It's Autumn now, and I'm noticing more crows in the Hill Country. I can hear their rasping voices calling to one another as the air grows chill, and I have even seen a few pairs flying together.

In some ways, I think I am like them.
Crows are funny birds, curious birds. They like collecting things they find and hiding them in their nests. If you ever see a crow's nest (or a raven's nest for that matter) you will find bits of tin and ribbons stuck all in it. They are the art collectors of the bird world.
I, too, share this tendency to collect things.
I have dried flowers tucked between the books on my shelves, teacups put into corners, printed paper tacked to my pinboard, cicada wings, ink drawings, and a picture of Tolkien clipped to a string. It's no secret I love interesting things. If I see something I like, I want to swoop down and carry it off to my nest. This habit, probably one I picked up during my childhood romps in the woods, often carries over to my writing as well.
If I'm reading a book, and I like how the author describes something, I tuck it away for later. I write down unique words I find and try to use them in conversations. I do my best to remember exactly how a cool October morning smelled as I ran down the slate steps to my pond. There are even more treasures to collect in the realms of literature and perception since there is no limit to the amount I can keep. Notebooks are cheap, and I can jot down everything I need to remember.
I think my penchant for hoarding is very useful because when I have enough, I can build something substantial. I can take the ribbons, shoelaces, and broken twigs and form them into something complete, something lovely. It is the collected experiences of life that make writing authentic.
You see, the majority of everything I write has been in my head in some form for a while. Some stories have been in my head for years before I finally put them into words. If you happened to read "Heartless" from my book The Failed Hero and Other Short Stories, then you know the story of Max and his battle with the wolf. Funnily enough, I wrote a story in third grade called "The Adventures of Max," about a boy who killed a werewolf but got bitten in the process. I still have that story (with all its crimes to grammar) in a folder somewhere. I vividly remember writing Max as putting on a mink coat to stay warm, and my nine-year-old self being very proud of it. I had just inherited a mink fur hat (a kubanka I think) from my great aunt and had been running around looking like a little Russian all winter. I think this was the first time I took something I collected and slipped it into something I made. It's a good way of organizing the clutter in my brain.
Of course, there is always the danger of wanting to put too much into a story. It's overwhelming, honestly, to feel like you need to say everything at once. It's like you're talking over yourself and anything you create becomes too jumbled to understand or appreciate. Like everything, there is a happy medium that must be attained. You must sift the wheat from the chaff as you write. Not every idea is a brilliant one worthy of being put into a story. I have lots of half-writ works that I abandoned, but the nice thing about those is you can always scrap them and start again. Writing is forgiving like that.
If you are a writer like me, or a creator of any kind, I challenge you to slip something you found into your next creation. Maybe it's something small, like a conversation you overheard or the way sunlight catches on your cat's fur. Have fun with it.
Autumn is a time to find things.
Comments