Close Encounters of the Moose Kind

Vacation mostly means reading, not cooking, cleaning, but still writing for me. I'm not sure I can take a vacation from writing. My head just goes on doing what it does anyway, but with much better scenery and much better inspiration. I write western historicals and this country is full of history and evidence of that. And for poetry. Actually, this writer's haven.

So, pack up trailer and head up to the high Uinta mountains for fishing, hiking, spotting animals, looking at wonderful scenery, seeing cattle ranchers at work and nature, hearing the whispers of bygone days. Perfect. The fishing is mostly for my husband and I go along when he goes down at the shore of the reservoir, but when the fishing is slow, often I wander back to the truck to read.

I was deep into Kaki Warner's new book Bride of the High Country when for some reason I looked up and saw a few other fishers pointing behind the truck. Of course, I looked.
The black dot was a moose. Slowly I put the bookmark in my book. I didn't want to lose my place, then got out my camera. I slipped out of the truck, but left the door open, afraid shutting the door would scare the moose, and I started shooting.

He got closer.

This was my picture of when he stopped and looked at me. No, there is not a moose in this picture. I was trying to remember if he was one of those animals you do  not want to look in the eyes. I think he was trying to figure out if I was a threat.

I almost missed this one, too. I was busy trying to start my heart again.

Finally, a full picture.

Peace reigns and my heart is almost normal. I told my husband, if I had had my big camera I would have much better pictures. Yeah, right.

Blood Memory? Or Writer's Mind?

The West, Western movies, Western books have more than the characters that people them that I love. The moral code of the West, the unforgettable characters in the old Western movies and books tap into something deeply ingrained in me, but the landscape washes another facet over me, too. A recognition, emotion, peace.

Maybe, it is in my DNA. I wonder, is it true about the theory of blood memory—Wikipedia describes blood memory as memory stored in the cells; or genetic makeup of one’s body. (Also called historical memory or heart memory.) It is why something calls to us without explanation., a déjà vu, of sorts, a recognition, that goes deeper, it feels.

Did my ancestors ranch, farm, love horses, shoot guns and rifles? Were they steeped in the smell of leather, manure, sweaty horses, hay? Are the stories that crop up in my head based on some deep memory in the sinew of my body, or soul?

I like to think so. I like to think the stories I hear in my head are whispers in my blood. Maybe, not of my own ancestors stories, but stories they witnessed, gossip they heard. I like to think there is a reason why I see a scene so clearly, it’s hard to tell whether it is serving memory or imagination.

What other explanation could there be? Why else do I see the scene so clearly, hear the voices, know the characters?

I like to think emotional memory holds sway in my stories. Emotional connection adds a layer to my experience as a writer. How do you explain that hush I heard standing at the top of Virginia City, Nevada looking down through series of cemeteries there, or the feeling of coming home as I look out across the lines of the Uintah Mountains? That certainty I’ve seen that tool, that brooch, that dress somewhere else, some other place, or time.

Maybe, it is only imagination, Maybe, just a writer’s mind. I wonder.

How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When meory plays an old tune on the heart. -Eliza Cook

Maybe,that explains it. Maybe, these stories are only echoes coming back at me.

The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

                                    -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Making a Trail and Pictures

As I’ve been working on rewrites for Ella and the Tie-down Man and Heart’s High, developing Heart’s Ease and writing the blogs about character, I’ve been learning and, maybe, relearning.  I’ve come to several conclusions, too.

You can never have enough notes for your novels, especially on rewrites. Now, I know most writing goes from developing the story to first draft to rewrites to editing in a nice chronological and linear fashion. I’m also certain, many writers have done as I have—written books that didn’t work or were out of favor and years later revisited them. I’ve heard of writers taking many, many years to work on a book.

To do that well, you need notes, good solid notes on what you are thinking on a particular character, setting, plot point. I’ve been lost in this world I made, several times wondering what my thoughts were, where I was heading. So, I wished I’d done a better job of making a trail. And I wished I’d done one other simple thing. I wished I had attached a picture to each character sketch or the name of an actor—just something solid to envision. For me, on character, a picture or actor sets more than the look. It cements an attitude.

I search through magazines, pay attention in movies and TV for characters. Pictures are good, also, for costume and set design. It isn’t a waste of time or ‘busy’ work to find the perfect snapshot of clothing, setting, objects that serve a role. Looking through a few magazines, copying a few pictures out of books is great, but for Western Historicals that can sometimes be difficult and slim pickings.

That’s where a camera comes in. And great western scenery, native flora and fauna, animals and people. I have a wonderful camera I keep in my purse. I find the best props and locations when I least expect to and with a camera always with me, I catch it. I just purchased a little bigger camera for research, with a little more zoom, a little better quality and ability for photographing in museums and antique hunting.

Antiques are a passion of mine and one of the reasons is the stories behind the object. As I wander through the antique booths and shops, I can’t tell you how many props I find. The stories come, too and I can dress them with real finds I’ll never be able to afford, but ‘find’ for set design. I always ask permission before I photograph and have never been refused. I’ve grown a wonderful detailed ‘catalog’ of authentic props and ‘dressed’ many a setting with them while I browse.

So, as I read somewhere: To keep from getting lost, stay found.

And take pictures.

Setting Again:

I’m just back from a much-needed vacation, doing nothing much more than eating, napping, reading, shooting (yep, shooting) and enjoying nature. As I’ve been in the frame of mind of setting, here I was in a setting that…forms a great deal of warp and weave to the tapestry of my life. Our family has been vacationing to the Uintah Mountains since before it was a family. This place is part of my husband’s family history. Not so much mine, but I was introduced with complete awareness to the importance of that, (Maybe, not complete) and, after some difficulty (on my part mostly) I have come to love the area.

(This is Smitty's Basin where an old sawmill use to be.)

It didn’t come over night, though. That love. First, I am a secret obsessive compulsive. Secret because I try to hide and fight the worst of it. Second, after the first two introductions: I got carsick driving over the seventeen-mile dirt road. (At that time, most likely more than seventeen… I never got carsick except when my father drove), I fell off my horse when it jumped an unexpected ravine ( yes, I got back on. I had to. The poor horse looked embarrassed for me), I didn’t go back until I brought with me, my first and second born. Now, being obsessive compulsive and an overprotective mom to boot, the place felt like the farthest wilderness. What the hell was I doing there?

Rough terrain, dark forests, a night sky so deep with stars so bright, elk, deer, bear and…WOODTICKS. The Amazon. Foreign, frightening. I was way out of my comfort zone. I was an alien in a strange world. I wanted nothing more than to go home. I was Dorothy and there was no fake wizard, no balloon.

And… I had history with WOODTICKS.

Setting, the way character reacts to setting and emotion.

My shooting started out as research. As a writer of western historical, I wanted to learn a little about shooting a pistol. I had passed a NRA class many years before. I knew how to shoot a rifle, could look up what I needed as far as parts of a revolver, the mechanics and such, but I wanted to know how hard it was to be accurate, what it felt like to hold the pistol in an outstretched arm and sight down the shorter barrel.

I love to shoot as long as it’s a paper target or soda can. I love the smell of gunpowder, the smoke rising from the barrel, the ricocheting sound off canyon walls, the kick of a gun.

I love fishing. I’m just not all that fond of catching. But I had three boys and learned to help them take fish off the hook, fill a bobber with water from the lake, catch and release, restring a fishing pole, untangle a line, retie on a proper fly. Yes, sometime, in some story I write I will use every bit of it.

Aren’t we lucky, us writers? No better way to stay curious and young.

(The big fish is mine.)

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.