Quite the Life (and all in Times New Roman 10pt!)
I introduced Heathcliff, the Pileated Woodpecker last week. This week, different camera in hand, I offer more of that glorious bird.
As we’ve become more acquainted, Heathcliff has allowed us to call him “Captain Pill.”
You have to pay attention to learn their names.
Have to learn their language. Then there’s that whole translation thing.
Kind of Enigma and Japanese Code and Navajo CodeTalkers all rolled into one, that.
But no matter.
Enjoy.
I’ve yet to encounter a created world that does not make use of climate and weather directly or indirectly.
That includes this one. Consider the history of earth and the interdependencies between life and climate become obvious (I hope). Read anything by Brian Fagan and you’ll get a taste of those interdependencies beautifully written.
Examples from Fiction
Climate/weather directly affecting the story and and done well, Brian Aldiss’ Helliconia series. Directly and done fairly well, any mythical apocalypse or creation epic. Directly and poorly, Medea: Harlan’s World. The first time I became aware of weather/climate/environment/meteorology as a crucial story element was in H.G. Wells’ First Men in the Moon; the Selenites’ civilization literally stops due to an eclipse.
Every mythology I’ve read has weather as either a deity or an elemental. Some cultures use climate as one of the “great makers.” Northern aboriginals include Ice as an elemental force. Some eastern cultures include Metal (usually some form of iron) as an elemental force.
All of these can act for or against humans, however, and that’s key. Consider weather/climate as part of a story’s setting and every Man v Nature story takes a bow. The Perfect Storm, White Squall and many of the movies listed here wouldn’t be worth seeing without the weather’s role (many of them aren’t worth seeing, period).
And again, weather/climate isn’t playing an active role in these stories (at least the one’s I’ve seen or read). It is there to help or thwart the protagonist(s) from succeeding.
Specific to weather/climate/environment as a story’s setting, if setting isn’t important – and I can’t imagine it not being important. Perhaps I have a different concept of “setting” – then mention it as little as possible, or only mention the aspects of that setting that are necessary to the story. Katherine Mansfield is a master of putting only the necessary setting elements on stage.
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[A different version of this appeared on Timothy Bateson’s blog in Oct 2019.]
Psychologists and philosophers debate “horror” as a concept. Authors have it much easier. They want to make their readers uncomfortable, nervous. They want to give readers chills. They want readers to turn on all the lights, to check locks on the doors, to tuck their feet up under themselves so nothing can grab them from below, to check under the bed before getting under the covers, to look in their closets, to look at their loved ones suspiciously.
Most people, reading the above, will travel a psycho-emotive path from casual interest to mild anxiety. The psycho-emotive path occurs in the above due to progressive word choice – easier, uncomfortable, nervous, chills – followed by a series of recognizable anxiety behaviors – turn on lights, check locks, tuck feet, check under the bed, look in closets – and then we have the capper, the threat of personal betrayal – looking at their loved ones suspiciously.
Readers shouldn’t be able to recognize their growing anxiety. If they do, they’re paying attention to themselves, not the story, meaning the story isn’t fully engaging them. You want your readers concerned about what happens next in the story, not that they’re uncomfortable reading it.
Build Discomfort Slowly
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Read Shaman Story Chapter X – Little Girl Lost.
A woman comes on a hot August night. Grandpa and I sit on the frontporch watching traffic and sipping steaming hot espressos. She carries a boy in blue shorts, white shirt, blue three button jacket, knotted blue tie and topped with a blue hat. Her dark, mid-calf skits seem heavy in this heat. Her walk and clothing tell me she’s not from our neighborhood or any other I know. Her long, thick, black hair hangs loosely about her shoulders, not done up or held back with pins the Sicilian way. Her makeup is also thick and rich. A strap over her shoulder supports a large, beaded purse which hangs like some kind of bladder.
Grandpa smiles and nods as she walks past. She stops at our gate and opens it without asking, as if it’s her own.
On the porch her steps are so light the floor doesn’t creak and I can tell from the sound she wears expensive shoes.
Grandpa stands.
She talks in whispers and holds the boy out to Grandpa.
The boy is no older than me.
The woman puts him down. She pushes him at Grandpa.
Grandpa shakes his head and steers the boy back to the woman.
I come over and ask if the boy wants to play with me in the garden.
He pulls back into the woman’s skirts.
I Lower-Center-Relax-Breathe.
Grandpa puts his hand on my shoulder, a warning. I look up at him. He stares at me wide-eyed and shakes his head, no, pursing his lips.
Pain. Raw pain. Pain of an animal in a trap gnawing its own leg to be free.
I cry, my body, my bones, my joints on fire.
The boy.
Such pain. How can he stand?
Grandpa yells — it is the only time I hear him raise his voice in alarm — and pulls me back. His four-bodies come together, between me and the boy, falling like thunder.
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About fifteen, twenty years ago I told Susan I heard a new bird in our area. I didn’t hear it often, maybe twice in as many months, but its call was so different from what I was familiar with it stood out.
Nobody else heard it.
I attempted an imitation.
Didn’t go over well.
The call grew more frequent. Also more obvious. Others heard it, not as often as I but few spend as much time in the wood as I unless they’re born to it or work it.
Some said it was this bird or that bird. I knew different.
Then one day the call became obvious to all. I did my thing, tuning my ears (like focusing your eyes on something) and sure enough, there was a new bird in our area.
Pileated woodpeckers are an invasive species where I live.
“Invasive species” mean they weren’t here before.
Kind of like Europeans on Turtle Island.
Or man crossing Beringia.
Or hominids out of Africa.
Invasive Species. Kind’a depends on who was there first, doesn’t it?