Bird by Bird: lyre lyre, home on fire

I can relate to that little boy overwhelmed by the avian world. But pay attention to your assignment, young Master Lamott, and the birds might tell you their secrets.

Birds are funny things. The millions of birdwatchers, birders, twitchers, whatever you want to call them, are even funnier still. Years ago, I had a lecturer who was so passionate about birds, he wore them embroidered on his shirts, stamped on his belt buckles, and etched on his boots. He would start an ecology lecture with, “I knew this bird once…,” and never did I hear a tale about a long-lost love,or a mysterious acquaintance in a faraway land. Instead, I slept through an account of the foraging talents of the treecreeper, the social habits of the babbler, and the parental responsibilities of the emu.

But when the lecture turned to the uncanny ability of the lyre bird to mimic just about anything it hears, I considered this a worthy skill, and I paid attention.

The lyre bird learns the sounds of the forest, quite literally, bird by bird, to add to his repertoire of courting songs. Impressively, the Casanova in the video not only does birds, but camera shutters, car alarms, and chainsaws as well.

See for yourself.

For those thinking, okay, nice post about birds, but what's it got to do with Anne Lamott's book about writing, consider this: treecreepers, babblers, and emus have their own appeal, but sometimes, it takes that one special bird to get people thinking. One bird mimicking chainsaws. One bird singing about his own demise.

And so I tell myself to keep on writing, because you just never know which bird will be the one to touch someone's heart.


P.S. I liked the book.

I'll Huff and I'll Puff, and I'll Be Forever Faithful

This amazing photo is from Steve Harris, flickr

Mm mm. Grandma looks delicious! So do those sneaky little pigs. Now if I can just squeeze into this itty bitty lamb skin.

Even though wolves almost never attack humans, from an early age, we are introduced to the wolf as a cunning killer, to be boiled or hacked to pieces at every opportunity.

But did you know that wolves mate for life? The alpha male and female lead a pack and act as the dominant, if not the only breeders in a group of six or ten.

These animals have a stronger sense of commitment and family than a great many humans.

I considered it rather appropriate to model a Saint Valentine's Day post on these remarkable animals. I rather like the idea of a wolf as a protagonist in a story. An intelligent, ruthless survivor; a convenient villian; an eternal romantic.

May your February 14 be free of men with axes, pots of boiling water, and villagers wielding pitchforks.

Never Trust an Expert

I allow myself to be bombarded with advice (build a platform, know your genre, write articles) which I gleefully ignore, and I give things a go, often prematurely.

So my recent holiday experience comes as no surprise to me. Let me explain (sit, I have slides).

I am not a great skier. In fact, I'm not even a very good one, but I agreed to a skiing holiday in Japan, pleased that my equally-hopeless sister, Ro, was joining me so we could check out each other's face-planting techniques.

The third adult in the party is a competent black-run (diamond, sapphire, whatever) skier.

"Here's a really good green run," he says. "It's wide; it's not busy; blah blah blah."

So my sister and I followed the advice of the expert, made it off the ski lift without bowling ourselves or anyone else over, and stood at the top of the slope, wondering how on earth we came to be there and how we would ever get down again.

It was just too steep for us.

Nevertheless, we trusted the advice of the expert and struggled down the slope. I'd like to say that my abilities surpassed my expectations, but alas, they did not.

After a great deal of face-planting, filled with terror, rather than laughter, we made it to the bottom, clicked off the wretched skis, and looked back up the slope. "What on earth were we thinking?"

My confidence was shattered. So was my sister's. We lugged our gear back to our accommodation, wondering if we could claim a refund on our lift passes, and co-ordinating the books we would read for the remainder of the trip.

After a hearty hot pot meal and restful night, Ro and I arose the next morning determined to redeem ourselves. We studied the plan of the mountain, diligently selected runs better suited to our abilities (or lack of), and set off once more.

Eureka! We flew past other face-planters and revelled in our expertise. We swooped down the slope like the bullet train in for service. We had conquered the foot of the mountain. Hurrah for us!

So what has this got to do with writing? Not much, I guess, but I did utter these philosophies to myself to combat chronic brain freeze:

1. I wasn't reading Bird by Bird, but I was living it, snowflake by snowflake.
2. To master the top of the mountain, you must first master the bottom.
3. It doesn't hurt to extend yourself, but don't be surprised to learn you're not as good as you think you are.
4. If you're not ready, step back and be patient.
5. There's no point doubting your abilities. It's better to learn what they are, and work with them.
6. Don't give up. There's a spot for you. If you keep on looking, you'll find it.
7. Only you know where you're at, so
8. Never trust an expert.

Happy Birthday Mr. Dickens

(7 Feb 1812 - 9 Jun 1870)

Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became pleasure, and lost all character of pain.

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Diction Addiction

I have been slack, I know.

Julie Luek at A Thought Grows, and Joseph Schwartz at Magicellus awarded me the Addictive Blog Award so long ago now they may have moved on to more stimulating addictive blogstances.

Nevertheless, thank you.

My role in the process is to pass on the award to those blogs I feel impelled to visit regularly. All of my current addictions have been presented with this award, a number of times in some cases, so instead, I am nominating new friends that I am confident will become addictions over time.

• Annalisa Crawford at Wake up, eat, write, sleep.
• Stina Lindenblatt, writer of Young Adult fiction.
• Chihuahua Zero, teenage writer at The YA's Dogtown.

And speaking of diction addictions, I'm usually not one to enter into the frenzy of fads, but this is one I could not resist.

The PBC Mastermind, M. L. Swift, has spoken. The third Wednesday of every month, beginning 20th February, will see a group of astute writers descend like a pack of wild animals on a writing craft book.

First to the feast is Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.

Check it out. Speak your mind. Mingle with fellow wordivores, because remember:

You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander.                           Anne Lamott. Bird by Bird.

A Touch of Life

Excerpt from A Tent Called Simba, WIP#2:


(Photo source: VictoriaFalls24.com)

The taxi dropped me and my sister, Ro, at the unimpressive border control port of Kazungula. We stood for a moment watching our only link with civilization disappear down the road back towards Kasane before attending to formalities. The border officials from both countries stamped our passports with the same indifference we had come to expect, and we were suddenly in Zimbabwe, without a vehicle, and with no idea how we going to get to the town of Victoria Falls, 70 kilometres away.

                The locals, on the other hand, had obviously encountered tourists like us before, and a thin, black man with stained, jagged teeth approached us immediately. “You need a lift to Victoria Falls?”

                We did, of course, but were reluctant to appear desperate, as if we had just popped over the border for a look at the other side of the fence, and intended to head back to Botswana sometime soon.

                “Mmm,” mumbled Ro noncommittally.

                The man pointed to a brown and rusty - or perhaps it was brown because it was rusty - utility parked behind the ‘Welcome to Zimbabwe’ sign. “Ten dollars each,” said the man.

                Ro and I walked onto the road for a better view of the vehicle, and noticed two men in the cab and two more in the back.

                “Do we seriously want to get in the back of a ute full of four – “ she glanced at the thin man hovering behind us, “- or five Zimbabwean men?”

                I peered up the road. At least it was bitumen. “It’s either that or hang around here waiting for a better offer.”

                The man touched me gently on the elbow. “Is okay,” he said softly. “We take you to Victoria Falls.”

                Ro and I threw each other resigned looks and followed the man to the vehicle. “I’ll be amazed if this thing even makes it that far,” I muttered as I hauled my pack into the back, clambered aboard, and sat with my pack on my lap while Ro squeezed next to me and did the same. The two men already sprawled in the tray nodded and smiled as they shuffled to make room for us.

                The brown-toothed man squeezed into the cab beside the other men. The car rattled and roared as the driver started the engine and shifted up the gears.

                “Where you from?” said the man next to me. His eyes looked soft and young, but the lines on his forehead suggested a life of hardship.

                “Australia.”

                “Ah,” he said knowingly and smiled. “Africa just like Australia, no?”

                I looked at the shrubby greenery of the surroundings and the dead grass that lined the road, and thought of the roads through the Northern Territory. “Yeah, pretty much. But the Australian elephant is pretty rare nowadays.” He laughed at my pathetic attempt to keep the situation light, and I was impressed that his English was polished enough to recognize I had made a joke. “So you’re a local, I take it?”

                “Yes, I go across the border and bring things back into Zimbabwe.”

                “What sort of things?”

                The man explained that he and the other men brought in whatever they could lay their hands on. “Our petrol stations are closed. We must smuggle fuel across the border. And food is veddy expensive. Many people trade in the black market.”

                I tried to imagine what life what be like if I had to travel miles to get fuel and was then forced to smuggle it back into my own country. I couldn’t imagine it at all.

                “It has gotten veddy bad,” he said. “There are no jobs. There is no money.”

                I am not a political person, but I wanted to know. “Is it because of Mugabe?”

                The man’s mouth formed an ‘o’ and he shook his head. “He is a veddy bad man.”

                I wanted to ask him a flood of questions, about his family, about his life, but the man sitting next to him began talking in rapid-fire Shona, and I hugged my backpack and sank into silence.

                The ute dropped us on the outskirts of Victoria Falls but within walking distance of the town. Appreciating that people who had to smuggle fuel into their own country were not about to drop us at the doorstep of anywhere useful, I handed over my cash and the car piled up with people, none of them white tourists like us, and roared off back towards the border.

Style and Manners

Recently, my aunt asked me to comment on part of the draft of her second novel, due for publication in August. (Plug alert: For those gripped by historical family saga, check out Tyringham Park, by Rosemary McLoughlin., Poolbeg Press.)

Flattered and thrilled to be a part of the process, I offered my candid comments, some objective (check grammar here) and some subjective (I found the early chapters heavy with backstory).

I know Rosemary well, I share my opinions freely with her, and she accepts them for what they are, but her request had me wondering how far we, as trusted reviewers, should go with our comments.

I asked Rosemary what feedback she was specifically looking for, and she replied, Everything.

Okay.

Now, I would never tell a person his or her work was exceptional if I didn't think so, or that I liked the plot and characters if I didn't, but while reviewing Rosemary's book, I began to ponder: should I offer comment on style?

Especially if the comments contradict writing 'rules' generally accepted as being good ones.

For example: I think this would work better in passive form to highlight the view of victim, or I think you could do with simpler verbs or The level of detail is extreme and distracting. Is this kind of feedback constructive, or are we just butting in where we don't belong?


Is it our duty as reviewer to disclose the full extent of our opinions if we think it will improve the piece, leaving the writer to sift through and glean useful advice and ditch the rest, or is the author's personal style none of our business? Afterall, extreme pickiness may lead to a brief author/reviewer relationship or a fruitfully long one.

Of course, it depends on the person, the story, and the relationship the three of you have with each other, and I guess even reviewers have their own style, but now I'm thinking, how far would I like a person to go when they review my work?  It's my year of rejection, I'm tough, but....

What do you think?