~
~
Remains of last season.
Reminders of what could be.
~
~
~
~
~
And where I shall remain.
~
photography
Ramblin’ on writing.
~
~
Where I write. Here on a well worn leather sofa in a little log cabin. The only place sending smoke signals out there on a big wild mountain. A cat on one side, a dog on the other, with the sound of happy chicks scurrying about in the box by the front window, and a new batch of beer bubbling up in the loft. I’ve kicked the boys out into the snow, or it’s predawn hours and they’re still sleeping, but they’re definitely not around. I work best in relative silence. Nature’s noises don’t disturb me. Human ones do. I give the boys the boot. I think they love me anyway.
My first book was written early in the mornings, way before sun or son up, before the wood stove warmed the cabin and often in front of the campfire after the horses were put out to graze with a pen in my mittened hands and a pot of cowboy coffee percolating away in front of me.
I yearn for such silence and simplicity as my son is working at the kitchen table with machine parts spread about, and husband on the sofa across from me with his computer on his lap. The snow will melt soon. They’ll both be busy building then. Only thing is, I will be too.
Where can I go write? I ask them when the talk of snowmobiles and motors and mechanics can’t be drowned out by my over active imagination, and the wilds, though just outside the front door, seem so far away. Another guest cabin? Too cold. Outside? It’s snowing. So much for spring. Summer is short here, and still so far away.
Get over it, I remind myself. I write about my life. Live it. Then make the time to write. Even if that means setting the alarm for four in the morning and stumbling around in the dark.
And suddenly, the chatter of the boys fades into the background and doesn’t seem so distracting anymore and all I see are words before me, spilling across the page like a handful of sparkling sand in the wind.
Writing is a state within us, not a place around us.
~
~
A friend shared this article and it got me thinking. (Uh oh.)
On Networking: The Five People You Really Need
We all need a mentor. A champion. Someone who believes in us. Someone who will listen to our dreams and say, “Yes, you can…” and, “You can do it!” Maybe even show us how.
Most of us don’t have that. Usually in life, we find a lot of the opposite.
“Really, you shouldn’t.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I dunno if that’s the best thing to do.”
“Oh come on, get real…”
“Hmmmm… maybe you better not.”
How do we get it? That person to push us and help us make it happen. Because it can happen, you know. Whether they like it or not. Whether they help you or not. If you want to, you can.
And usually, if you start, even if you don’t find The One, you might just find a bunch of Little Ones instead. People will be far more likely to help you if you try. Not if you don’t. And not if you expect it, demand it, wait for it to come to you. Because that silver platter fantasy is about as unreal as Prince Charming.
Still, I tried, as many of us have, to find a mentor, a teacher, a guru. One that honestly cared and advised me accordingly. I reached out to people I admired. Rarely heard a word back. Read a bunch of books on “how to”. Even tried to hire a coach once, but she didn’t seem to think my dreams where practical. They aren’t. Practical is not on my list of priorities. Dreaming is. Besides, when you hire someone to “believe” and “care” you’re taking a helluva risk and need to accept that maybe it’s not going to happen.
You get bits and pieces here and there. Along the way, you know how it is, you meet someone who actually believes in you, encourages you, inspires you. An angel who pops in to your life, gets you where you need to go next, and POOF is gone.
Someone to remind me I can. On one hand, enough to keep me going. And on the other, little enough to make me say, fine, I am gonna do it on my own, even without a whole lotta help.
Of course there ends up being some help. None of us are really alone. Show me any person and if we look long enough, we’ll find a story about how someone else helped them, inspired them, motivated them. Something. No matter how small. Sometimes all we get is small. So it’s up to us to make it big.
So now what I am learning is this. Just because we didn’t really get it, doesn’t mean we can’t give it. We can. We can give what we didn’t get. We can be what we wish we knew. Yes, we can be that mentor. We all have a lot to give. So, give. Don’t hold back. Not too much. Enough to keep your sanity. Feed your family, get your work done first. But not so much you’re greedy with your time and kindness.
A word of caution. Don’t get milked dry. Find the balance of giving to someone who is going to take what you share and fly with it. Not the person who just wants it to hoard it away or add to their pile of plenty.
Here’s another way of looking at it. The more horses I work with, the better horseperson I become. In teaching them, I learn myself.
Give, try, reach out, share. Be the mentor you wish you had. You can’t go out and find one. You can’t even buy one. But you can be one. So start with that. And maybe then you’ll find what you were looking for.
~
~
Maybe. I’m still looking.
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be an author. I haven’t met many who could help. Refer back to that “loneliest profession” thing. And still there were a few who came and left my life and did help along the way. Like Digger Doc, a teacher back in high school who told me I should write and kept me after class to share books with me that I had to read and I did. Soaking in the words of Nabakov, Orwell, Roth and Joyce, listening to their voice and dreaming of creating my own.
Many years passed. My writing left unlistened to. Starting the blog helped. Someone listened. Not a mentor, but at least a little audience. Someone who heard me. For them, I tried. I would wake in the mornings and sit in the dark while the house was still cold and take an hour of uninterrupted time and try. It was enough. From those dark mornings rose the first book, The Color of the Wild. And a growing audience. And a stronger voice.
Now I afford myself the luxury of writing after the sun is up (still on that well worn sofa) and there are things to do outside, but I can convince myself this is work now. This is real. At least sort of. But sort of is a start. And if I don’t make it into more, it won’t be. So I give it my all. The first book mattered to me in a way other writing – from the blog to published articles – did not. This is where I wanted to be.
Of course there is little satisfaction in arriving here because such is human nature, when we get where we were trying to go suddenly we realize what’s next, what else we want, where we want to go next.
The bear went over the mountain… Indeed.
Such is life for the curious mind, she says. So, get used to it, enjoy it, make the most of it.
We all could use help. Someone to believe in us, if not guide us. And here’s what I’m finding. Even if you can’t find someone directly to help you, start by helping yourself. Then maybe, just maybe, reach out and help someone else.
~
~
Anyone who’s spent enough time with me knows that tough as I may act on the outside, I’m about as insecure as they get inside. It’s really a problem at times. For me. For those around me. For those stuck with me and who still manage to love me (read: husband and son).
Maybe it was fear. Thinking the next book wouldn’t be good. A disappointment after a strong start. Maybe I’d be a one-shot wonder. One of those writers who only has one book in them, when what I want is a whole bookshelf in me. At least, a whole row. Right, I know, that’s asking a lot. But those who know me know that too. I tend to ask a lot of myself.
Anyway, I’m on it now. Editing the next one, getting it ready for submitting. And you know what – I like it. Boy is that a relief. When you put it aside, your intention is to put it out of mind. Well, try as you may it remains somewhere in that mind of yours, in the deep dark corners where the shadows lurk. And in that place, weird things happen. It can transform into something terrible. Our imaginations are both blessings and curses, aren’t they?
Well, I brought this one back into the light and I’m working it over again now. It’s not perfect. It’s not the Great American Novel (it wasn’t meant to be). But it’s a good read. I’m enjoying it. Fixing it up. Making it better. More of what it is, was meant to be. It’s a lot of work, but that doesn’t scare me. Bad work does.
Take the time it takes. Our choice is this: We can turn a handful of grapes into a little pile of raisins or a glass of fine wine.
I don’t know how fine this one will be, but at the moment, I’m enjoying the aroma, the taste, the color… It’s going to be okay. That helps me sleep better at night.
~
~
Finally, friends, this. I didn’t write it, but I read it. This one got me thinking too. (Uh oh, all over again.) If you enjoy reading, books, bookstores, here’s something to think about:
A Magical Place for Readers and Writers
~
~
So it’s spring.
~
On the first day of Spring, Forrest atop the mountain behind our ranch, looking down our valley and beyond.
~
So it’s spring. Yes, here too. In spite of the single digit mornings and a pasture of unbroken white.
I remember what the season should bring, could bring. Rich soil turned up in garden beds, fresh linens from the line on our bed. Sweet sap running in the trees. Foals romping outside my window. I don’t have that here and now. None of it. Only memories. So strong I can smell the earth and the sweet sap and the new born baby’s breath.
It’s different here. Still spring, the emerging of warm earth from her frozen slumber, but here and now with a new set of definitions. Like the sighting of the rufous sided towhee scratching at the seeds I toss out beneath our picnic table, and awaiting the song of the frogs. Thinning snow that turns to slush in the afternoons and light so intense on the spring glazed surface even cloudy days seem blinding.
We learn to adjust. Human beings are remarkably adaptable, no matter how stubborn we may seem. No place is perfect. Thing about this place, with all the trials and tribulations to get here and stay here: it’s ours. That means something to me. More so with each passing year, growing connection, memories embedded in the soil. A glance around and I can point to what fence we built, cabin remodeled, road or trail constructed, which mountain I climbed with which dog in what sort of weather. A board on the old bedroom door frame records Forrest’s growth in faded pencil marks, and generations of horses – mother, daughter, grandmother – await me at feeding time.
~
~
Out on a snowshoe alone with the dog. Gratitude. It’s easy to find it here. Ten things a day, a friend and I prompt each other when we find ourselves forgetting. Yes, I do forget. The space, the light, the beauty, thin air, a mountain that looks as fancy as a wedding cake, solitude, silence but for spring winds and the opening river and birds. Yes, spring brings such song in the early mornings before the wind picks up and late in the afternoon as the shadows are tossed long and indigo upon sugary snow.
~
~
Living. Dying. This season. Every season.
I remember the dread that came with the risk of the open road bringing conflict and chaos along with cars. Now I await the open road as the open pasture when we can begin building our place on our land that we have fought for and won.
Bob takes the Cat down there in the afternoon slush and cuts through the open white. The first step towards breaking ground. Frost just below surface. We are early still.
And I remember the fear that hung heavy in the spring storms back then with each birth. I would rather not remember. I turn my attention to the mob of chicks scampering about in the giant dog crate between the planters of newly spread lettuce seed and the grass for the cats and dog. Their happy chirps blending with the melody from the various birds feeding at the picnic table right outside the window.
~
~
And now I know
the loss of none
As if I could remember
a babe crying to be nursed
And the sound of children’s laughter
The gentle nicker of the mare to foal
The song of two blue birds
on the top of a spruce tree still green
Where they first arrive here
every year.
The sap won’t run this year.
At times emptiness is a relief.
~
~
Now I know what is beneath the slipping bark.
I take out the draw knife for the first time this season. Peeling a small log needed for a remodel project on a neighbor’s bathroom. With every pull of the knife, tiny white life revealed. Ten, twenty, maybe more. Slicing through life. Larva.
I know it’s crazy but still I feel sadness. I am taking life. Can I look at them as the enemy? Who is to blame? I daresay, not the beetles.
Will every log I peel for our house reveal the same?
I need a shower. Rid myself of their remains which has stuck onto my skin, in my hair, my jeans after working out in the wind.
~
~
Author’s Update.
~
With regards to The Color of the Wild, much thanks to all of you readers who posted reviews – what a wonderful help you have been – and for those writers who took the time to share reviews and interviews on their web sites and blogs, especially:
More big news this week is that I just got the word that a select number of Barnes and Nobles bookstores will be stocking The Color of the Wild on their shelves. Please take a look at your local store and let me know if you see it there!
As for what’s next… Patience (I tell myself). It’s in the works. Two so close to completion, but we’re not there yet. And I’m not ready to be there. No, it’s not fear. Crazy? Maybe.
This is where my attention should be – getting the next one finished up and ready to go – and yet I find myself shunning the process, intentionally. I’m not ready. Isn’t that strange? It is not lack of words, as you, dear reader, can see. It is something else. I need more time. I need to find a balance between pushing myself, and holding back. With distance comes understanding. It’s not reading the same thing over and over. It allows me to see it all anew. To pick up the manuscript with a fresh perspective and a bright, eager mind. Editing need not be a chore. It can be a pleasure – if you love what you wrote. And if you don’t , here’s your chance to fix it, and fall in love all over again.
I don’t know how it is for other writers, but for me, I am learning it has to do with trust in timing. Trust and timing. And knowing when to take a break. To step back before diving in head first… Then take a deep breath and go for it!
For now, I let it go. Brew like the beer. Though I’m starting to get thirsty.
Waiting for words to ripen.
It won’t be long before I open the pages up again, and maybe turn them into fine wine.
~
~
~
In darkness.
~
~
Rotten snow and dirt on the road below the ranch. The forecast says it’s far from over. The white expanse of pasture before me confirms. Looks like winter, feels like spring. Chicks in a box by the wood stove in our cabin making spring sounds, and the first robin on the open hill above the Rio.
Single digits when I wake and watch the passing of a magenta sky. A pink face on an otherwise white mountain peak outside my cabin window. Chances are it will be fifty degrees warmer by mid afternoon.
The boys are still sleeping – so much for new time. Give them another day or two to adjust. Can’t get much done in the dark anyway. Time carries little meaning here.
With fat parka and heavy boots I head out to feed the horses. They count on my coming to feed by light in the sky. I see them lined up along the fence, ready. Calmer now in the end of winter warming air. They lie in the deep wet snow mid day and sleep with the soothing of the sun. They are ready for solid ground and shedding. They’re ready for attention and a good trim. They’re ready to work, as I am ready to ride, and still we both must wait.
~
~
I remember the frogs in March under the willow tree on Barn Hill where it only barely froze and very rarely could Forrest sled down fresh snow in the early mornings before the NorCal mildness would melt it off by noon. I could hear them at night when I stepped out to smoke. Living now at ten thousand feet (and I’d like to say wisdom comes with age, but there are enough young readers out there who will be quick to tell me otherwise) I haven’t smoked in years. (Yes, that’s a good sign when you no longer know how many years without thinking long and hard.) Now I make an effort to go out with the dog every night, crunch over the snow up the little hill behind the cabin and stand at the edge of the trees while the dog waits for me, watches over while I do what appears to be nothing at all. I look up at the stars and listen. So deep, still and silent here.
A land as infinite as the stars, it seems at night.
~
~
In darkness.
~
And as quickly as
it came
it left
and I am left
to wonder, why.
In my dreams I am
underwater trying
to breathe
waking wide eyed
short of breath
and gasping and
then just like that
it is gone.
And I dance under the starry night skies once again.
~
~
~
The thing about marketing.
~
~
This picture has nothing to do with marketing, but it’s adorable, so I’m sharing. Twenty seven chicks arrive by snowmobile to our ranch yesterday afternoon. All night long, the house sounds like an early summer morning outside, inside. Now, they are somewhat settled and silent and I’m smiling… And all because of him…
~
~
About that marketing thing.
OK, so, you got a beautiful book in your hands, and you spent years getting it to this point (at least it took me years)… now what do you do about it? Because remember this: writers do not do all this work just to hold the pretty thing in our hands. We do it to share it. Yes, we must write for ourselves, to please ourselves, because we have something to say. But secretly (or otherwise) we hope someone is going to like what we write and how we write it.
So, that sharing… I think they call this part, technically: Marketing.
~
When I started not just writing since I’ve been doing that a long while, but getting close to actually publishing which is still brand new for me, I didn’t think this was part of it. The marketing part. Maybe most writers do not. I don’t think selling oneself is something that comes naturally to a writer. We can be a quiet sort. At least, I am. Though I’m surprised how much I can reach out. Maybe not enough. I know there are still some e-mails and hand written letters left without a response. I’m sorry. I hate doing that. Everyone matters. Everyone. If I don’t write back right away, chances are I may forget. Not that the person is not important, only that other things get piled on top and a few get buried below.
~
~
For some reason, getting the book out there matters to me. I’m going to guess this is not uncommon for authors. Not for the money, but for the acceptance. I want people to like my writing. That may be stupid, I know… but…
Do I write for me? Yes. Primarily. For I’ve found I won’t compromise. But I also write for others, or rather, hope they will like what I write. Does that make sense? If I had more confidence, and I am not so certain I ever will because I used to say, “Once I’m published, I’ll be more confident…” and I am not.
Right, so I know I need to learn not to let these things matter. But how do you feel so much and not let yourself get down? Feel less? How? And is that really what I want? When that is what my writing is so often about…
~
So, we market. Try to sell our book. Not for the money, but for the love. We want to be read like we want to be accepted. I can accept that.
The how-to’s of marketing include such obvious aspects as using social media, networking, asking friends for help, cold calling and following up warmly. I’m not going into that here and now for risk of trying to sound like a pro at something I am not. If we ever get a best seller and top the charts and I have something solid on the subject you want to hear, like, “Look what I can do,” great, I’ll give you that lecture then.
I have a very intimate, personal book and style of writing that’s not meant to appease the masses, and as my friend reminds me, I’m not looking to be Danielle Steel. My work is harder to sell on many levels. Not the least of which is this. It is a part of me. Onto the pages, I have bled. How do you sell a part of yourself?
Step back, and treat it like a business. Grow up and get over it. Stop taking it so darned personally.
~
~
As my publisher, Sammie, and I were discussing, this grassroots approach to marketing we are taking is based on (1) sincerity, (2) the expectation that one must give more than one will receive in social medias and networks, and (3) keeping it personal. That said, one must learn to draw the line and not give too much of oneself. That is a tricky matter. Balancing our sense of giving, sharing and self preservation. Our tendency can be to give too much, try too hard. And the end of day, you’ll know if you’ve gone too far. Look in the mirror and see if you’re still smiling. (For the record, I was not last night.)
Finding the right outlets in which to share is essential. There are so many out there, so many options, suggestions, ideas, directions… and if you tried them all, you’d spread yourself thin and more often than not, fall through the ice. Or maybe be barking up the wrong tree.
I think it always comes down to this: sincerity. And ultimately it is our words that will share themselves.
All in due time.
~
This marketing thing has brought me tremendous ups and downs this week. Insecurities and celebrations sharing the same days. A sense of feeling very lost.
This is ridiculous. My poor boys. Heck, poor me!
~
So the rest of plan is this. I’m calling it quits. I am done with this part for now. I have another few days of contacts I promised myself (and Sammie) I’d reach out to and give it a shot and then I’m going back to what I do best. Writing.
Until I get a second wind. Or new ideas. And try my hand at marketing again.
~
Oh, and yes. Rough draft of book three? Check. Done!
~
~
Writer’s lament.
~
~
I once read that writing is the loneliest profession. One must love to be alone to choose to write. Or at least learn to tolerate it, or you won’t get much written. I write best in total silence and solitude. Days like to today, when the boys are off on another adventure, snowmobiling together in their Very Big Back Yard this side of the Divide, now is the time to write.
Completing the first draft of my third book.
And tonight I will celebrate!
Tomorrow I will put that manuscript aside to brew and ferment, bubbling and gurgling in the dark corners of my mind while again my focus returns to finish the story I was working on this time last year. A Story of Two Virginias. It has had its time to percolate. Now it is time to pop open the lid, stir it up, and see what we’ve got.
Don’t plan on kicking back, sipping and savoring the aroma.
More like: Right. Time to re-write.
~
~
Back to the beginning. The first book. The Color of the Wild…
I finally got it!
Before the storm, or maybe in the middle of it, by snowmobile Bob brings home a box from town, and there inside are a dozen hard copies of my book. My first book. It is beautiful. Wow. Sammie, Dee, Nadene… my friends at Norlights Press… it really is beautiful. Thank you. My first signed copy goes to Forrest. Maybe now he’ll read it.
So, here it is, finally. On my coffee table, a book with my name on it. Forget how many years it took to get here. It’s here. There, alongside a book of poetry from Wendell Berry, and a new copy of Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac, and a well worn copy of John Palmer’s How to Brew. I like it. I could get used to this. I hope I do. Hopefully this is the first of many.
By this morning, I already see dog hair, dried crumbs and spots of red wine on the cover. It’s a part of the house. Old news. Time to move to the next…
~
But not so fast… I used to think it worked like that. (And believe me, I wish it did!) All I had to do was write. But now I’m learning about this marketing thing.
~
Wait. Before we go there. First, a few cold hard facts.
- My awesome publisher and growing friend, Sammie, has started a blog. You can see it here: http://norlightspressblog.wordpress.com/. Writers – it’s worth watching. The thing I really like about it is this. She is putting a face, a real living, breathing person behind the otherwise overwhelming and austere profession of Publishing. She comes at it from an interesting angle. She’s also a reader AND a writer. Many of us writers look at publishers as a separate species. Sammie shows you otherwise. How the good ones at least (and I consider her now among the best!) think. To think they are no different than you and me!
- The Color of the Wild is now available at Barnes & Nobles on-line, and this week, starting at midnight tonight, there will be an autographed copy of The Color of the Wild on the GoodReads Giveaway. We’re working on some wonderful bookstores, too. I’ll keep you posted, and please, keep me posted if you have any ideas and suggestions and I’ll be happy to contact them myself. I like to keep it personal, and I think bookstores do matter.
- Which brings me to this. One more thing I’ve learned from Sammie and this marketing adventure. She calls it the “Grass Roots” approach to what had for a lot of years turned into Big Business. Now we’re turning the tables and bringing it back home again. It’s not just Sammie and me. It’s a big part of this whole industry. We’re being human beings. Real people. Writers, readers, publishers, printers, even cover designers and all the rest that go into this exciting process of making books. And when we do that, you know what? It’s nice. It’s easier for me. I can be myself. I can’t pretend to be something else. And I think I’m not alone in this thinking.
- And the Grassroots approach does mean this. I need you. For spreading the word. And, yes: Reviews. If I were closer to some of you, I’d be prodding a few of those who agreed to read and review, and might not quite have had time to do either one just yet. I need your help! Reviews matter! And in this grassroots world of marketing that we are entering into, it’s all about people like me and YOU.
~
Goodreads Book Giveaway
The Color of the Wild
by Gin Getz
Giveaway ends March 07, 2014.
See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.
~
Phew. Enough for today. I need to get back to work. Writing. You probably need to get back to work too (don’t tell your boss you’ve been here reading…).
More on the marketing tomorrow…
~
~
Among the crying trees.
~
~
I remember the day it burned. I remember the giant plume and we were up here, out of touch with the rest of the world I have never been able to be much of a part of anyway, and together in our awkward silence we watched and worried and wondered what was burning, something big and angry and then we saw the news.
I remember walking up the Box one fall during hunting season with my son when he was still close to my height, maybe even just a little smaller. We had left the old Blazer by the summer homes at River Hill and Bob dropped us at the bottom of the Box and Forrest and I kept to that trail all the way back up, high on the hot hillside above the river, following the one-horned big horn sheep we nick-named Tighty Whitey.
I did not cry going through there yesterday. I did not think. I did not judge. I did not contemplate how I “felt.” I simply observed. I took over five hundred photos. I was with my boys and they made me laugh as they skated down the river on their knees.
It was a good way to see it, starting a little bit distant from the center of the frozen Rio Grande, the hillsides softened still by snow, the air warm and river singing loudly below us as she broke open to her black abyss at times and left you wondering so many others. By afternoon the new days water ran over the old winters ice and the dog learned to trust it would still hold him up.
On one side of us where the fire had raged were a lot of black sticks in white snow and long grey shadows. On the other side, the south facing slope, the snow had mostly melted off exposing places where spot fires had burned and the ground was ash and thick and dull and scratched into by the melting snow. Sometimes a footprint of no more than a single tree. Other times the size of a Walmart parking lot.
I look at the pictures now and want to cry but can’t. I feel I should because I know it is sad and a tremendous loss. But I am over it or distant enough or maybe still in denial. I know I should be concerned still because of the fragile soil, destroyed wildlife terrain, and inevitable years of a blank stare that these hills will remain where we are all so excited to see a new blade of grass and a spouting willow emerge but will never see a spruce forest again in our lifetime.
But there is finality there. An open slate. Ready for rebirth. And in that starkness, there is great hope.
As we drove home, back up the mountain and found ourselves passing by the last of the burn and then into the beetle killed hillsides, then is when the sadness hit. I stared out the smeared window as the trees moved by in blur of paling green and fading brown. These hills are still dying, slow and steady, in their silent way. I was tired. Too tired to shed tears.
~
~
Among the crying trees.
Today I walk the trail to Sweetgrass Meadow. The tallest of trees still standing though not a needle remains on their dried branches.
Almost fifty out after lunch and the warmer air gets the sap running.
A new batch of dying trees emerging. A new generation of expiring trees. The next wave of the slow tsunami comes to conquer.
Trees with green needles. Like watching them take their last breath, an extended exhale that will last all spring until the needles fade and fall and so silently they weep, without drama and attention, flames and fanfare, plumes or headline news. No one hears, no one listens.
I stare at a long drip line of sap sparkling in the afternoon sun and let my eyes lose focus in the light and for a moment it is almost beautiful. Watching the life blood leave the tree.
I wrap my arms around one tree and press my nose against the slipping bark and dried sap and breathe deeply and smell very little. How can I describe this odor? It is dry. It no longer smells alive. Yes, you can smell death. With my trees, it smells like nothing at all.
Now I can cry, we shed our tears together, and to them I say farewell.
~
~
Into the burn.
~
~
Yesterday we went into the burn.
Down Box Canyon, along and on top of the Rio Grande, from the River Hill Camp Ground all the way through the Box to the road on the lower side of mountain where the hills are speckled by vacant subdivisions and within sight of a paved road, though we saw no signs of so-called civilized life stirring. That’s not what we were searching for. Though I sincerely thank our dear friends and summer neighbors for helping make this possible by bringing our truck down the mountain so we could get back up. What a welcome site that was to see rattling down the road towards us when we made it through.
Eight hours, about as many miles and it seemed like we each hauled that many pounds of food just to keep us going. My husband, my son, my dog and me.
Today I’ll share only my photos, not my words. I hope the images speak for themselves, each to all in a different way, but words of truth. These images are completely untouched, only reduced in size to share with you.
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
~
In search of a living blue.
~
~
Allow me share this with you first, a minute of Book Business since that’s what seems to be consuming the majority of my time right now. And then come with me, back to the mountain…
~
The Color of the Wild is almost a week old. I still haven’t seen a hard copy. I understand it’s beautiful, and have the publisher, Sammie and her team at Norlights Press, to thank for that.
Again, sincere thanks for all the reviewers. Please keep them coming. They also mean so much to me.
Starting today, GoodReads is having a Giveaway for The Color of the Wild. For those active on GoodReads, you know it’s a great chance to get a free copy. The promotion lasts today through the 23rd. If you’re a member of GoodReads, give it a try, even if you already have a copy. You could always share one copy if you win another. If you’re not a member, and you love books, it’s a pretty neat sight – I’m new to it, just learning, and definitely enjoying.
A special note to Bookstores, Book Clubs and Libraries. Thanks to those who have expressed interest and inquired. For all of you, and any others interested in carrying The Color of the Wild, please contact Sammie, the publisher, directly at publisher@norlightspress.com ; or give her a call at 1-812-675-8054 .
Everything you read tells you the Amazon numbers are the Big Ones. But the numbers only matter so much to me. What I’d like to see is people reading what I wrote to share, and old fashioned as I may be, I still think a lot of those readers are finding their books at the local library and corner bookstore. As it’s been three months since I left the mountain, I confess, I’m grateful for Amazon.
So, please keep the book in mind when browsing your local shelves, and ask for it if you don’t see it. If y’all hadn’t noticed, I’m not a big name yet. (Gin Who?) So they might not know about it otherwise.
Now, let’s put the Book Business aside and get back to the mountain…
~
~
Muddy horses for the first time in months. It’s early for mud season.
Big brown circles of fresh, wet dirt beneath the trees. Odors I have not savored in months. Earth. Rich and raw.
The air is alive with song stronger than the coming of the spring winds. Redwing blackbirds, chickadees, juncos, grosbeaks. The Woodpeckers this winter here have been as plentiful as flies on a bloated carcass Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s an exaggeration .
Lovely birds, but I know what their presence means.
Where there are woodpeckers there are bugs. The more woodpeckers, the more bugs. This winter has been good for both. Not so good for the trees. You can see it coming. Or rather, now you know it’s here. Hidden beneath the bark.
~
~
The thermometer reads 47 F (over 8 C) and I don’t know what to wear. It’s warm. It’s snowing.
I strap on snowshoes and hope the snow is too warm to stick.
A walk in the woods. Or rather, a snowshoe. The temperatures are unprecedentedly high and have been all winter up here but for the most part, our world remains white. The blanket it getting thin. The only patches of dirt are on the south side of the cabin and exposed steep slopes. The only dirt I step on still is three, maybe four steps with my snowshoes grating on rock and mud.
Thunder. I’m sure I heard it. A quarter mile later, I hear it again. Ten thousand feet elevation, mid February, it’s almost fifty and still it snows.
~
~
In search of a living blue.
I’m on this photo safari looking for a live Blue Spruce for the cover of the next book. I’m inspired. A wild woman on a crazy mission.
At first glance, you’d think there they’re all over the place. A whole bunch of trees with blue green needles. Right. Now take a closer look. You don’t see these things from the airplanes flying over assessing damage nor from your truck window rolled up to the cold.
Yellowing of the needles on the lower branches.
Slipping bark.
New growth of mistletoe.
Pin holes and dripping sap.
Needles on the snow.
And a pile of chipped bark around the base of the big ones.
You get good at it. Seeing through the last of the green to the tell-tale signs behind. You get used to the yellowing color, like a child sick with fever. And the slipping bark. As if the very core of the tree has given all it could to rid itself of the beetle and pushed its own life out in the process. The bark looks loose. I don’t know how to describe it. Like a snake skin preparing to slough off.
You get used to seeing the signs and learn to find them fast.
I try to find a live spruce tree. I’m not so sure I see one.
~
~
I hope you’re still with me. I wanted to share this with you.
Calm now, in the soothing comfort of remaining snow and silence. The time of solitude remains with us, allowing us healing, the mountain and me. I rest, she recovers, my pain and fear are comforted. Life goes on. We adapt, adjust. Find the beauty in the beetle kill, in the burn.
I want to walk in the burn.
I have not left the mountain since sometime in the middle of November. I still do not care to leave her, but want to go down to her darker places, below the Dam, in the still long blue shadows and grainy snow that has not and will not set up, and post hole through and be out there, in there, with her.
I think I can handle it now.
The burned face of my beloved.
~
~
Yesterday.
~
~
Yesterday.
The river begins to open.
The release of the season starts.
Our frozen white highway over which we dragged nearly ninety logs bares elusive glimpses into the dark face of the Rio.
She laughs loudly now beneath our feet.
Her waters rise, ice thins, snow loses its strength. And we stand upon her remaining hard surface and what else can we do but hope she’ll hold?
We light the last of the slash piles upon the ice and listen. Open water beneath the flame. Floating fire.
Our tools are gathered, brought back to this side of the river. If the warm weather continues with daytime temperatures climbing steady into the 40s and 50s every afternoon as they have been, the Rio will no longer be passable. At least, not on her surface and I’m not big on swimming up here.
The timing is just right. Our work across river is done.
We’ve harvested what we need to build our home and shop. Should we need more for the barn, well, it’s safe to say there will be a new round of dead trees to harvest next year.
So now, the work on this side begins.
This is progress. We are pleased. Still there is a little bit of sadness too, for we have loved our time together by the river, silent as she had been, knowing she is there with us in the long blue shadows and heavy hoar frost and steaming breath and laughter and bloody noses and fat lips which were our only injuries and many a hot dog roasted over our slash piles over what in summer would be the middle of the river and our intimate involvement with our dying trees.
~
~
An update on the birth of the book.
Thanks to so many for so much. For your support, encouragement and kindness.
For those who have been waiting, it is my understanding that the Kindle version will be available on Amazon later today.
For all those that did write and leave reviews, I can not thank you enough.
To so many, I send such sincere thanks, love and gratitude.
So, yeah… everything is going great… you’d think I’d be just floating on cloud nine with the wonderful reception and reviews that the launch of the book brought us.
But I’m not.
They warn you to expect bad review. It’s going to happen. Not everyone is going to like what you write. Some folks in particular will really not like it because they don’t like you, or they don’t like the fact that you did it and they did not or whatever goes through someone’s mind to justify saying mean things.
But what about no response at all? Brings back memories of all those years sending out my manuscript. I was lucky to get the rejection letter.
So yes, to hear from those who enjoy my writing… that means a lot.
~
You know what they say is true: If you dare to put yourself out there, you better be prepared to be burned. Even if what burns is hearing nothing at all.
That’s the downside. And it’s down. It’s the pits, and it hurts. Some folks manage to bounce it all off their hard shell. Not me. It gets me. I’m softer than I care to admit.
Don’t be so sensitive, some say. Be stronger. Care less.
If I followed that advice, my writing would not be what it is, would it?
And for better or worse, I would not be either.
~
~
Those who have been through this before, the big first book deal, compare the process to giving birth, with a longer gestation, (in my case, would you believe, five years in the making?) and a little less physical pain. That’s not too far off, having been through childbirth too. Hey, Mom and Dad, you were there when I did that. Remember all my screaming and cussing? Guess what – I did the same over these past five years and then some “birthing” my first book. My one hope is that each subsequent book will be a little easier. Dang, I hope so.
Some even say if you knew back then how hard it would be, I bet you wouldn’t have done it.
But for those of us who do write, I think we can’t not write. I am incomplete with out. Be it my gift or the part of my private self I can share.
It’s not just words. It’s a part of me.
~
~
And at these times of introspection, we’re forced to ask ourselves this questions:
Who do I write for?
Family?
No.
My brothers both forgot. The lack of support (even acknowledgement) from most of my husband’s family on this accomplishment should not have surprised me but still did.
Thank goodness for good friends and new readers. And a few wonderful surprises along the way, including some close family and distant friends.
Who do I write for?
Not for myself, for although that is the advice of some successful writers, it is not what I care to do.
I guess I write for you. For the few still here with me reading whilst the rest have run off to other things, pressing issues, important matters, and something shiny and new.
~
~
Gin Getz 