Just slug it out

Springtime brings everything back to life and I relish all the new growth and bright blossoms. Mother’s Day weekend is my traditional time to visit the local nursery and select bedding plants for hanging baskets and deck tubs, plus a few for the garden bed near the front door. Over the next few days I harden them off and usually before the following weekend I begin the process of planting everything.

Yesterday was a perfect planting day, 20C. with hazy sunshine and a forecast for rain showers to follow. I prepared my containers, mixed in some fresh soil and set out the plants. Geraniums, of course. Doesn’t every sun-loving container have to have a bright shot of their colour? A dracena to add height and spiky contrast. A sweet potato vine for each pot, and some cheery calibrachoa. Then I reached for a pot of dark red verbena, and…

Yuck! Where did he come from, I wondered. I doubt he made it to the top level of my deck on his own, so I suspect he was an unpurchased bonus from the nursery. Garden slugs, or gastropod mollusks, are relatively common in damp west coast gardens. I tend to ignore them unless they’re feasting on one of my favourite hostas. But I neither expect nor tolerate them in my deck containers!

I spent some time trying to decide what to do with him. Most gardeners would advocate a quick demise. I suggested he Get. Out. Of. There. while I was still feeling squeamish about it. And it looked like he was trying. However, he was dreadfully slow and I really wanted to get that verbena planted, so I gave him a little help and tossed him over the railing with the flick of my garden trowel.

Later when I went for the hose I discovered he was still where he’d landed… on the gravel path. That’s when I remembered he wouldn’t be able to maneuver across the warm, dry rocks. While slugs aren’t the kind of wildlife that endear themselves to me, I admit to feeling a little guilty for causing him so much discomfort. I flipped him over into the grass and watered him a bit with the hose. I’m not sure, but I think I heard him murmur, “Thanks, chum.” Or maybe it was, “Thanks, chump.” He’ll probably devour a hosta tonight.

It’s amazing how long it can take to get a job done when there are interruptions. I’m sure I lost a good half-hour of planting time thanks to my slimy intruder. (We won’t consider the time spent on trips to the fridge for a Diet Coke, or how often I sat down to take just a few moments’ break.) The containers did eventually get done, but dinner was late.

When I think of interruptions I am reminded of all the excuses I use to procrastinate about writing. Like gardening, I love it, but too often something entices me away and slows the process. My best bet is to allot a specific time, then sit down and  just slug it out. (Is that a pun?)

Some interruptions are easier to deal with than others. How do you handle them during your writing?

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Observations from nature: creativity in the making

Our woodlands beckoned today, so I wandered off to the marsh again with camera in hand. The goose’s nest atop the beaver lodge is now empty and I caught the barest glimpse of the geese and at least one gosling in the distant grasses. A couple mallards drifted in and out of sight, too. I sat on my bench in the silence of the sunny afternoon and wondered where all the other wildlife were hiding. We live five minutes from four different lakes, so I suppose they could have been galavanting.

I’d say my afternoon qualified for what Julia Cameron calls an ‘Artist’s Date’… “some small adventure.” In WALKING IN THIS WORLD: THE PRACTICAL ART OF CREATIVITY, she says,

“When I am on an Artist’s Date, I stand a little outside the flow of hurried time. I declare an hour off limits from hurried production and I have the chance to marvel at my own “being” produced. I am just one soul amid so many souls, one life led amid a bouquet of lives. When I step aside from pushing time, from facing the clock, even for just one hour, I feel myself drawn to merciful scale.”

“Nothing is too small,” she adds. And I agree. There is nothing insignificant in the world that surrounds me during my wandering.

“Artists throughout the centuries have talked about inspiration. They have reported the whispers of the divine that came to them when they inclined their ear to listen. Aligning their own creativity with that of their creator, composers exclaimed, ‘Straight away the ideas flew in on me!’ Such ideas can — and do — fly in on all of us. They are the squirrel scampering along the branch. They are the stray pink blossom lighting on a cheekbone. They are the light but definite touch of the unseen world touching our own whenever we are willing to be touched.”

Not everyone has the physical capability necessary for a walk in the woods. Not everyone has the opportunity or the time to take an hour off in the  middle of the afternoon. But I’ve come to believe  we can’t ask our minds to constantly yield ideas for us without regularly restocking their source of creativity. We must be replenished in order to continue producing. It’s important to take time to identify how best to achieve rejuvenation in our circumstance, then make time to accomplish it.

I believe our physical, mental, emotional and spiritual survival depend on it.

Do you agree, or are you more of the ‘push on through the day and stop navel-gazing’ kind of personality?

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“It’s always refreshing to step into another time.”

Diane Lane

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“I have avoided becoming stale by putting a little water on the plate,
lying on the plate, and having myself refreshed in a toaster oven
for 23 minutes once every month.”

Dean Koontz

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“My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him.”

Psalm 62:1

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“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters.
He restores my soul.”

Psalm 23:1-3

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All things new…

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Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.

Isaiah 43:19

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Linking with Sandra Heska King

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Patience and Endurance…

The Coquihalla Highway was closed Monday due to a major snowfall. As we travelled homeward on Tuesday — the last day of April — a lot of the snow had disappeared, but it certainly didn’t resemble spring. The above verses of Romans (8:25 and 5:4) seemed particularly appropriate. There’s no rushing springtime. We just have to endure and be patient.

Writers know all about endurance and patience so this should be a cinch. In her guest post on Seekerville yesterday Connie Mann talked about endurance and why it’s too soon to give up.

“’Almost there’ is a tough, dry place to try to keep your bearings and stay focused,” Connie said. “It is lonely and frustrating and the doubt gremlins work overtime, whispering horrible things in your ear, day after month after year. The temptation to quit rears its ugly head, making even the most confident writer question the dream. If this is where you are today, let me encourage you. This particular wilderness, this season, won’t last forever, but it is often another stop, another way the Great Creator toughens our resolve for the rest of the journey.”

My plans for May are to write and to garden. I have control over the former, but not the latter if the weather doesn’t cooperate. Then again, if it doesn’t, I’ll be more inclined to stay inside and spend more time writing, so I suppose it’s all good. It’ll help me persevere.

Welcome, May! On your way in please collect spring somewhere and deposit it here, too.

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Springtime is an oxymoron

Leanne Shirtliffe is guest posting at Writer Unboxed today. Her topic is ‘Funny Oxymorons for Writers‘ and if you haven’t read it, you should. After I’d digested her definitions of ‘finished draft’, ‘aspiring writer’ and ‘mild heart attack’ I realized how many other oxymorons we live with. ‘Organized chaos’ is a regular for me, but ‘active retirement’ and ‘baggy tights’ are equally appropriate.

My cyber friends across Canada and the USA have repeatedly mentioned winter’s persistent intrusion into their springtime. Joylene Butler celebrated the ice finally departing from her lake while remembering that only two weeks ago nasty weather gremlins dumped 18″ of fresh snow on her.  Friends from Alberta have left for Mexico to escape the confused weather patterns at home. Spring is supposed to be a time of beginning again, with new growth, daffodils and cherry blossoms, but in some places it doesn’t seem to understand that.

I was away on the weekend, visiting family in the Okanagan, and of course had my camera in hand. Scenery flashed by (it always does at 100 k/hr on the highway) and I snatched photos that began with the rich greens of coastal BC’s developing spring season, moved to include passing snowcapped mountains, and finished with the interior’s barely budding branches.

I’ve decided this year ‘springtime’ is an oxymoron.

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A little madness in the Spring Is wholesome even for the King, But God be with the Clown Who ponders this tremendous scene — This whole Experiment of Green — As if it were his own! [Emily Dickinson]

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It’s that ‘same old, same old’ routine

A walk to our marsh isn’t anything new for me, nor is the view. Yet I wander down there regularly. You’ve accompanied me on a few occasions (here and here), following the trail and sitting on the bench beside me. The same path takes me past the same trees, footsteps cushioned with decades of fir needles and crushed cones. Ferns and mosses, leathery salal and the occasional huckleberry shrub return every spring under the same dense evergreen canopy.

Marshes don’t change much. There are always grasses emerging from their watery roots, ducks and geese diving for fresh shoots, swallows swooping after mosquitoes and herons stalking lunchtime morsels. I have photos taken fifteen years ago that I can’t tell from others taken last week except for the seasonal colour variations.

But each time I go, it feels different, perhaps because I’m looking with a different focus. This week it’s on the Canada Goose who, after a three-year hiatus, has returned to occupy her old nest on top of the beaver lodge.

She wasn’t there in the early afternoon yesterday when I went to check up on her, and I feared she might have abandoned it again. But no, soon she and the gander swam back from the deeper end of the marsh and she clambered up to settle in.

There are two pair of geese populating our marsh and they each respect their separate territories, although I occasionally hear a commotion if one meanders too close to the other’s domain. I assume it’s the same two pair every year, since geese mate for life and are relatively long-lived.

Do you suppose they have any thoughts about the recurring, never changing cycle of their lives? Do they ever experience the hamster-on-a-wheel sensation, as people do – the here-we-go-again, tied-to-the-old-survival-routine kind of monotony?  Or are they even conscious of the renewal of a season? Geese are very family oriented. They show affection for each other, welcome each other after an absence. They defend their mates and their young. I wonder if they have any other emotions in common with people. I’ll probably never know, but I like posing such questions.

I do something similar when I’m establishing new characters for my stories. I want to know what they think, how they’ll respond, what personality traits they’ll display as the plot unfolds. Will routine bore them or help keep them grounded?

What kind of questions do you ask as you begin assembling a fresh cast of characters? Has the arrival of spring inspired any enthusiasm for beginning something new? How do you feel about the repetition of the seasons?

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While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest,
and cold and heat, and summer and winter,
and day and night shall not cease.

Genesis 8:22

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To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven.

Ecclesiastes 3:1

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Looking over my shoulder (or… how life changes)

The traffic light was slow to change. I waited, impatient to get across the street and to my meeting. Ahead of me two young men also waited, black backpacks slung over their shoulders. Prior to the Boston bombing I wouldn’t have looked twice at them. Now…? When we reached the other side and they moved away, I peered back over my shoulder to check where they’d gone.

It was silly, I know, but instinctive. As our world changes, so also does human behaviour. Events 4,000 or 5,000 kilometres away may not directly impact us, yet they alter how we think. Then again, so does life in general. We are not exactly the same people today that we were yesterday, nor the same as we will be tomorrow. It’s called growth.

In our novels it’s called the Character Arc.

In PLOT VERSUS CHARACTER, Jeff Gerke points out that in some novels, notably mysteries, the main character may remain unchanged, because the story is all about the plot and how it unravels. In most other genres, however, the story is about how the main character is affected by the plot. Jeff suggests the Character Arc should have five distinct parts:

1. Initial Condition
2. Inciting Incident
3. Escalation
4. Moment of Truth
5. Final State

A static character will be flat, despite all the personality quirks we may give him. If we want him to come alive for our readers, he has to be challenged by something that requires him to reason and react. Inevitably he must encounter obstacles and/or discoveries that will change him either physically, mentally or emotionally.

Do you consciously develop a pattern of change for your character as you plan your stories? Do you evaluate during revisions whether or not you achieved an effective character arc? In your opinion, how important is such change in a short story compared to a novel?

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In praise of “the birds of the heavens”…

Rufous Hummingbird (female)

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awake at dawn

darting through strands of mist

the flower-seeker

out of heaven

still glittering

the hummingbird

Larry Gates

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Who do you depend on?

Our five-year-old granddaughter wanted to go for a family walk last night. It might have been a bedtime delay tactic, but in the end we agreed. She was determined we should go down the trail “through the forest to the pond,” so we did, and discovered a few inhabitants who haven’t been around for the past couple years.

You have to look carefully to see my favourite…

Yes, it’s a Canada Goose nesting on top of the beaver lodge. For years we had two pair of geese in the marsh each spring, and one goose always returned to patch up her old nest and settle in until her brood hatched, confident that few predators could bother her. Then one summer a few years ago, after a group of homes went in on the other side of the marsh, the water level dropped. The beaver did their best to dam up the creek, but in the end they abandoned the lodge. After that the geese nested elsewhere, out of sight in the tall grasses.

Now they’re back. I don’t know if their presence indicates the beaver have also returned, but the lodge has again found favour as a secure nesting locale. Nearby, the gander patrols, ensuring the ducks, hawks and coyotes keep their distance.

It’s fascinating to see the interdependence of the wildlife. The beaver’s home provides security for the goose, while the gander’s honking and squawking warn her and the beaver of anything intruding into their space.

There’s a parallel of sorts in the writer’s world. Each of us has a job to do as we nurture and deliver our stories. As much as writing is a solitary task, we’re dependent upon others for critiques, editing and publication, to help us reach our goal of providing a good story for readers. At the same time, those same people, including the readers, need writers to keep writing if there are going to be books to produce. There’s interdependence in the industry but there is also interdependence at the grass roots level.

Who do you depend upon when you need story advice, editing assistance, agent recommendations and the like? Or are you a true loner?

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Seen in passing…

April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.

William Shakespeare

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Why is it that everything looks good on a sunny day? Yesterday DH and I travelled across the Lower Mainland for a family visit, and while he drove, I pointed my camera at anything that caught my attention. And almost everything did. In this mini-travelogue I’m sharing the many sights that made me smile and count blessings.

The approach to Golden Ears Bridge over the Fraser River was heralded on both sides with massive eagle sculptures…

Four smaller golden eagle sculptures adorned both ends of the bridge…

On the other side, masses of daffodils lined the roadway for several kilometres…

… and  fresh new greens graced the views in every direction…

Oh, and then there were those mountains…

Many things were seen in passing today, but the best view of all was the reason for our trip… seeing our favourite aunt, home from hospital once again…

Nothing could brighten the day quite as much as her wonderful smile! Thanks for the visit, Aunt Norma! You are a blessing in our lives.

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But for those who honor the Lord, his love lasts forever,
and his goodness endures for all generations

Psalm 103:17 – GNT

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Strength and dignity are her clothing,
and she laughs at the time to come.
She opens her mouth with wisdom,
and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
She looks well to the ways of her household,
and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed.

Proverbs 31:25-28a – RSV

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