There’s a lot of mutual admiration among authors, and I’m grateful for the ways we support each other in this solitary work. Here’s where the mutual admiration part comes in. In January, I wrote about how Lauren Danner and I met at one of my readings for Hiking Naked. Next week I’ll host Lauren when she reads from her new book at Lopez Bookshop. And yesterday, Lauren reviewed Hiking Naked on her blog, “Wilderness Within Her.” You can read it here and learn of two other books that may inspire you to hike. Thanks, Lauren!
John Muir wrote that “going out is really going in,” and these books prove his point. Get inspired for hiking season by reading about how three adventurers engage with the wild. The post What I’m reading | Three books to inspire you for hiking season appeared first on Lauren Danner.
In the past five months since the release of my memoir, Hiking Naked: A Quaker Woman’s Search for Balance, I’ve organized nearly twenty events to promote the book. I learned with my first book, Hands at Work, the importance of book readings and signings to introduce readers to my work. As I wrote in Afterthought #67, I took seriously guidance I received about author events, particularly regarding my “costume.”
The more I give readings, I gain stronger appreciation for the advice to think of it as a “performance.” I learned that at the first workshop I attended on the art of the author reading, and again at a workshop by former Washington State Poet Laureate, Elizabeth Austen. Her poetry (Every Dress a Decision, The Girl Who Goes Alone, and Where Currents Meet) is exquisite, and Elizabeth’s work in theater and radio is evident when she “performs” her own poems and those of others. Here’s some of her advice that I believe applies to readings of all genres:
Select what you’ll read with attention to breaking the ice, developing an arc, and leaving the audience with what you want them to remember.
Let the audience have a moment or two to breathe between parts you read, especially if you’re making a big transition or you’ve just finished an emotional section [I’ve found this is the perfect time to take a drink of water; it gives me a break, too].
Practice and time yourself so you can be respectful of the audience and fellow readers.
Wear shoes that allow you to feel the ground and stay balanced.
Performing gets easier with practice—read for an audience as often as you can.
Remind yourself that nervousness is simply the energy required to do this special thing, and that the performance requires you, but it’s not about you.
I’ve found that the Question and Answer segment is always rich, and although I never know what people will ask, I follow Elizabeth’s advice here, too, about how to prepare:
Think about what I’d do for an interview.
Ponder what I want to leave someone with.
Consider the stories I want to tell about the book and my process.
I’ve had some surprises at readings, and so far, they’ve all been a delight. For example, an entire book club came to a recent reading and sat in the front row.
At another event, a woman in the audience told me she’d seen advertising for my memoir at a bookstore where she’d just read. I was thrilled to learn that her book (Crown Jewel Wilderness, conveniently displayed on the shelf behind me), is a history of North Cascades National Park. In March I’ll host Lauren Danner for a reading at Lopez Bookshop.
Another time, a young man around my son’s age claimed a front row seat and jotted notes in a spiral notebook throughout the reading. He asked a thoughtful question about relying on memory when writing memoir, so when he came up for me to sign the book, I asked if he’s a writer. Turns out he’s studying writing, and his instructor assigned students to attend a reading (I LOVE this teacher) and write a report about it. At the same reading, an audience member brought her journal, along with my book, to the table where I was signing. After she had a friend take a photo of her with me, she told me she has journals devoted to author events and asked me to write a note on the page she dedicated to my reading. I’ve also been moved by health care providers telling their own stories of burnout and questions about their work.
I now have my own list of author event do’s and don’ts:
Always take extra books.
Always have water.
Don’t worry about silence when you ask who has a question. As a Quaker, I’m quite comfortable with waiting for people to be ready to speak.
Remember—if people close their eyes at readings, they’re probably not asleep. That’s just how some people listen.
Be prepared to learn something about your own journey through the questions from the audience.
Send a thank you note to the event host.
Perhaps the greatest joy is when I receive comments about my book from people far away. Recently, a friend emailed that while she was on vacation in Mexico and reading Hiking Naked, she met another American from Seattle who knows me but didn’t know about the book—so my friend filled her in. Another email came from a woman I met in Stehekin when she was a teen. Now a midwife, she resonated with my experience of burnout and is planning a sabbatical from that role.
A text message showed up from a friend of my son who had spotted Hiking Naked in a bookstore he visited.
And just the other day I received a photo and Facebook message from a woman who was reading my book in a coffee shop in Great Britain and wondered why she got some funny looks!
Now I offer some suggestions to those of you who attend readings about how to support the author who has not only written the book but has prepared for this performance:
Buy a book.
Thank the author after the reading (even if you don’t buy a book).
Recommend the book to others personally, through social media, and reviews such as on Amazon and Goodreads.
Thank the venue for hosting the event.
As I plan for more events through 2018, I look forward to more performances.
If you’re an author, what advice would you give to writers preparing for readings?
If you’re a reader, what is it about readings that you enjoy?
Writing a memoir requires mining memories, and I did plenty of that during the 15+ years I worked onHiking Naked: A Quaker Woman’s Search for Balance. This year, I’m recalling vividly my family’s first Christmas in Stehekin, WA in 1994. The following excerpt and photographs will give you a glimpse of Christmas, Stehekin-style.
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“Roof-alanche!” Matt shouted as a slab of snow slid off the steep metal roof and thumped to the ground, creating a wall outside one of our living room windows.
“That’s what Mr. Scutt called it when the same thing happened at school the other day,” Rachel said.
For days we’d watched the layer of white that glazed the rooftop like cake icing grow deeper. Temperatures had seesawed between the single digits and the low teens and then crept up to the thirties, turning the snow into a wet, leaden coating. Now, with the window blocked by a curtain of white, our place looked like the Alaskan Eskimo houses Rachel had studied for her “Living Environment” assignment at school. Matt and Jerry bundled up in snow pants, boots, gloves, down vests, and hats and went to work digging out the snow. When daylight once again streamed through the window, Rachel joined them outside, all three of them piling snow into a dome shape to construct their version of an igloo.
We’d decided to make most of our Christmas gifts, both out of necessity (no malls in Stehekin) as well as a desire to simplify and personalize our presents. I sewed quilts and potholders. Rachel and I used our new skill carving linoleum blocks to create a dozen images that I printed and bound into calendars. Matt knitted hats and whittled miniature wooden black bears and cougars. Jerry sanded and glued dowels and bases for the wooden “Stehekin Slicer” bagel holder I’d designed. Stehekin might have insulated us from the Christmas shopping frenzy I’d witnessed when I was downlake, but just like everyone else, we were counting down the hours to the holidays.
The same fluctuating temperatures that had caused the roof-alanche earlier in the month challenged our hunt for a pine to cut for our Christmas tree. I thought back to years when the kids were little, squeezing between rows of stacked, compressed Douglas firs, blue spruces, and white pines in the lot at Seattle’s “Chubby and Tubby’s” hardware store on four-lane Aurora Avenue. This year, a hike through pristine, unplowed snow in a mountain valley just minutes from our home sounded blissful.
My vision of the tree search derived from watching too many Walt Disney films and episodes of “Little House on the Prairie” rather than the reality of propelling our knees and thighs through a mile of three-foot snow drifts coated with a layer of ice, the winter air chapping our cheeks. Sweat seeped from under my wool cap as I huffed to the first tree I came to.
“How about this one, guys?”
Jerry and the kids trudged yards ahead of me, pausing at a tree, rejecting it, and moving on to another.
“No,” Jerry shouted back over his shoulder, “I see some better ones up ahead.”
“But what’s wrong with this one?” I called out.
“Over here,” Matt said.
Just as I caught up with the three of them, I heard Jerry say, “It’s pretty, but I think it’s too big for the living room. Let’s keep looking.”
“What about the one we just passed?” Rachel asked. “It was nice and round.” Her rosy cheeks were coated with sweat, and every time she took a step I could see the marks of melted snow on her pants.
“Let’s just go a little further,” Jerry said. “I like trees that aren’t so bushy. It looks like there are some good ones not too far ahead.”
“Just remember, once we cut it, we have to haul it out,” I said.
“Dad, I’m getting tired,” Matt said.
“Come on,” Jerry said, “where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Da-a-ad,” the kids said in unison.
“Okay, okay. How about this one?”
“Great!” I shouted.
“Perfect,” said Rachel as Jerry took the first swing with his axe.
The trudge back to the Suburban was slower going than the way in as we jockeyed for handholds on the tree trunk and dragged it over the snow. “I never realized we had such different preferences for Christmas trees,” I said. “This one’s pretty, but I think I would have been just as happy with the one we saw when we first got here.”
“But that wouldn’t have made nearly as good a story, would it?” Jerry said.
Later, revived by warm showers, dry clothes, and mugs of steaming hot chocolate topped with whipped cream, we adorned our fresh tree with the ornaments and a string of lights I’d pulled out of storage. Finally, I was able to take in the splendor of the day and the satisfaction of the hard work we’d shared.
The next morning, Matt and I woke up before Rachel and Jerry to find another foot of fresh snow. I hadn’t imagined the quiet could become even quieter, but all sounds were muffled as gray clouds continued to dump fresh powder. I lit candles, Matt turned on the Christmas tree lights, and we slid a CD of Christmas music into the boom box. This was exactly what I’d hoped for in this season usually frantic with buying and consuming. I expected the mood would change when Jerry’s family arrived in a few days, but in the stillness of the morning, I savored the tranquility. Soon, the entire household was awake, and Jerry fired up the Suburban to drive the kids to school for their last day before the winter break.
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Much has changed for me and my family since that first Christmas in Stehekin, including a new home on a rural island, some gray hair, more facial hair, the addition of partners, a different dog (though I’m still wearing the same Sorrel boots). But our love for the Stehekin valley and its community has only grown deeper. Early next year, Matthew and his wife Jenn will add to the clan with the birth of a daughter (and our first grandchild). We look forward to telling her stories about our time in Stehekin and to introducing her to this place that shaped her dad, her aunt, and her grandparents.
If you’re a writer, or you regularly attend author readings, you’ve likely heard at least one anecdote something like this: “My publisher sent me a mock-up of the cover of my book about a river in Oregon. I was shocked to see the cover was a photograph of someplace in Florida!”
Such stories make me realize how fortunate I’ve been to have stunning photographs and designs for my books (see my previous post on book covers). And it’s why I’m especially grateful that Homebound Publications encourages authors to give input on book design and even suggest cover art.
Before I signed the contract for Homebound to publish Hiking Naked, I knew that I wanted a Stehekin artist’s work to be considered. My publisher advised a color photograph. I suspected that Nancy Barnhart likely had plenty to choose from; she’s been photographing people and places in the Stehekin Valley ever since teaching cross-country skiing there in 1973. Almost without exception, when people pick up Hiking Naked, their first comment (after a chuckle about the title) is, “Beautiful cover!” They’re right, and it’s thanks to publisher Leslie Browning’s design work and Nancy’s color photograph of the Goode Ridge Trail.
Although I’ve known Nancy for a couple of decades, I’d never talked with her much about her art. Recently, we had an e-mail conversation (there still are no telephones or cell reception in Stehekin) about what inspires her photography.
“As a preteen,” Nancy says, “I had an Instamatic camera and would take it on family trips to document outings and adventures.” Since then, Nancy’s clicked her way through a Rolliflex and several Nikon models. “I now use a Nikon D800, and I’ve used Mike’s [her husband, Mike Barnhart] medium format RB67 some as well.
Her interests in art and the outdoors go back to her childhood. “I grew up in a suburb of Boston, with a very active, outdoorsy family,” Nancy says. She also remembers always loving art. “We had a drawer in our kitchen filled with crayons, pens, paints and all sorts of utensils for decorating plain or colored paper. We were encouraged to write thank you notes and make homemade cards.”
That cross-country skiing teaching job in Stehekin influenced Nancy’s art—and her life—more than she likely ever imagined. Her boss was Ray Courtney, uncle to Mike Barnhart. After two winters in the valley, Nancy settled in and eventually married Mike (“a master at black-and-white photography”). There they raised two sons as well as Mike’s daughter and son from a previous marriage. They left Stehekin for a few years while their children finished high school, renting us their beautiful home at the end of Company Creek Road during the school year, and returning each summer. Numerous scenes in Hiking Naked, as well as warm memories, center around that house, decorated with many of Nancy and Mike’s framed photographs. In 2005, Nancy and Mike moved back to Stehekin full-time.
Nancy explains that she’s drawn to photography, “…because I can record the precious natural environment that surrounds me and catch moments of beauty to share. As our planet grows increasingly threatened by so many forces, the meaning of a pristine scene expands. It is a lasting memory and a personal impression.” Nancy stays open to unusual compositions in the natural world, and she’s especially drawn to color. “It excites me,” she says. “Knowing when precious light can be found and where it will fall is an absolute pleasure.”
Sometimes, though, it’s the unexpected that thrills her. She describes one autumn photographing a bridge and positioning herself exactly where she wanted to be to frame the image.
“A bear crossed the bridge!”
Was she scared? “No —I wanted to get a photo! I already had my camera on my tripod so I had to lift all of it and shift my body towards the bear. Unfortunately, he/she was faster than me and disappeared into the bushes. It was exciting!”
Nancy enjoys photographing both landscapes and people. “I love capturing candid, emotional photos of people. In my landscape photography, I like finding strong compositions with stunning light and color.” And always, she strives “to keep preserving the beauty of this fragile planet we live on.”
Did I mention Nancy is “a complete fan of color?” No surprise she hopes to do some photography in Cuba. “There is so much color there!”
As vivid as her photographs are, Nancy finds, “Photography is often too flat a medium to me. I love sculpture,” she says, so sometimes she prints photos on fabric so she can bend, wrinkle, sew, insert wire, and manipulate the image in ways she can’t do with a flat paper print. “I can mesh the two creatively and often present a feeling of whimsy and delight with my work.”
Obviously, all those years of camera practice honed Nancy’s skills. Now, she explains, her biggest challenge as a photographer “…is how to make my work stand out and represent ideas and techniques that are unique to me, and how to create images that are fresh and haven’t been created before.”