 For Authors: March 30, 2022 Issue [#11288] |
This week: Observations on a Snowy Spring Weekend Edited by: Fyn  
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The first, or theoretic branch, that which explains the nature, production, and distribution of wealth, will be found to rest on a very few general propositions, which are the result of observation, or consciousness. ~~Nassau William Senior
The materials of the novelist must be real; they must be gathered from the field of humanity by his actual observation. ~~Goldwin Smith
One man's observation is another man's closed book or flight of fancy. ~~Willard Van Orman Quine
I think I have a very detailed sense of observation. I am interested in the details of people's lives and what information these details give. ~~Julian Fellowes
Flannery O'Connor's brief life and slim output were nonetheless marked by piercing powers of observation. ~~Floyd Skloot
Most of my work - including everything from my own comics to the covers I've drawn for 'The New Yorker' - is the result of taking some personal experience or observation and then fictionalizing it to a degree. ~~Adrian Tomine
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It was a lazy, kicked-back weekend after a crazy busy week. Much of our 'usual' weekend catching up on chores and whatnot never happened. The dryer still held the one load of wash, the dust lay on the flat surfaces and accommodating the newest arrivals, and the chairs in the dining room groaned (in my mind at least) under the five or six jackets burying them. The woodbin wasn't adequately filled - hence the heat being on - and the beds weren't changed. (The result of that load in the dryer still sitting there.) We shrugged and grinned knowing it would all be there waiting for us when we were more energized.
One morning was spent in front of the fire (when there was wood in the bin) just talking about nothing of any consequence and watching the flurry of birds at their morning birdseed clatch. The male goldfinches are sporting their new yellow jackets. The red-winged blackbirds are back and the robins were out worm hunting. Morning doves scooched along the ground beneath the feeders and the various types of woodpeckers enjoyed the suet blocks. All while snowflakes danced and the wind chimes sang cadence to spring birdsong in the breezy (and cold!) air.
A cooper's hawk swooped in and took up residence on the roof of one of the birdfeeders as the rest of the birds hastily departed for the safety of the trees. Regally, he sat there observing his domain. He watched as the chipmunks peered out from between the logs in the woodpile. He eyed the squirrel chattering on the fence, his tail high and dancing a staccato flamenco dance of danger. The hawk's head swiveled at the dog pawing to go out. He took wing when the door slipped open, swiftly gaining altitude to circle round before aiming off towards the trail, wing feathers long, separated, grasping the wind.
Walking the dog down the trail as day slips cooly into the night. The sky is ablaze, much as the fire we left behind in the woodstove. Oranges flirt with reds which in turn only highlight the yellowed contrails checkerboarding the sky. Out in the field, fully two dozen deer ignore our passing by, far more interested in newly greening grass than people as hunting season is long past and they know it. The dog tugs her lead, eager now for home, but we stand there just drinking in the tableau before us.
"This will show up in something you write," my husband comments softly. I merely nod. For it surely will.
Two or three whitetails stand tall, heads up, keeping watch while the others browse. The stars come out to dance. An owl hoots from a nearby oak. We know where her nest is. She watches us nightly on our trek. A rabbit pauses on the trail, rises to its hind legs to peer around. The dog woofs and the bunny scoots off into the brush. My husband and I meandered our way home, the dog sniffing where the rabbit no longer is, looking back as if to say 'Look what we missed because you stopped so long at the field.'
Sunday morning doughnut run. Lazy afternoon munching on the freshly baked cookies his sister dropped off while we watch just one episode about Yellowstone Park that stretched to two and then four. Dinner is scrounged from leftovers as we make vague plans to go out to eat one day this week. Together we clean up the kitchen, empty and load the dishwasher -- moving around our one-butt kitchen in a well-rehearsed dance. I get the coffee ready for the morning and he packs up lunch for work. My hubby is ready for bed, but I'm not quite ready.
"Going to write?" he asks, knowing me, knowing my answer as he asks.
"Just going to jot down some notes," I reply and he smiles.
"I know that look," he says kissing me goodnight. "I'll see you in the morning. Don't forget the sunset."
We both know I won't. Little things during the course of a day. And yet, they are things we both notice and appreciate.
Monday I mentioned the sunset to several of our neighbors, none of whom noticed it although they all said they wished they'd seen it.
Maybe it is because we are older that we stop and look. But then, I always remember seeing the little things. Bedtimes were put off so the kids could be dazzled by an enormous full moon rising over the cornfield. One morning they were late to school because they were off in the field dancing around with thousands of dragonflies.
As a kid, I remember clearly the day we missed school because out on what we called 'the far lawn' --a roughly triangular patch of grass at the foot of a cliff and ended on one side by the pond -- were several deer licking at the salt lick or nibbling on hay, geese and several rabbits munching on scattered corn, a fox and bobcat drinking water from the stream leading to the pond. All there together. A peaceable kingdom right in our yard.
My teacher just rolled her eyes at school the next day. She was used to my mother's odd notes about why I'd been absent. I think she'd just given up after the note from my mother the day after we missed school because we were glued to the porch room windows for hours watching the parent geese teaching the teenage geese how to fly. They'd get a few feet off the ground and then had to learn how to land as well, tumbling tail feathers and wings in the grass. All morning we sat there watching.
The last to fly, the little one, tried time and time again. Momma Goose would lead the little goose down the hill, wings flapping. Pappa Goose would honk encouragement from the middle of the lawn. Hundreds of times. They didn't give up on that little goose and they were determined he would learn. We all cheered when e finally made it into the air squawking and crowing. He landed with a big splash in the pond, climbed out, and ran for the hill to do it again. What a great day all 'round.
My dad used to tell me to take the time to look at what surrounded me every day. I learned to notice the copperhead sunning himself on the trail. To know not to fish when the sunnies had made their circular 'nests' in the shallow water. To watch as the geese gathered in the fall, when the acorns littered the ground and it was time to pull my rowboat out of the lake. Years later, after years of looking for deer to move in the woods, for an owl to take wing, for the crunch of leaves underfoot, this would come in handy when I was in the army. Observing was simply second nature by then.
And still is. Observances lead to details layered in a scene, into nuances a character may exhibit, to body language, to the scent of a recently snuffed candle. From weather to time of day, from a cluttered handbag to unpolished shoes--it is the details that can make all the difference in making the reality of a scene real, and not just words on a page.
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Elfin Dragon-finally published  answers: Who am I as a Writer? - I suppose I'm many things, but lately I'm a poet. I want people to be able to express any feeling; whether it's very dark or very happy. I don't want anyone to be afraid to express it.
What does WDC mean to me? - WDC is like a second home to me; a community of people who understand that I have a wide variety of fascets to my writing.
Turkey DrumStik  writes: This newsletter felt rather on the nose for me given I celebrated my 20th anniversary in February. The difference is I joined at a very young age, which means I've been a WDC member the entirety of my adulthood. Good times or something.
Over the last 20 years, I've tackled nearly every type of writing imaginable. In my case, I have a tendency to get stuck writing dialogue. On the bright side, that helped me get through ScriptFrenzy a decade ago! I dabble in poetry but not quite to the extent I did during my firat decade on the site. These days, short stories and novelettes beckon me the most. However, there is a NaNo idea percolating, and if I finish it, I'll have conquered the one thing on my writing to-try list that is still unchecked: the novel.
WTG and good luck!
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