Chapter Titles

/ Lisa / 8 Comments

The last post was rather intense so I thought something lighter was in order.

A few  years ago I read a book, or rather, started to, where each chapter had a title. I’m sure you’ve seen these. ‘In Which Our Intrepid Hero Finds His Long Lost Daughter’. At first I was irritated. By chapter 3 I was annoyed. By chapter 4 I gave up. Instead of reading the book I just read the chapter titles and got the story.

Some people do this writing device well. I’ve seen some chapter titles that were excellent teasers. One or two words that raised questions so that you had to read the chapter to get the answers. I’ve seen some books where the chapter titles didn’t actually have anything to do with the chapter, but instead offered little ‘aside’ clues to the story or to a particular character.

Then there are the chapter titles that are quotes from poems, songs, movies, or other books. I like those because they are usually quotes I haven’t heard before and occasionally lead me into reading a new book. But when the pace is whipping along in the book and I’m anxious to find out what happens next, they can slow me down. Mainly because I have a hard time skipping them and going back later. So I’ll be hanging from the cliff of the previous chapter and have to hang on a few seconds longer in order to read the quote.

Finally, there are other authors that simply number the chapter. No messing around, just number and move on. That process reminds me of dialog tags. You know how ‘he said’ disappears into the dialog and doesn’t take the reader out of the story? That’s what chapter numbering does for me. The numbers disappear into the story itself.

Personally I number, rather than name, chapters. The biggest reason? It’s hard enough to come up with one title, let alone thirty.

What do you think about chapter headings? Do they annoy you as a reader, or do you like them? As a writer, do you use them? I’m curious.

The Touch of a Wild Animal

/ Lisa / 7 Comments

Warning: this post has nothing to do with writing, and is sad, without a good ending. I’ll understand if you can’t read further. 

Yesterday someone hit a young deer and left her dying and alone on a rainy road in the forest. A friend of mine came along, and instead of driving by, stopped. Seeing how badly the deer was injured, she went for help. She called me since I live within a few hundred yards of where this happened, and then found her husband and his gun, in case that was needed. I agreed to meet them, but instead beat them there. 

The baby and I were alone for a few minutes. It was clear she was dying and I will spare you how I knew. Her beautiful large eyes saw me, her dainty legs tried to run. I spoke to her, trying to keep my very human voice from terrifying her. ‘It’s okay baby, it’s okay to let go, I’m sorry this happened, I’m sorry for your terror, it’s okay to go.’ 

No one should die alone. 

And she didn’t. I saw her death, seconds before my friend arrived. She and I waited in the rain, but there were no more heartbeats, no more breath. My friend bent to touch her side, to make sure. I think it was a touch of hope because we knew the signs. And yet she touched, just in case. A warm, caring hand over a still warm body, a still heart.

Together, we took hold of the baby’s legs and pulled her to the edge of the road, back to the forest she’d come from. Dragging her left her head cocked at an unnatural angle. My friend gently lifted the head to a more natural position. A more comfortable position. We stayed with her a moment longer, then hugged and went to our homes. 

I cried. A lot. And called my oldest sister to ask her to speak to the deer for me. I needed to know that my presence had not terrified the animal more, hastened her death. I needed comfort. As all big sisters do, mine knew exactly what to do and how to help dry tears.

Both my friend and I can’t lose the sensation of touching the deer. I hope my friend writes a poem about it because she is a beautiful poet and I know her words will be healing. 

When I came home I could smell the deer on my hands. The musk, the wild, the fear. I washed immediately and now wish I’d held that remaining scent of life a little longer. I can still feel the roughness of her hair against my fingers. And the weight of her, so slight, as we pulled her off the road. 

I have never touched a wild animal. I’ve been close to them, to bears and cougars in particular. But not to touch. It’s not the same thing as a petting zoo, this touching one that is truly wild, in its own home. It’s so wrong that it happened this way. 

I understand accidents happen, that this driver came around a corner on a narrow forested road, probably going too fast, and didn’t have time to stop. But the driver made the choice to keep going, to leave a living being to face death alone. Yes it would have been scary and I get that the person may not have been able to deal with it. But they left it to others to deal with it, to carry that touch, that smell, those dark eyes, forever. So for that, I have one word for the driver.

Karma.

 

Wild Book Review

/ Lisa / 2 Comments

I live near a portion of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT), which runs from the border with Mexico to the border with Canada. One of my sisters wants me to hike it with her. I admit it’s tempting. But I’d have to spend too much money in gear. And find a pack big enough for my bed.

One thing that whetted my fascination with the trail was reading Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, which is about his trek along the Appalachian Trail. While he can be a bit hard on the forest service, the book made me laugh.

So when my sister gave me Cheryl Strayed’s new book, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, I was excited to read it. Unfortunately the excitement didn’t carry through many pages.

The author hiked the trail to deal with a life that spiraled out of control after the death of her mother. The book took loss, and put it in a unique setting. The writing is polished, the pace moves right along, and the people she meets on the trail are interesting. And in one case scary.

What seemed to be missing, for me, was balance. Meaning by about two-thirds through, I decided I’d had enough navel gazing (and I have to admit, what felt like whining) and not enough of the trail. When the author finally had her breakthrough in dealing with her mother I felt relieved, as if I could now get on with the business of hiking. Unfortunately the book remained on the same path. I wanted more details than just how heavy the pack was or how many toenails remained at the end of the day.

There are a lot of uncomfortable passages and one scene with a horse that is terrible. None made me think or question or grow. They just made me squirm. And I think the analogy Strayed tried to draw with the memory of the horse didn’t work.

In the places where the author did talk about the trail, she did okay with descriptions. I could see the views and feel the weather. But it felt like a tiny snippet of trail, which then segued into a large hunk of grieving. The problem for me, then, was a lack of balance between outer and inner worlds. Plus the fact that, to be honest, the inner world got a bit tiresome.

If you want a book on moving forward after loss, on a life that was self-destructing and slowly pieced back together, then this might be worth reading, though I found it more self-centered than similar memoirs. If you want a book on hiking in the wilderness, read the Barefoot Sister’s books, or Bryson’s.  His may not be about the PCT but when he realizes his friend just chucked all the toilet paper over the cliff because it was too heavy, you’ll find yourself standing right next to him.

In Wild, I never found myself on the trail.