I was able to share in the life of an animal that has so intimately inhabited this land. It helps me feel rooted, in place.

If eating elk bothers you, please know that these marvelous animals (like the beaver, the wolves, and other wild creatures) were once completely extirpated from the southern Rockies.The herd has been restocked by forest managers and the number of animals must be controlled so there's enough grazing for them in the high mountains. Lacking sufficient numbers of wolves (the elk's only predators), hunters do the controlling. The Pecos Wilderness only looks totally free and wild. Like all our modern "wildernesses," it is heavily managed.

I'm wrapping up my winter break and getting ready to head home to Texas early next week. I've loved being here by myself in the snow, but I'm missing Bill and thinking about the garden. It'll soon be time to sow seeds under the lights for early-spring transplants. I'll be home this April, which is good--last year, we were on book tour nearly all month, and I couldn't do garden things that needed doing.

Book report. Working on MOURNING GLORIA, nearly half finished with it. Turned in the copyedited manuscript of THE TALE OF OAT CAKE CRAG. Lots of wonderful time for reading, and I've gone through a tall stack of books about this area, with the idea of doing some writing about it in 2011. This year is pretty well scheduled already.

Reading note: To inhabit a place means literally to have made it a habit, to have made it the custom and ordinary practice of our lives, to have learned how to wear a place like a familiar garment, like the garments of sanctity that nuns once wore.The word habit, in its now-dim original form, meant "to own." We own places not because we possess the deeds to them, but because they have entered the continuum of our lives.--Paul Gruchow