Let nature take its course…

Trust the process – much easier said than done, whether it’s writing, finding (or keeping) employment, or life in general. But I was reminded again this week how the universe has a way of repeating the lesson until it takes root. Instruction came in a most unexpected form, as it usually does, and I’m still processing the outcome.

This weekend, our backyard menagerie expanded and the dogs are not happy. Chi and Barkley have pretty much adapted to the three bullfrogs, five turtles and dozen or so goldfish in the pond, and stopped chasing the garter snakes (for the most part). The squirrels are still fair game, but since there’s little chance Barkley will ever actually catch one, I’m not too worried. Chi just ignores them. Barkley chased off the rabbits and the skunks, and I think he’s finally realized the birds are unreachable, although I’m sure the bird dog in him will never give up trying.

But ever since our new visitors appeared Saturday evening, Barkley and Chi have been on alert, constantly vigilant, and making life…interesting. While we were enjoying a quiet moment around the fire pit with our daughter and her young man, an odd chittering noise started just past the edge of darkness, near the fence separating our yard from the neighbor’s. It almost sounded like a small child or two giggling. And it moved closer, and grew louder. Hubby found a flashlight to confirm his suspicions – raccoons. Four of them, juveniles, slipped through the wire fence into the yard, probably intent on the pond as the nearest water source. They ignored the fire, and us. The dogs did not ignore them, and we had to move inside to avoid a battle.

We spent the rest of the evening debating how best to handle the critters, and went to bed hoping Mama would corral them and return home before morning. No such luck. The little guys have taken up residence in the woodpile in our carport, and the dogs are livid. From just inside the gate at the edge of the backyard, Chi stands guard, barely able to see the stack, but she knows the kits are there. Barkley paces from the front door to Chi’s side, frustrated by his inability to reach the invaders. And it’s worse when the little guys go exploring.

A call to Animal Control was less than helpful. “Let nature take its course,” he said. If we want to catch them, they’ll loan us a live-catch trap, and come pick them up once the critters are contained, but that’s the best they can offer. Wonderful. Hubby and I considered scooping them into a bin and relocating the whole litter to Glen Helen, but that raises all new issues, not the least of which is getting close enough to snag them (by the scruff of the neck, we’re told).

After three days, the raccoons show no signs of moving on. They spend most of the day curled up together in the woodpile, barely visible. Nights, however, are problematic. No longer can we simply release Chi and Barkley into the backyard for a potty break without scouting the yard for our visitors. I have nightmares of one or both of the dogs tangling with four pairs of sharp claws and teeth, and while Barkley defeated the skunk that dared invade his realm, I’m not so sure he’d come of a raccoon encounter unscathed. Being nature lovers, we don’t want the raccoons harmed, either. It’s not their fault Mama vanished, leaving them to learn how to fend for themselves.

Funny, when we considered the perils of home ownership, wildlife never came up. Now we’re putting out 911 calls to family, friends, Facebook, and Twitter, asking for advice on dealing with the little guys. And while I’m thankful no one suggested violence, the answers we did receive are conflicting. Relocate them promptly. But they’re too young to survive in the wild on their own. Don’t touch them; Mama will return, maybe in a week. But what happens if she was hit by a car or something? Do we move them, feed them, ignore them…?

And then this morning, four days after the raccoons appeared, they are gone. Poof. We may never know what happened. Maybe Mama did come back; maybe they wandered off in search of food, or a home without barking dogs and nosy humans.

My four days of fretting were in vain, as is usually the case with worry. Do no harm, but don’t jump in to interfere when it’s probably not necessary. The universe, and nature, can take care of itself, if I just get out of the way.

Trust the process. Let go. Just be. Now to take that lesson to my writing, and to my life, before the universe decides I need further instruction.

The paradox that is writing commercial fiction


An agent I met at this summer’s Antioch Writers Workshop, who was gracious enough to request a full copy of my work in progress, Ties that Bind (now posted on Scribd, if anyone is interested) has responded. Not, as she so perceptively noted, with what I wanted to hear necessarily, but with much of what I needed to hear. I’ve spent the past two days since her email mentally defending my work, railing (again, still!) against the inconsistencies in the ‘rules’ of writing. Rather than re-engaging that battle too strenuously, I’ll quote an earlier post from 043010:

“The most difficult part of all this learning-the-craft process is that as soon as I think I’ve got a handle on the rules, occasionally breaking them judiciously only to get slapped down for it, I pick up a book or literary journal that does exactly what I’ve been told not to do. Learning which of those ‘lessons’ to heed and which to ignore is mind-boggling. And all too often it depends on who the reader is at any given point.”

and move on…mostly.

The one specific I will detail is this: one of the last pieces of Ties that I wrote is a three-page prologue. I’m not generally a fan of prologues, but the story needed some history for the main plot to make sense without lots of flashbacks, which I don’t care for either. I’m still not convinced it’s the best way to handle the issue, but that’s where the manuscript stands at this stage.

Here’s the paradox: I have one critique from another well-respected professional who loved the prologue and the opening scenes, specifically: “The prologue is fantastic.” The AWW agent mentioned earlier had this to say: “And worse, the story actually starts on page 12, chapter 2. That's the first place we really see any sense of tension and conflict. You lose 2600 words if you chop the prologue and chapter 1. Building word count isn't just adding words; it's adding the right ones. Like bulking up means adding muscle, not just gaining weight.”

AARRGHH!!

This is even worse than anything in the oft-quoted Writers On Writing: Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle, by Elmore Leonard. I thought I had finally reconciled myself to ‘rules are made to be broken,’ since every one of those ‘always/never’ instructions is disregarded daily by best-selling authors everywhere. I know the rules; I truly thought I knew how and when to break them. Now this.

I am not entirely dissatisfied with the most recent critique. She offered several concrete suggestions on distance, being engaged, etc., that reinforced things I know I need to address. And I’m fighting the urge to frame her closing words and post them over my computer: “You're a good writer. You just need to write more!”

As I said in my response to her kind email, I need to trust my own instincts more and stop trying to please everyone, which is not an easy thing for someone who grew up as the family peacekeeper. But I will persevere.

Fellow writers, am I delusional, or just being my obstinate self?