More about Setting

I’ve been walking up to the north gate of the Air Force Base for thirty-five years. Mostly walking dogs (I’ve worn out four, plus countless shoes.) Clear back at the beginning, I pushed a stroller with a dog on a leash. I rode a bike with a child seat on the back for many years. I’ve gone in the mornings, at noon, and in the evenings. I’ve gone in rain, sun, snow and wind. I’ve seen this little strip of land in every light, with me in every mood. I’ve walked with tears, prayers, memories, crying babies, reluctant dogs or self. I know this setting better than I know anywhere.


I know how the slant of the sun changes come September, how there is always a strong canyon breeze just past the canal where the land dimples slightly, I know the tiny clearing in the cottonwoods and rogue fruit trees where I often see deer. I know the sound of quail warning of my coming, and the rush of a pheasant past my nose that I unknowingly flushed from a bramble of branches. I know the smell of rain, and fall in this place.


I know how it feels wondering if I’d ever walk that path again; know the simple joy of walking it again. I know the solace of crying, alone on abandoned road barriers and blessing the solitude. I’ve heard the gut-wrenching tale of a neighbor driving up to the gate to scream at fate when she lost her husband because she could be alone to do so without her young, large family hearing her anguish. The story adds a layer to all those layers I’ve put there myself. This is one of my settings. A place imbedded in me. You can’t explain me, describe me, know me without know all this about that small two-mile stretch of land.


And this setting of mine, it helps me with writing setting for every character, every story I write. I apply what I know of my setting to any setting I write about. I can use my imagination and knowledge to write about the September slant of sun anywhere because I know my setting. I can imagine how a person feels in every situation by knowing my own feelings.


So one of the best things a person can do for writing setting is know your own setting. Take notes; take pictures, though you see it every day. This is why a writer’s journal is so critical, to help you remember those thousands of things you know and must use as you write.


Walk in your setting today as September melts into October. Take note of just one thing you didn’t notice yesterday. One mood, one emotion, one breeze, one scent.

Settings

How a character reacts to or feels about setting adds to a story, movie, or novel, creates emotion, connection and depth. Setting can become a whole poem. Think about Gone with the Wind and you think about Tara, how Scarlet felt about it, what it meant, how it shaped her life. Think about Witness and how place was as much a character as Rachael, her son, Samuel or John Book.

Setting-where you are born, grow up or what you are introduced to in your life shapes you. You love or hate a place or learn to. Place sets a tone. It seeps into every aspect of a person’s life. Dictates speech, tastes, attitudes and actions. Think about your own life and how where you have lived has made you who you are, who you become. This is what you need to do with every character in your writing.

It’s more than getting the details right. It’s having as much firsthand knowledge as possible. It’s seeing a place as your character sees it. It’s standing in the rain and seeing how the corner store looks, misty and sad. Knowing the roof leaks in the northwest corner by the magazines. Knowing how irritated your character will be because that northwest corner is where she likes to hang out to read People magazine. It’s knowing the last gas pump to the north at Common Sense is always out of order and damn the inconvenience.

So, whether I’m writing a poem, a novel or a story I research setting. If I’m lucky enough to visit the place, I take notes and pictures. I try to get a feel for the place, close my eyes and listen to the sounds of everyday life. I try to imagine how my character feels about this place; figure out his/her emotions. This is nothing new. You’ve heard this before from writers teaching how to do setting.

It works, too. I go a step farther and do a character sketch of the place. That helps. I list words that fit the scenery. I watch people and imagine my character interacting with them.
We’ve been vacationing as a family in the Uintahs for twenty years, my husband, much longer. He knows the roads and terrain well, but still there are places he hasn’t seen. In the summer, while we were stuck inside because of rain, I studied the map to get names of mountains, etc., for a poem I was working on.

There was a small lake my husband hadn’t been to. Heart Lake. Wonderful, intriguing name, isn’t it? As it rained most of the vacation, we were never able to take the ride to see it. We took the opportunity between rainstorms, this fall. The road to Heart Lake was rough, the scenery shattering. Another lake on the way-Yellow Lake.

Tiny lakes, scenery that fed my soul. We didn’t get all the way to Heart Lake because of the road and storm threatening. Still, I wrote tons of notes, took pictures, spent some time pulling in the feel of the area. Will I ever use it? I’m certain, there is a poem coming. And I can see using the scenery for one of my western historicals.

More importantly, I see that something of that place, that setting has stamped me, changed me. Made me something more than what I was. That is what setting does.

Uintahs

With the tree moved, we easily traveled to where we park the truck. I’ve never been in the Uintahs this time of year. It’s always either been early, in June or later, mid-October. I worried about the hike but I made it up the trail easily.

I’m almost certain my husband stopped more often, not for himself, but for me. A breeze tangled in my hair. My sweatshirt was just enough. The quakies held just enough color to cast the forest in a bit of a golden haze. We made it to the tree and paused.

I’d been trying to get there for more than a year. It overwhelmed me a bit. The whole journey through this illness had been life changing-mostly in small ways, but—one big way is that I feel such gratitude for every small gift. I took a minute just for that.


We carved—Goodnight, Irene—in the tree.

I know it doesn’t show up very well, but eventually it will.

Why this tree? Why feeling the way I do about nature have I carved in this tree? Years ago, my husband found this tree back in the forest on a hunting trip. It had his father’s name in it and a date. His father had been dead several years and he knew his father wouldn’t have done it. He hadn’t believed in that, but where and when and how and who nagged us.

A few years later, we found out one of my husband’s cousins had done it while on a hunting trip with my husband’s father, Mel. The boy had lost his father very young. Mel often took him on hunting trips.

It felt like a whisper of the past, a nod to Mel. We took pictures of our family members by the tree. When Annie died and we had her cremated, I thought of that tree. Annie loved the area so much. We buried her ashes beneath the tree and covered it with rocks.

The next summer when we hiked up to the tree, the grave had been dug up, the box with Annie’s ashes broken by bear, her ashes scattered. Probably fitting. I liked that, maybe, she was set free. We gathered up what was left, reburied and covered it with more rocks. It’s never been disturb again, but each time we're there we stack more rocks at the base of the tree.



After we carved Irene’s message, we placed a few more rocks at the base of the tree. My husband pointed to the sky said we better be getting off the mountain, a storm was coming. We got down off the mountain just in time and as we looked back and the clouds lifted, again there was snow at the summit where we’d been.


As a writer, I have learned to get the most from any outing. I go prepared. Notebook, camera, pen and mind set.

The Unitahs have tucked into my heart. They stir my emotions in so many ways. When I was sick, it was one of the places I grieved about missing. I wondered if I would ever get there again. Since then, I embrace everywhere I go more. I try to notice details, record them, look beneath to emotions, feelings of a place. How each of us let a place affect us. This is setting.

Setting is a character in a poem, essay, story or novel. Do what you must to learn a place, love or hate a place.

Sometimes Trees Blocks Our Way

I’ve been on a retreat, a sabbatical, a vacation and as most things this year, it didn’t go exactly as planned and we returned early. While there-high Uintas-maybe, truly God’s country. (For a writer and/or poet, it’s perfect country.) It was simply perfect—even the storms, the rain. The backcountry is just starting to get into autumn color. Yellow, orange, russet, and red creeping into ravines and land folds.


A vacation was just what we all needed. But as I’ve said before, life is mostly plan B. Sunday, when we arrived at the campground, I found a big screw in our trailer tire with a slow leak. We’re miles from civilization, so plans were made to travel to the nearest city Wednesday and get the tire fixed. Antique shops could be visited—a big plus for me—so not a big sacrifice, not at all.

It stormed, but Monday morning was glorious. Cool, but not too much. The sky clear, and blue, and promising. One of the things that most devastated me last summer while I was battling MPGN was the loss of my companion, Irene. A sweet cat, always near. She slept next to me and put me to sleep with her ragged purr. While I was sick she never left my side, but as if sensing how sick I was, she never pestered me for more attention. Which, of course, was her usual habit. She’s a cat.

She started having seizures right about that time. Terrible seizures that just kept getting worse. The vet couldn’t find a cause and no real promising cure, but there were a few things we could try. The thing was we had no way of doing it. I couldn’t sit up, my husband’s work demands travel; my mother is 92, my children all working too long hours. We had a heartbreaking decision that suddenly needed to be made immediately because Irene’s seizures were getting worse and more often. I made the decision to end her suffering.


I’ve second guessed myself, I’ve felt bad that I wasn’t able to go to the vet’s with her, I feel worse that I had no ashes, no nothing to honor her by. I did the best I could, put her favorite collar in a small box, and buried it in my flower garden with a stone covering the spot.
But I promised myself and Irene I would put her name on a tree up in the forest where we camp next to Annie’s.

Annie was another beloved pet—a lab, which we had to put down when she could no longer see or move. We buried Annie’s ashes up there and carved in the tree—Annie, a good dog.

I wanted to do similar with Irene, but I never got up there last summer, then in October when the doctor finally said I could go to high altitude and hike, the weather was so bad we couldn’t and wouldn’t chance the roads—bad enough when dry, horrible when wet. We do four wheeling but we try to be responsible and not tear up the roads.


So after breakfast Monday, we headed out as soon as we could to beat any stormy weather. We would drive in as far as possible, then hike. We got nearly to the spot we park the truck when this tree blocked our path.


When something blocks your way, go around, go over, go through or if necessary move the obstacle. It works in four-wheeling and in writing. With help from friends and family and a lot of determination. The road is cleared.

Life is often that way. Writing life is that way. And when we look back on all those trees and stumbling blocks we realize, that was the best of life.

On to something I'd rather talk about: writing. Or a better title: What I Learned This Last Year and Nine Months.

Use peace, strength, courage, love and gratitude. If you only have a smidgeon of them—use every ounce. If you only have one of those five things—use it. Borrow from your loved ones. They’re there. They want to help.

Gratitude helps you find the other four and there can always be gratitude. Be grateful. And if all you can do is breath, be grateful.

What you think you become. I know I’ve mentioned this before but I always remember something my sister said to me when I was moaning about wanting to be a writer. In her calm, certain voice she said, “Well, you write, don’t you? That makes you a writer.”
I am a writer. It never depends on publication. I write. I think I am a writer. And I am.

Know happiness. So along that line of thought—it doesn’t hurt to think I’m happy. I am. Knowing happiness is tricky. Happiness tends to act like a burglar—in and out before you can catch it. Try. Notice the times you’re happy. Even if it’s fleeting. Acknowledge it. Be grateful.

Know strength. Do you know someone strong? Do you really? Do you forget about that mom who gets her kids off to school though she was up all night with a colicky baby? Or the man, who gets up every day, goes to work at a job that nips at his self-esteem and peace of mind to support his family? Or the writer that plugs away at his novel each night after dinner hope high, chances low? There are strong people most of us never even think about. People like us.

Cherish the journey. We tend to dismiss the mundane—the picking up after the kids, doing the laundry, everyday chores and daily grind, but that is our journey and there is something wonderful about each day. It’s our life. Besides, do you know how much you’d miss that mundane life, that cooking and dishes every night? Have it yanked away. Suddenly, it seems so sweet.

Free your spirit. Do something every day that feeds you. This doesn’t mean some big thing. Not many of us can do that. Do something small and sweet. Pound a drum, sing, write a poem—or even smaller, a haiku, take a walk, spend a minute outside, look at something green, imagine, pretend—just for a moment.

Inhale hope. Exhale determination. Grab hope wherever you can. Hope this essay will sell, you’ll beat that disease, you’ll win a hundred dollars, you’ll get that job, your boss will appreciate you. But be determined anyway, whether any of your hopes come true or not. Keep working toward your goal, your desire, your life.

MPGN Update

Part of what I wanted to do with this blog was have a place that others with MPGN could go to see how someone else copes with the disease. I found nothing like that when I searched the internet. Mostly only doom and gloom.

I’ve neglected that side of my blog a little. The reason being-I just didn’t want to whine, or complain. I was determined to be as positive as possible. There were times positive just wasn’t in me. I should have been brave enough to show that. My excuse was the determination to fight the negative feelings as much as possible. I felt that was the most beneficial thing to do for myself. Yet, the fact remains—there are others out there with this disease. So…

Six weeks without prednisone. Yesterday I went to the doctor to find out if the treatment worked. Was MPGN beaten, on retreat, voted off? I had labs Friday, yesterday I learned the outcome.

Anxious, nervous, my blood pressure up (just what I didn’t want) I waited. I felt so much better. Yet, a few things still worrying me.

I reflect on the journey I’ve been on since January 2008. It took from January to June to narrow down my symptoms to kidney problems. Mid-June when I started treatment: a high dose of prednisone, aspirin, blood pressure medicine, a diuretic and medication for gout (which the diuretic caused), I went through the puffy face from the prednisone but overall tolerated the treatment well.

There were two episodes of hair loss: one blood pressure medicine caused the first, then again as I weaned off prednisone. My long hair—gone. I have a bob now. Not too bad, but there was and is a little grief about my hair.

But…

The results were wonderful. My creatinine-normal, protein-normal, iron-normal. A few results not perfect yet, but going in the right direction. We’re working on reducing the diuretic and medication for gout. I’ll be on aspirin the rest of my life.

Hey, I’ll take it. Happily.

September Godsends:

• Heavenly Blue Morning Glory clamoring up my white and blue shed
• Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes
• Two does outside my office windows; not once, not twice, but everyday this month, so far.
• The new slant of the moon and sun
• The garden winding down
• Two red fox playing tag in the meadow I pass on my daily walk
• Sunflowers
• Bringing in lush houseplants that have been vacationing on the patio
• Hummingbirds flocking to my backyard to store up nectar from overgrown salvia
• Slightly crisp mornings

August Reads

A Duke of Her Own by Eloisa James: Trying to decide between passion and what’s best, Duke of Villiers must choose between smart, beautiful Eleanor and Lisette rumored to be mad.
The book has everything: passion, impropriety and a duel. It’s a fun read.

Bridegroom by Linda Lael Miller: Miller is one of the few writers still doing Western Historicals and doing it well. This is my favorite genre and I mourn the absence of more in the bookstores.

Bridegroom revisits Gideon Yarbo last seen in A Wanted Man and his childhood friend Lydia Fairmont. Gideon is now an undercover detective on a tricky assignment when he receives a letter from Lydia asking for help. Another fun read.

The Poet’s Companion by Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux: This book was the text we used in the Poetic Passion Workshop. As we didn’t read the whole book for the class, I did. The book is a must if you want to write poetry well. Best of all are the assignments. I think you could spend a whole year going through each assignment and in the end; you would be so much the better poet. I highly recommend this guide.

Woven on the Wind edited by Linda Hasselstrom, Gaydell Collier, and Nancy Curtis: This another book edited by these three woman that haunts me, takes my breath and quilts my heart with the whole of it. Essay by essay, poem by poem this weaves through my heart. This book is about friendship of women in the Sagebrush West.

I would like for every woman I know to read all three of these books: Leaning into the Wind, Woven on the Wind, and Crazy Woman Creek. Why? Because the books are like the best sleepover with best life friends. There is crying, laughing, healing and nostalgia through the pages of these books. I just can’t say enough other than to say how glad I am I found them this last two years. I needed them and they delivered.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion: Another great book. I’ve wanted to read this book for quite some time. When I saw it for sale at the swap meet for a quarter, there was no reason not to buy it.

The book is mentioned many times in the books I’ve read on how to write memoirs and by Michael J. Fox in his memoir. I know why.

Mostly, the book is about grief-how grief unfolds, how it affects even the strongest people. Didion doesn’t come out and give advice but I don’t think I will ever grieve again without thinking about this book. And I’m not just talking only about grieving the loss of a loved one.

There are so many things to grieve, so many things we lose along life’s road. I think that is why Fox mentioned this book. A devastating illness is a loss that must be grieved in order to grasp hope and move past it. And that is the thing about Didion, though she paints grief with a sharp pen there is no self-pity. She just lays out the facts until you know grieve almost intimately. Lovely book.