A couple of weeks ago I attended an author talk with Jonathan Franzen at Sixth and I in D.C. A journalist named Marcia Valdes sat “in conversation” with him and I'm not gonna lie—it was like watching a fawning student desperately trying to impress her professor (who will not throw her a bone).
Photo by Quentin deEskimo. Modified by The Write Practice. Used with permission.
I understand that even brilliant journalists get star struck by their favorite writers, but my awareness of Franzen's previous controversies with prominent women made the whole thing a bit cringe-worthy.
Was the author talk worth it?
Definitely. Even though the conversation was a little weird, every once in a while the too-cool-for-school Corrections author would drop these tidbits of wisdom that I loved.
As a feminist, I left still wary of both Valdes and Franzen. But as a writer, I felt connected to Franzen—like we were part of the same tribe. I admit that it was weird for me.
6 Writing Tips from Jonathan Franzen
I jotted down a few notes during the talk, which was focused on his novel Purity. Here are a few things Franzen said (not direct quotes, but the gist is accurate) that writers might find interesting:
- The simplest human being will be more complex than the most complex character in literature.
- If you’re going to write about something that happened to you or based on personal experience, you must be “far enough away to be responsible.” In other words, you have a “responsibility to the reader” to have moved on, accepted the experience, etc. before you allow it to inform your writing for other people.
- The dream ending: when readers are split on whether it’s good or bad.
- No Master in Fine Arts is necessary—Franzen learned to write from reading.
- Pro tip: If you base an unlikable character on a real person, make sure the character is “extremely attractive.”
- Writing about nature is hard, even for Franzen (because readers always expect it to be boring).
Seek Out Wisdom
Ultimately, despite my mixed feelings about Franzen, the author talk was well worth my time. If you hear of opportunities in your area to hear from great writers, I'd highly encourage you to go. Who knows what wisdom you'll glean from them?
What do you think of Jonathan Franzen? Let me know in the comments.
PRACTICE
For today's practice, you have two choices:
- Describe the simplest person you know.
- Write about nature. Can you capture it well without boring your readers?
Pick one and write for fifteen minutes. When you're done, share your practice in the comments. And if you share, don't forget to leave some feedback for your fellow writers!
The dream ending: when readers are split on whether it’s good or bad.
Sounds like he achieved his goal, if you came away with mixed feelings about him. 🙂
Here’s my practice. It’s awful…but that’s how it was:
The simplest person I know…would have to be my mother. Well, she’s gone now; died back in 1996, but yeah, she was about as simple as they come.
In our day we can hardly understand just what conditions were like a century ago. This allows many writers to get by with anachronisms, because the readers don’t know any better, either.
Someone told me Mom was born simple. I suspect that circa 1923 a lot of babies were — or were made “simple” by various factors not controllable in the days before hospital deliveries, x-rays or antibiotics. A difficult labor, a baby deprived of oxygen at birth, or an infant’s infection resulting in days of high fever. The brain was damaged and the baby was classed as “slow” or “simple” or even “addlepated.”
I can’t say why Mom was “simple” but her upbringing was definitely a contributing factor. When I was young the old folks held to the concept that if a child was slow, a good whack on the head would straighten things out “upstairs.” (Years later the idea was also applied to televisions and with them it often worked —initially.) And Mom got more than her share of whacks on the head —with a frying pan or a chunk of firewood.
I nodded when I first read in Oliver Twist, “Mr Bumble struck Oliver with his cane; once on the back to make him lively and once on the head to make him wise. Yeah; that was the policy and it probably made even more children “simple.” And it wasn’t because folks back then were extremely cruel, but because in that society nobody seemed to know any other way to raise children.
My Uncle often used the expression (about me), “You don’t have the brains you were born with!” Well, Mom literally didn’t have the brains she was born with — or the emotions, either. They’d been beaten out of her. (Today we’ve dived clear into the ditch on the other side, where parents hardly dare discipline their children, but these excesses were cited to support the current position.) In one instance Mom’s Dad beat her over the head repeatedly with a chunk of wood, blood flowing from her wounded head, until his brother intervened lest Grandpa should actually kill the child.
She did have a kind heart and was generous — too much so at times. But because of her damaged brain, Mom really couldn’t keep anything straight. When my sister was expecting, Mom told me one day, “The doctor tells Donna she might be having twins. She wasn’t very happy about that. They say I had twins once, but I can’t remember.”
Of course this statement roused my curiosity. “Who said you had twins once?”
“Maggie (her stepmother) and them,” Mom replied in her usual vague way. Everything she said was vague, like someone half asleep. She wasn’t capable of tact, sense, or the deviousness the rest of us are. As my sister said once, “A couple of beer at the local and she was drunk enough to do anything.”
We guessed her to be at a nine-year-old’s level, but really, a nine-year-old would be much more responsible if given the care of young children. It was her irresponsibility to me when I was a three-month-old baby that led to me catching pneumonia and ending up being raised by my aunt & uncle.
It wasn’t till I was older, started meeting other relatives and learning the facts that I discovered what kind of upbringing Mom had and why she was the way she was. But simple she was.
Wow! I only wish I could write as well, and as effectively, as you (just did)!
Thank you. Here’s hoping I don’t shock too many readers.
Your mother must have been an interesting woman. In her own way she touched hearts and made memories for folks. That isn’t all that simple though, is it? Great story.
I hate to say it, but basically Mom was a wipe-out. The personality she might have had, that which showed through at times, was pretty much obliterated by her mental confusion, our Dad’s abuse, and the fact that she spent half her life in the bar.
The kids were left to survive as best they could in a tiny shack, a filthy environment, with no proper food and no maternal care.She just didn’t have it in her. My siblings remember the knock-down, drag-out fights Mom and Dad got into. The shame of having the town call you “those dirty kids,” and have the world know your mom was a drunk and a tramp.
I’m glad that I can understand that life and that world, but I’m also glad I survived in spite of Mom.
A touching story. I’m so, so sorry for you mother’s sufferings.
Thanks for sharing, Christine.
Christine, thank you for sharing. This is so emotive. It’s a testament to your own and your siblings’ strength; undoubtedly shaped by your aunt and uncle.
Thanks again
In a way it’s a testimony to the resilience of the human spirit: it really is amazing what people can survive and still turn out half decent. I could be a testimony to my father because I’m not sure if all the kids would have survived if he hadn’t been around. He loved his kids and never forgave my uncle for taking me away and keeping me.
As to my Aunt & Uncle, they took in my siblings for a month every summer and sent the lot of us off to Bible camp so we could learn something about goodness and right living. Both of them worked, so it wasn’t that we got a lot of instruction from them, and my Uncle was a bitter, angry man a lot of the time.
Mostly I’d like to point out that there’s a whole segment of society where kids get raised this way. Not that pitying “the poor” will help anything, but here’s what it’s like for kids to grow up in a home where there’s only a loaf of bread and a jar of jam in the fridge, mom’s at the bar earning her beer, and parental violence is a common sight. This does color a person’s outlook on life. You don’t believe you can ever fit into the middle class or “get ahead.” You live for whatever happy moments you can find, in booze, drugs, parties with friends.
It is so true that those of us who have faced unthinkable adversity, myself included, aren’t always given the credit that we ourselves deserve for our own strength and survival instincts. To that end, I apologize wholeheartedly for my assumption about your aunt and uncle.
I give my Aunt a lot of credit, too, actually. Both for her input into my and my siblings’ lives and for the fact that she bore as patiently with my uncle like she did. She became “better instead of bitter” — quite saint-like in her last years.
I’m sorry. I’ll stop before I dig myself an even deeper hole
No problem. Simple person, very complex situation. 🙂
If that’s your writing at “awful,” you’ll be a best-seller by the end of the week.
Touching is an understatement. I cried. I also usually stop reading once brutal violence against children is described, but I was compelled to finish your piece. No words can express my sympathy or my utter anguish for you, your mother, and your siblings.
I’d wish you luck but, as I said, if that was “awful,” just write something “passable” and you should do fine.
By “awful” I meant the details rather than the writing. My mother’s sufferings were indeed awful. I had to cry in the end, too, when I realized what she all went through and how little respect she got from anyone.
Wow. This description of your mom tells us so much. About you and your upbringing, about the time period in which you Mom was raised, interpretations of the word “simple”… It also makes me think about the mind v. the heart, but I can’t fully explain more at the moment…
I have a friend by name Planivel Udaiyar, a septuagenarian.Considering his economic status, I mean he owns a palatial house,Being a retired bank employee, he still gets pension.Atleast fron three or four portions of his house, he earns a rent of atleast Rs 30,000/-.He is a land lord owning as much as 15 to 20 acres of land.He is still an active agriculturist.Considering his income, age and economic status, he may live luxuriously.But he is so simple.He wears only a simple Khadar dhoti and a shirt.Despite aging, he still heads a joint family that has not less than ten members.He used to walk normally and always goes by bus to outstations.Still he is active. Goes to school to pick up his grand sons and grand daughters by walk and occasionally by cycle. By all means, I mean, by look, by his behaviour, by his living standard, despite being rich, I consider him to be the simplest man.Luckily, he is my friend.
You are lucky to have such a friend. He is lucky to have such a friend.
Even though he’s the simplest man, he probably still has a fascinating story in there somewhere.
The nature is at its best in the early morning, i.e at about 0500 a.m.I prefer this time for walking because it is so cool and I feel the gentle breeze while I am walking.Normally at 0500 a.m I can see only a few people walking.As time goes on the number gradually increase.The darkness of the early morning gradually and gently disappears.Though at 0500 I cannot count my fingers, as time goes on I can now do it in the early morning twilight.I can also see the faces of the people and I can identify some of them too.Again, as time goes on, I can see people waiting with their containers to sell different types of soups; some of them selling juices made of herbal plants.On finishing their walking with a gentle sweat on their face and body, some of them opting to have their favourite soups and some of them, their favorite herbal juices.In short walking in the early morning is a pleasant and healthy experience.In fact it gives us a chance to mingle with nature.
Gawd, you are ambitious. What can I say? You answered BOTH questions, Ramalingam 🙂
I salute you. And interesting take on what should be just a dull walk (even for an exotic-seeming locale) … with description that brings out the time of day and the waking of the locals …
Wow! I was right there with you.
This is great. It makes me want to resume my 5:00 am walks.
This is nice. I hate waking up early, but when I do it is as lovely as you describe.
Gosh, this is one stretch. I first thought about one of my aunts, but actually she’s not so simple at all … even if the medical community treated her head; and with those damn electrodes, zapped the stuff out of her in her youth. A possible failed jewelry designer teen who had entered the depths of despair and had gone off the deep end, before that one. Now she is trying to live her life and is not the nicest person but was like a candle of brilliance that had expired early. All means and no extremes. But then she is nice. Underneath it all. She’s not tactful. Then she is. She’s not sensitive, then she is.
[a couple minutes wasted right there]
Somebody need a paragon? Not gonna happen here:
There’s a guy I knew from the distant past; a payroll auditor by trade (at that time). Physically tall and large—with full, rough facial features—and seemingly jolly (looked a LOT dumber than he actually was). Did not think a whole lot about the future; but knew that he was always two steps away from being restructured out of a livelihood due to an unstoppable tide of automation and globalization in the New York City market for older-school low-tech professionals. He had to become “just” a bookkeeper for a while. Was not interested in settling down; and was semi-estranged from his former wife and two (? I forget) kids. He lived simply, in a basement … at that time … and actually only a bus ride from where I live now. But later, I was to find out that he actually had lost his marriage based on unspeakable activity that caught up with him. Lowest possible level corruption in his profession … he’d had a job with government but suddenly had all these invites to parties and lavish restaurant meals and bottomless wine refills and limousine rides home (where he could give his deathtrap tin can of a car, a rest for the evening), that could please his sultry former wife with the long flaxen hair and the need for affection he could not endeavor to show her in their most private moments.
What do you want to know about simple?
This was hard. Apologize for the two parts. My mind can’t piece a whole one part.
“Apologize for the two parts. My mind can’t piece a whole one part.”
I’m lucky if I can duct tape two sentences together.
I think this is a good reflection of what Franzen was talking about. From the outside the man seemed pretty simple in more ways than one, but it turns out that he had quite a past. Thanks for sharing!
Rose was an old lady, probably always was. It never failed that during church service when I asked folks if they had joys and concerns they’d like to have the congregation pray for, Rose would bring up a prayer concern that featured the victims of the latest world-wide natural tragedy. As an example, if there had been a recent earthquake in Chile, Rose would want us to pray for the victims and the survivors of that natural disaster as well as offering prayers for those tasked with the rescue operations. It never failed, Rose was always ready with news of the most recent natural disaster somewhere in the world.
To my knowledge, Rose only possessed a radio in her home, so all of her news came from that source. She wasn’t much of a reader, so newspapers, magazines, and other written sources of news would not have been the source of her information. I know she listened to radio preachers because she was always comparing my sermon to the one she had just heard on the radio while she was dressing for church. It didn’t matter if the subject of my sermon and the subject of the radio pastor’s sermon were identical, Rose graded me on delivery, content, and believability.
Rose was the only member of that church who came to church in clothes that were only worn on Sundays. She always sported a hat and wore gloves. Her clothes were plain. They never saw the hot side of an iron, but at least they were clean. She washed everything by hand and dried them on a line outside her house.
Her house was dreary to look at from the outside and even more so if you were invited in to have afternoon tea. On the one rare occasion that I was so invited, as I entered the house, it had a musty, moldy smell. It was not well lit although there were numerous windows, but as you might imagine, the drapes were closed tightly against the sun. Even as the hour got late in the afternoon and light from the many lamps she had would have been a welcome addition, Rose would light candles instead. The candles all had a fragrance, a welcome scent to overpower the mold and mildew.
Rose also had a letter from a doctor who practiced at a Clinic in a neighboring town. His diagnosis, a summary I still disbelieve, was that Rose had been born with a malformed brain and in total, her brain size and mass were about half of what a normal person’s brain should be. His final sentence read, “And so, in my opinion, Rose is and should be treated as a simple person.” Rose couldn’t read all that well but she knew the diagnosis that explained her. The real misfortune was that no one had ever tried to convince her otherwise that she was indeed anything but simple.
N.B. That’s the last of my fifteen minutes. I found this week’s article to be quite interesting and it had convinced me to seek out various authors who were speaking about their craft. I will reserve judgement about their character and just drink in their wisdom concerning the craft of writing.
Jonathan, you have an eye for detail. The physical description of Rose, her garments, her house and her inner self are absorbing. You must have known her well. I wonder if she knew what her diagnosis of being a ‘simple person’ meant.
I think that many women in past days were like Rose. I realize after reading your description of her that I knew and met women like her when I was a child and through girlhood. There were two women from ‘The Stranger’s Home’ (a home for the elderly, and homeless persons), who came to my mother’s house for tea each Sunday. They fit your description of Rose.
Thanks for sharing.
Happy writing and commenting,
Lilian
Thanks for your feedback. Many times the folks we dismiss too quickly are the same ones who make lasting impressions.
This was a fascinating description, Jonathan. Both your attention to detail and the way you chose to reveal that detail worked amazingly well.
I wish I had your strength to reserve judgement. I had never heard of Mr. Franzen before reading this article. I clicked on the link about his controversial statements, and after skimming that article, I’m already prepared to dismiss his remarks out of hand. I keep reminding myself many remarkable artists (both writers and others) were really horrible people to be around. Somehow this doesn’t improve my impression of Mr. Franzen or his advice. I think it’s safe to say I won’t be looking for any of his works.
Bruce, I am not sure I’d want to be friends with Mr. Franzen, but he can help me go down roads I might not on my own. Whether I ever travel those roads again is actually my decision to make. I am grateful for any moment that teaches me something new or reminds me of something in my past or present. So I am grateful for the lesson. If I can admire the teacher so much the better. I do reserve judgment when given the opportunity. Oh by the way, I used to live in New Orleans and I am a fan of crawfish.
Jon
As I say, you have a strength of character to which I aspire. As long as I keep trying, I suppose there is hope for me.
Oh wow, I wasn’t expecting that ending! I agree with your statement “the real misfortune was that no one had ever tried to convince her otherwise…” I think people can really be limited (or lifted) by other people’s expectations of them.
My foot slides off the rock and plummets into cold, murky water. I curse under my breath and hop onto the bank and sit down on a moss covered log, pulling off my shoe. The creek runs a ways behind my house, a thick vein of trees separating it from the neighborhood. Scraggly brush surrounds the more stoic oaks and buckeyes, creating the perfect playground for squirrels and chipmunks and other pesky creatures. I turn my shoe over, searching for little foot-stabbing pebbles. I hear crackling above me in the trees – a pair of birds having some sort of altercation – and curse again as a twig falls from the leafy canopy and scratches my hand.
“I swear, I’m going to kill him…” I mutter, glancing downstream. My brother had been told, “Don’t go to the creek by yourself.” What does he do five minutes later? Goes to the creek, by himself. Idiot.
I slide my shoe back on, grimacing as the cold fabric hits my feet. The crackling has stopped, along with the buzz of mosquitoes. All is silent but the soft gurgling of the creek. A small shiver runs up and down my spine as the realization of how alone I am washes over me.
“Max?” I call.
A soft breeze wove its way through the trees and they whispered a response. Not here, they seemed to say, not here at all. I glance behind me, to either side, and proceeded. The water smells like dead leaves and clay, and I pull my shirt over my nose to try and block it out. The trees and foliage grow thicker as I walk, until I can’t even see the water tower peeking over the branches. I stop again and venture into the middle of the creek, peering around a fallen maple.
“Max!” I shout, fighting the twinge of fear creeping into my voice.
No response. I trudge onward, with both legs caked in mud and the remains of nine mosquitoes scattered over my arms.
I take another step forward when I hear a soft splash come from behind me. I spin around, ready to lay into my brother, but the cry dies in my throat.
A wolf stands in front of me, its head cocked to the side. My eyes widen as I quickly look down, using my peripheral vision to watch it. A gray leg takes a tentative step forward, then another, and another, until it is within inches of me. My heart pounds against my rib cage as it sniffs me. I can’t help but look up, and its eyes meet mine.
You don’t belong here, do you? The creature’s eyes relay the question.
The echoes of a car alarm hit my ears, breaking the silence, and I shake my head. “Neither of us do.”
“Neither of us what?” a voice calls back. “Are you talking to yourself? Weirdo.” Max splashes towards me, dragging a bucket of crayfish along the rocks. I glance over my shoulder and the wolf is gone.
“Didn’t you see…?” I shake my head. “Never mind. Mom’s gonna kill you.”
“I dunno, I think she likes me more than you. See what?” Max presses. “See. What?”
“Nothing.” I say, and glance into the trees, where the birds have resumed their quarrel. “Nothing at all.”
Your post is well written and descriptive, that while reading it, I mentally got out my paints and brushes and painted, step by step, everything you mentioned. i had to hurry because there is much, beautiful detail.
Then your post became an adventure story from when the trees and foliage became thicker and you come face to face with a wolf. Wow!
You ended on a positive note when Max appears with his catch of crayfish.
I enjoyed your story. There isn’t a single, boring line.
Thanks for sharing.
I love how you made nature so unpleasant. You did a great job of turning this into a story, and you heightened the suspense with the appearance of the wolf. I always appreciate when a writer raises the stakes for the protagonist.
My only criticism says much more about me than it does your writing. I grew up in South Louisiana, where we say “crawfish.” Reading it any other way still makes me cringe.
Great imagery! It was really easy for me to imagine this scene.
An extract from a WIP
There was a commotion and clatter from the residence doorway. A loud clang! was followed by, “Madam, I have a strange robot in me kitchen.”
The complaint came from Sandi Godwin; short and squat, her gray hair mixed with red and put up into a bun. Sandi was rosy-cheeked, her eyes red and swollen from tears. If one saw Sandi from a glance, her resemblance to a Raggedy Ann doll would be remarkable. In one hand she held a heavy black skillet that might not hurt a battle helmet, but would not do the head inside any good.
“What now?” a brief scowl knitted Colonel Samson’s brow as he turned to the Mayor and said, “It’s procedure, sir. The private will not interfere with the normal operation of your house staff and will leave when I do.”
“But he smelled me coffee …” Sandi started, but was cutoff by Amelia.
“Sandi, please. The soldier will stand outside the door, and not be a problem.”
Sandi mumbled a grudging, “Yes, Madam,” and turned back to her kitchen, managing to bang the skillet into the battle-suited figure standing at the kitchen door.
Sorry, but I need more context to understand this excerpt. (Perhaps I am the simplest person I know?)
Haha! I agree I could use a bit more context, but thanks for sharing!
Monica,
I’ll admit that this is the first time I head of Franzen since I am not a huge fiction reader, but found his insights though-provoking.
I love the way you share with us your short notes. What resonated with me the most is tip no.1, the simplest human being is more complex than the most complex character. Since characters are the product of one or more human’s mind, it’s very hard to transcend them, maybe the most complex character you can create is someone in your own image.
Thanks for sharing and making me think. 🙂
Cheers,
Anh
No. 1 resonated with me the most as well. I think it also takes some of the pressure off as well- it’s simply impossible to create a character as complex as any real-life human.
I don’t know much about him, but his tips makes sense, IMHO 🙂
Good points he made. Thank you.
Thank you, Monica, for sharing your post on Jonathan Franzen and his writing tips. I don’t know this great writer, but I will gather information on him from the Internet.
The simplest person I know is a widow, Julia, age 72, who lives a hundred paces from my home. She has five children, and complains that not one of them remembers to wish her for her birthday, Christmas, or Mother’s Day. She loves flowers and wishes that her children would send her a bouquet on Mother’s Day. She buys flowers for herself on market day, Friday, and when she shows them to me, I see the love and wonder in her eyes as she gazes on them. She touches the petals as if they were as delicate as butterflie’s wings.
When I visit her she tells me what she had for lunch, what she did yesterday or the day before, what she’s got in the fridge, and some fantastic, discounted grocery she bought at the store.
There is nothing complicated about Julia.
Her company and simple conversation is refreshing and a pleasant change from complicated people surrounging me.
Bless Julia, I say inwardly, after I walk back to my own home.
Sorry, I’ve not added a description of nature, but will do later.
Isn’t it hopeful that such people are in the world? Thank you for spending time with Julia. You ought to send her a secret admirer card someday. I bet that would brighten up her day. A very economical use of words and descriptions. Thanks for this piece.
Jon
Thanks, Jonathan for reading about Julia. I visit widows in our neighbourhood because I know how lonely they are. It’s a pity that elderly people are shunned by the younger generation. I find the memories and wisdom of elders inspiring and interesting.
I love your suggestion of sending Julia a secret card. I will do something of the sort this weekend.
Cheers,
Lilian
I wonder what Julia’s story is…
I never spent much time outdoors as a child. I was asthmatic and pretty nerdy. So my description of nature took a different direction….
* * *
It would be hard to see, were it not for the sunlight reflecting from the clouds. It gives off no light of its own. But while it may be hard to see, no more than a dot in the darkness as you look at it, it is easy to hear, if you know how to listen. It groans and quavers in the 0.6–30 MHz range.
If you were to go there, you would doubtless notice the banded clouds. While not particularly colorful – mostly ochre and various shades of brownish-orange – the cloud bands are quite distinctive. As you get even closer, you would doubtless notice the clouds are moving. The whole thing rotates every ten hours or so, and you would easily be able to tell by following the famous “red spot,” a storm which has been churning in the upper atmosphere for at least two hundred years (and probably much, much longer). If you watched closely, you would see that the alternating bands of clouds move in opposite directions as the whole thing rotates.
As you keep getting closer, you begin to realize it is big. Very, very big. In fact everything in the solar system, other than the sun itself, could easily fit inside it, if it were only hollow; every planet, every comet or asteroid, all of the dwarf planets, bits of rock and ice and dust, all would fit inside with room left over. No wonder it is named after the king of the gods!
It is also remarkably hot. The mean temperature there is around 108 degrees Fahrenheit. (Compare that to the mean temperature of Earth, around 59 degrees Fahrenheit.) It has impressive auroras and massive lightning storms (which make its radio signal “spike”).
It has been known as Marduk, Dias, Zeus, Jove, and the name by which we know it today, Jupiter. Not that it cares; it goes on rotating as it revolves around the sun, its storms roiling, its auroras shimmering, its lightning flashing, belching forth radio signals no human ear can detect.
This is awesome, Bruce. I read it twice and learned much from your fantastic description.
Many thanks for sharing.
Aw, shucks. Thanks.
This is definitely not boring.
Thanks, Diane — mission accomplished!
Bruce, what a fascinating way to address the assignment. You provide a unique perspective for us, a completely different type of description than most folks could offer. Thanks for this. Reading an original approach to our “lessons” humbles me. So does the vastness of space.
Jon
Aw, shucks. I’m glad you enjoyed it.
So cool! Thanks for sharing.
Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed it.
I chose to write about nature. Here is my fifteen minutes of practice.
Monday, September 05, 2016—15 minutes about nature . The memory of a trip to the Hawaii Volcano National Park beckons me for this writing practice. Escaping to national parks to emerge myself into lush, vivid colorful landscapes and ecosystems is like taking a dose of rejuvenating elixir. Prior to leaving Hawaii to begin our new adventures in retirement, the hubby and I decided to take one more trek into this beautiful Hawaiian paradise.
Normally, when you hear the words, “beautiful Hawaiian paradise,” you conjure up images of warm sunsets, refreshing beaches and endless bounty of floral displays. But, for longtime residents the appeal of pristine rainforests answers that call of nature. The dichotomy of natural textures and vistas are endless. At one part of the park you encounter harsh, desolate lava fields. Closer inspection of these lava flows yields a myriad of textures and shapes as you witness evidence of the contortions of each flow. There are smooth ripples and bounties of ripples creating a washboard effect of the lava expanse. There are brittle mounds of chips depicting signs of erosion. Even the color of the lava fields change due to weathering.
In another area of the park, you walk through the richness of a rain forest. The dense growth reveals another ecosystem. Tall, strong ferns stand guard along the pathway. Standing there and turning around in 360 degrees arc taking in the range of greens and browns of these majestic ferns. From their rough trunks to the delicate twists of the fronds and their lacy leaves, their beauty takes your breath away. Older ferns suffering from the weather conditions lie across the forest floor while others find comfort by leaning against younger sturdier sentries. Scattered on the floor is a carpet of dried fern fronds slowly decaying and nourishing mushrooms and other fungi species. Shimmering rain drops glisten on the tips of the lacy leaves casting a magical feel to the glory of this spectacular natural find. Taking in the beauty and the wonder of nature never ceases in rejuvenating your spirit.
Interesting, thanks for sharing!
It was that time of the year when nature dressed itself in white. The fresh fallen snow made the trees look as if they had donned a white dress, and the bushes appeared as if sprinkled with powdered sugar. The lake’s surface had acquired a mirror-like appearance that was attributable to the freezing temperatures from the night before.
The area around the lake, where the emerald-green grass is evident in the summertime, looked as if it was covered with white frosting. It was even decorated with the tiny footprints of rabbits and deer that had walked through it during the early morning; their traces soon to disappear under the intensifying, resplendent rays of the sun.
Thank you for writing about winter- it’s been so hot here lately!! Haha. Loved the details about about the animal footprints.
Thanks for your comment. Soon enough it’ll be that time of the year up here.