A Frame of Place
By Sarah McCoy | June 28, 2016 |
Flickr Creative Commons: Alice
The packers are here. Yes, this very hour. We’re moving. Not down the road, across town, or even as close as a state away. We’re traveling 1,500 miles north to an entirely new place, another world for all intents and purposes. By this time next month, I’ll be there and not here. This present hour will be the shadowbox memory in my mind.
So while men stack my books in brown boxes and seal them up with packing tape, I’m standing here at my office window, looking out at the mighty Franklin Mountains and the parched Rio Grande. They’ve been my writing companions for nearly a decade. From here, I’ve watched the sunset light up that rocky ridge as red as a bonfire. I’ve felt the anxious anticipation of a summer sandstorm’s approach. I’ve opened this window to let in the rare scent of desert rain. I rooted my mind—reality and imagination—within the frame of this place.
Place. Such a powerful thing. A story world cannot be composed without first being grounded in a place and time. The setting is the stage on which the characters and action are invested.
Writers Roundtable
This topic of place came up in a group of novelists on Facebook. Aline Ohanesian explained, “With my first novel, I felt a string of personal connections to the place/setting of Central Anatolia where my grandparents were from. I grew up listening to stories about the old country until I felt nostalgia for a place I’d never been.”
Hilary Zaid was passionate that “place is inextricable, essential, and informs everything else. A novel is steeped in it, as an object in a vat of dye.”
Sandra Hunter agreed, “I’m with Hilary. For me, setting informs everything. It provides dimension to character, explains root causation, as well as conflict and just about every other thing.”
Going to my own work for evaluation, I find that the settings have always been the genesis. In The Mapmaker’s Children, the novel began with a West Virginia house hiding a secret. The culture and history of the Underground Railroad in that specific location was the catalyst for the characters’ journeys. The landscape (environmental to social) directly influenced the plot action.
I was led to write The Baker’s Daughter after moving to El Paso, Texas, and meeting a German woman selling baked goods at the farmer’s market. I knew Garmisch, Germany, having been there as a child and visited often as an adult. The two places are as significant as the characters that hail from them. They don’t align naturally and yet, they align authentically.
And right there, we circle back to Hunter’s comment: conflict in setting is story gold.
So now, I’m flipping the coin. If setting is such a forceful ingredient in our writing, wouldn’t it be equally potent in our real lives? We all agree it is the bedrock to our creative worlds, but what about our personal ones?
I’ve lived in Texas so long that I can’t imagine my new writing routine, never mind my new life routine in a foreign place: where do I buy groceries; who’s my dog groomer; what about a dentist? The people I bump into during my day-to-day activities impact the lens through which I see the scenes around me and the scenes I portray in words. To borrow from Zaid, we (and our novels) are steeped in our physical cultures, as an object in a vat of dye.
Even something as seemingly insignificant as the weather has an influence. I’ve lived in 360 days of desert sunshine and soon, I’ll be in a land where the raindrops outnumber the rays. I’m a total cliché: I laugh often when the sun is shining and feel all doomsday when it’s not. Will that permeate my work? I’m curious.
The Head Honchos Weigh In
I was at a book festival recently and had the pleasure of lunching with celebrity author John Grisham. Somehow we got on the topic of writing routines. I told him I felt neurotic in that I can’t write unless I’m in my home office with my lucky rock collection to my left, my corkboard of ideas to my right, my historical research piled beside me, and my dog wedged into the cushion of my desk chair. It has to be just so or I can’t get into the groove.
He told me he was similar, even to the hour. Validation! Grisham has to be in the exact same place at the exact same time every day to write. Like a combination lock at the perfect setting to open a vault.
But then I remembered a dinner I had with masters of prose, Scott Turow and Jean Kwok. They encouraged me to try a writing residency and swore by Ragdale as a creative cloister where the words flowed like honey. Leaving real-life’s daily routine to be submerged in a foreign location allowed their imaginations to focus on the story settings, not their personal ones.
Truthfully, I shirked at the idea. I am a homebody. I love my old familiars. I couldn’t imagine getting a stitch done in a new-to-me location. I’d be too busy wondering who else slept in this room, walked the surrounding woods, and what was in those woods anyhow? But who am I to knock it given the amazing books both of these authors have produced in residency.
Then there are friends who follow in the mode of the great J.K. Rowling, penning their piece de resistances between point A and B—in trains, planes, and cars. It’s now writer lore that the idea for Harry Potter came to Rowling while on a train ride. By the time she reached her destination, she’d scribbled out longhand what was to arguably be the biggest book of the century.
The Question Remains
Once more, we come face to face with the truism: there is no one method or utopian location for writing. Yet, as flesh and blood people (not ink and paper characters), the place in which we write is significant to our process and product.
This isn’t some crafty literary lecture here. It’s an open dialogue. I’m reaching out to you, my writing community—my stable enclave in a season of change. As a writer, I feel unboxed even as all my belongings are boxed up. The inner and outer realms in discord: another conflict of setting, right?
So my question remains. We all agree that setting is paramount to literature, but do you feel your physical setting is equally influential in your storytelling?
[coffee]
SARAH McCOY is the New York Times, USA Today, and international bestselling author of the novels Mustique Island, Marilla of Green Gables; The Mapmaker’s Children;The Baker’s Daughter, a 2012 Goodreads Choice Award Best Historical Fiction nominee; the novella “The Branch of Hazel” in Grand Central;The Time It Snowed in Puerto Rico; and Le souffle des feuilles et des promesses(Pride and Providence). Her work has been featured in Real Simple, The Millions, Your Health Monthly, Huffington Post, and other publications. She hosted the NPR WSNC Radio monthly program “Bookmarked with Sarah McCoy” and previously taught English writing at Old Dominion University and at the University of Texas at El Paso. She lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, with her husband, Brian, an orthopedic sports surgeon, her dog, Gilly, and her cat, Tutu.
Beautiful post and all the best with your move. I, too, am a homebody and write best at home. The familiar allows my brain to relax. I do envy people who can seem to write anywhere in any amount of chaos, but that doesn’t work for me. So I am grateful for home and family and the writing life I have.
Sarah-
If you are moving to the Northwest, you will be in good company. The Puget Sound area is home to more fiction writers (and best sellers) than practically anywhere else. Perhaps the rain keeps them indoors?
I live in a city of distractions, New York, and yet I find it a great place to write. It’s not just the excellent coffee, it’s the energy of the place. Everyone has ambitions. Everyone makes art. (Or money.)
I feel challenged here. When my laptop is open, I can block out the noisiest coffee bar and bang out a thousand words. Which is my point.
Writing is really the process of accessing the pre-conscious mind. Words and story flow from there. (The conscious mind takes over for revision.) That process can happen anywhere. More than place it’s routine that gets us into that groove.
If you think about it, it’s logical. If there was one ideal place to write, then all fiction would have been written there. We’d all live in that one place. But that’s not the case. Great fiction is written everywhere.
The chair, the cork board, the mug, the snoozing dog…all of those simply lull us into the dream state. Dream where you like. Deserts or raindrops or next to the hissing espresso machine, they all work.
Enjoy your new home. You will, I know, because you’ll be writing there.
Oh yes to the Puget Sound. I lived in Redmond for many years before moving to SC and I think the rain definitely has something to do with keeping you indoors and writing :) Vibrant writing community when they finally get out of the house.
You posed an intriguing question, Sarah. I’ll second Mr. Maass’s assertion that you’ll find the Puget Sound region to be a writer’s Mecca. Moving to the Seattle area in my twenties helped me realize that I wanted to write more than I wanted to do anything else.
I think the move will likely affect your writing, but how it will change is the question. Like everything else about the writer’s life I’m assuming it will be different for each person. For me, moving from my hometown of Tucson prompted a lot of nostalgia and homesickness. As a result, the first manuscript I wrote was set in Tucson. So was my second, although that felt more like I was exorcising the Sonoran Desert from my psyche.
When I lived in Seattle, I could only focus on my writing at home and when my writing space was “just so.” I now live on the East Coast, and that “perfect setting” is a thing of the past. I can get a lot done at home, to be sure. But I’m also productive at coffee shops, in libraries, and in a park. Some tasks are easier in the quiet of my home than others, I admit.
This may be a time to experiment. If you haven’t tried writing in a coffee shop before, give that a whirl after your move. Check out libraries for writing space. Perhaps the move means it’s time to change what you’ve done before. It might work for you, or you may find you need to set up a good writing space at home. Allow this move to give you permission to experiment.
Hey Sarah, I feel for you. It’ll doubtlessly sound odd to you, but I’m the exact opposite on weather. I appreciate inclement weather. Those are my favorite writing days. And (perhaps odder still) I actually *like* cloudy days. Too many sunny days in a row becomes oppressive to me. I’ve said before, that clouds sort of “take the pressure off.” Not sure that’ll make sense to you. So I think I’d be anxious if I had to move to a sunny desert environment.
In an effort to offer comfort, I’ll make the case that clouds promote an artistic attitude. I was just talking with a friend about the photography I post on FB. I live near the shore on the leeward side of Lake Michigan (which makes my area very prone to cloudiness), and I used to make an effort to take a picture every day on my walks with my dog. I told my friend that I don’t even bother when it’s sunny anymore. They’re all the same. The pictures that seem the most popular on FB always feature clouds (in combination with water and light). Hence, clouds promote art!
I’m not sure you’ll buy that logic, or that it’ll make you feel the slightest bit better about the upcoming change, but I thought it was worth a try. I wrote a post about how sense of place affects my writing life a while back. Here’s a link, just in case you have a moment to click through to see the pictures. I think a couple of them will help to make my case. https://vaughnroycroftblog.com/2014/03/14/the-truth-is-place-a-foundation-for-artistic-life/
Anyway, wishing you well in your new adventure! May you easily sink new roots and thrive artistically in your future setting.
I love your pix, Vaughn. And I’m a member of the cloudy-weather club. I’m especially partial to cool misty days. The clouds kind of wrap you up and work magic.
My story actually evolved out of setting; a small community on the brink of big change. Conflict, both personal and community-wise, arise as characters react to the changes foisted upon them. I’ve begun to see setting and place as another character, not just in my WIP, but in every book I read. Places mold people as much as people mold places. I love the discussion on where we write. I’m happy up here in my garret most days. But once in a while I need to change it up and surround myself with strange. Good luck with your move, Sarah. The PNW is a moody and beautiful place. I’m sure it will embrace you!
Happy, moving Sarah. I imagine a big move like yours as both exciting and frightening.
I live in the northeast and spend a lot of time wandering through the woods. It always improves my mood and, often as not, ideas bubble up while I walk, characters begin speaking to me, and plot twists occur.
My physical writing space has evolved. When my children were young, I wrote in nooks and crannies of space and time. I remember driving my son to guitar lessons, going to the Dunkin Donuts down the road, buying a coffee and a muffin and scribbling furiously in a notebook for twenty minutes until it was time to pick him up again. I would write at night when all was quiet and the rest of the family tucked away in bed. I would go to the local bookshop before running errands for a short write-in in the café.
These days, my children grown, I have a home office. Most of my writing gets done sitting at a desk with a clay dragon my younger son once made watching over my work with bulging eyes. It feels more like a job this way and sometimes I miss going out to the cafes, to write while a cappuccino machine whirs in the background.
But really, in the end, it’s all about getting into the places inside my head. They are colored by the place I live, and the places I have lived. And also by the places that I’ve loved, the places that call to me in some way. Places stay with us, I think. I believe the Rio Grande valley will stay with you, even as you move somewhere else.
Enjoy your new home!
I’m with Vaughn. I love cloudy or drizzly days for writing. The world seems to quiet down, and I’m filled with a cool energy that can power me for hours. One of my friends calls them blown flame days: the blaze is tamped down leaving just its persistent glow.
Good luck with your move! I’m just beginning to plan the same (with great trepidation). Still, I’ve found in the past that such changes give me a burst of creativity and new, maybe better routines. I hope the same holds true for you.
As someone who started writing when her children were very young, I have learned to write anywhere.
Like you, however, our family has made a few big moves. I found, in the “lostness” of being in a totally new place, my work in progress became my comfortable / familiar. It was home, friends, the one thing I totally knew, and the process of writing was not stymied, but rather a place in itself that I ran to, sometimes wanted to curl up inside of and never come out. However, life happens. You find a new doctor, a new grocery store, a new library… and you write, and eventually you find yourself at home.
Wishing you the best with your move. Your accomplishments, your ability to write and publish should not change with a new place to live and work. Rather I believe you’ll be energized and find inspiration. I moved three years ago and if I have my computer and a good chair with a window and some sunlight–I’m good to go. Storms are hard to write during–I’m always concerned about lightning affecting my computer. No worries now–I’m in Southern California where it’s 90 today and of course, sunny. Beth
Good luck with everything! I’m sure your writing will survive in perfect order!
Good stuff, Sarah. Place is in our bones (and our bones sometimes end up in our places). I just wrote a post about the solitude of writers, specifically pointing to the 8 hours a day I spend in my old Airstream office, writing. Or avoiding writing. It’s a cozy womb, if not a tomb.
But your piece made me think also of virtual spaces, and of this community, which I wrote about in my post as well. There’s a fine exchange here and civil (and often warm) give and take, with just enough quirk to salt the stew. It did make me wonder what the furniture of WriterUnboxed would look like though: Art Moderne, Bauhaus, Old Shaker? And the view: into meadows and fields, frosty mountains, through a glass darkly?
Anyway, place is big. Nice to rock in the chairs here occasionally as well as other places. Good traveling to you.
Here’s the bit I wrote, if you’re interested: https://www.tombentley.com/books/loneliness-long-distance-writer/
As one who is definitely impacted by lack of sun (hence my reason for moving from Lake Erie lack-effect gray skies to Arizona’s 300+ days of rays), I get your trepidation. BUT, I’ve surprised even myself in my ability to write in different locations: out in the remote desert with my laptop, in my writing studio on wheels (until we sold the camper and I watched it rumble down the dirt road), and now a new office. I found that, as I was researching for fiction in PA, the outdoors inspired me and with pen/paper, alone, I penned some inspired scenes. I think when you get into the flow of your story, as others have said, it wouldn’t matter if you were sitting on an iceberg. The question, though, is can you get motivated to get behind the laptop/notebook and get started in a place that doesn’t sparkle as bright as Texas? I think you can, as I have seen your imagination at work and know how devoted you are to your characters/stories.
That would be “Lake-effect” — ha ha, subconscious… Lack of color/lack of blue skies anyone?
Hi, Sarah:
Thanks so much for mentioning Aline Ohanesian. She was my student at the UCLA Extension and even in its earliest drafts I could see her devotion to not just a culture but a place, embodied in unforgettable characters. Obsession is too extreme a word, as is haunted, but her longing to look back into that world was palpable, and she turned it into a marvelous book.
I think one of the most crucial questions for our characters is: Where is home? Are they there? If not, why not? Do they long to go back? Can they go back? If not, why not?
Good luck with the uprooting. May the adjustment prove rewarding, may the new environs prove stimulating, and may the new terrain in time reveal itself to be home.