Writing Wildness
On slowing down and taking it all in.
BOOK CLUB WRITERS MEETS IN TWO WEEKS
Book Club for Writers meets on Zoom on Wednesday, October 30, 8-9:30pm EST to discuss Writing Wild: Forming a Creative Partnership with Nature.
Join the discussion by becoming a paid subscriber: it’s just $5 for the month of October. Cancel anytime.
WRITING WILDNESS
Yesterday, I took my 98th swim of the year. I’m thisssss close to my goal of 100!
I’m re-reading Writing Wild for our next Book Club for Writers meeting. Quite often throughout the book, Tina Welling reminds her reader to slow down. Take in the landscape. Name what’s being seen in order to describe it.
While I was in the ocean yesterday, I was more aware of what I was feeling than what I was seeing. First, there were the physical sensations. The water temperature has dropped wildly since Hurricane Milton twirled through last week. The first frigid wave that struck my bare belly truly took my breath away. And right now, every wave feels like it comes with an equal sand-to-water ratio after all those shifting currents.
But the emotional feelings were what I really needed to pay attention to while I was in the water. Preparing for not one, but two major storms—Milton and Helene—in the span of just two weeks has left me exhausted and shaken.
A lot of the time, I keep storm-related feelings to myself, afraid that sharing them will lead to the most anger-making questions.
Why do you even live there?
Haven’t you gotten the memo that Florida is going to be under water in 50 years?
When are you people going to wake up and get out of there?
But I’m going to be more open today, because my friend, climate writer Megan Mayhew Bergman, inspired me to. From her Substack this weekend:
“Home is an emotional commitment. We’re an adaptable species, but also habitual and sentimental.”
The emotional commitment of home has been weighing on me hard this month. It got heavier as I shivered in the ocean yesterday. The spot where I was swimming is just four miles south of the mouth of the St. Johns River. This river, which snakes up the peninsula, is about as unusual as Florida itself, flowing south to north. Because of its proximity to where I live in Jacksonville, the threat of surge at high tide during major storms is imminent.
I slowed down in the cold water yesterday and closed my eyes, letting the bristly sargassum—another product of Milton—weave around my legs. I breathed, or tried to.
My love for the ocean is so massive that I’ve made a commitment to get in it (or try to) at least 100 times a year. But at the same time, I fear the ocean enough to have a semi-annual discussion with my husband about what kind of disaster, exactly, it would take for us to move away. To leave our home—the only place either of us has ever lived—and go someplace new. I know we are not the only ones having these conversations. Megan reminded me last week is that there is no real precedent for retreat.
The best parts of 100 Swims (my zine about swimming and writing) are the parts where I really slow down and describe the water. Like this:
“I floated for a long, long time, letting the waves roll below me, picking up my toes, the waves shooting up my spine and out of the crown of my head. It wasn’t until I rocked up to the sand, finding the sandy bottom again below my feet, that I realized my eyes had been closed the whole time. It was disorienting to open them again—dizzying, even—the shore looking oblong and sideways, the umbrellas and bathing suits too brightly colored beneath the sun.”
I regret to say that these kinds of slowed-down descriptions don’t show up much in my writing. I’m guilty of moving too fast. Wanting to wrap things up and check the box—or, in the case of my swim chart, color it in.
But when I really take my time, I notice the difference. And I think that’s what wildness requires of us when we take it on in our writing.
I vow to slow down and account for the wildness of the past two weeks. Waking up to wind that sounded more like a chugging train. Watching wide tornadoes whirl through Wellington. Checking on the dunes as Milton approached, heeding their warning when they pelted me with stinging sand.
I vow to chronicle the details in the palm fronds—the way they sound like lightning strikes when they break away fast enough and fall hard enough. The bright lights of Waffle House when I drove by just after Helene had passed through. (I’m here to confirm that the Waffle House Index is a very real phenomenon.) The southward wind that held me with the strength of a cinderblock wall when I leaned into it with all my weight.
What a thing, to be held by wind, then again by water as I lie back and float. Held by the very elements that keep trying to show Florida what they’re made of.
I never want to forget that wildness. So I better start slowing down to capture it.
BOOK CLUB FOR WRITERS
You could say that Writing Wild is a book about nature writing. But really, it’s a book about paying attention. From the introduction:
“Writing Wild offers writers, journal keepers, and those others of us who wish to live more fully a direct pathway into a stronger relationship with wildness, both inner and outer. The result is writing that inspires, heals, enlivens, and deeply engages both writer and reader.”
Once a quarter, Book Club for Writers discusses a book about writing and creativity. Our thoughtful, tender-hearted group meets again on Zoom on Wednesday, October 30, 8-9:30pm EST.
Even if you don’t have time to read the whole book (or any of it!), I’d love to have you there. We’ll be doing several writing prompts together inspired by the book. For me, that’s the best thing about being part of a book club that’s just for writers: we’re all game to dive into some writing!
Discussion recording will be available to paid subscribers for one month.
Join the discussion by becoming a paid subscriber today. It’s just $5 for the month of October, and you can cancel anytime.
Paid subscribers, scroll down: you’ll find the calendar event and Zoom link for our discussion beneath today’s paywall. See you on 10/30!
AN INTERVIEW
It was a joy and a half to talk with
about:📖 self-publishing a zine
🔎 combing my diary for treasures
🖨 the ins and outs of design and printing
🌊 creative waves, ebbing and flowing
Also, what a treat to see which lines from 100 Swims resonated with writer
! I was glad that this one made the cut, because I needed to re-read my own reminder:“My prayer after swimming in the ocean this morning: help me swim along the shoreline whenever I feel myself getting swept up by the riptide of other people’s approval.”
Read the entire conversation here, in which I out myself as the least monogamous reader in the world.
🤑 Today below the paywall: everything you need to access the next Book Club for Writers meeting on October 30. I’d love to have you!