G.L. Jackson


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Morning in the Desert

If you wake up early enough in the Sonoran Desert, you’ll see a lot of things you might not get to see otherwise. I was lucky enough to catch the King and Queen of Saguaro Cactus out for an early morning stroll last week while visiting family. You know how those cacti are, they like to go incognito, so I was happy to snap this shot of them without being seen.

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(Maybe it’s lucky I got out of there unscathed. They were at least 20′ tall.)

In all seriousness, I was delighted to see the desert in bloom. I’ve been there many times, but never when it was so lush and green. I also made friends with this dude (we named him Buddy, he’s a gopher snake):

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He wasn’t the least bit interested in this lucky now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t, how-about-that-camouflage desert cottontail:

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If you’ve never seen the desert flowering, it’s really a riot of color and texture. Check out the catspaw and the gorgeous reddish buckthorn flower.

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I even tried to explain to my dad, a dyed-in-the-wool New Englander, about how the quality of light is different in the west, and markedly different in the southwest. I’m not sure I made myself clear, but at least I tried. Next time I go back all the flowers will be gone, but other miracles of nature will be occurring and if I’m smart, I’ll bring my camera again to document them.


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Communities and Culture

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about communities. We all have them, all move around in them, all inhabit more than one. So do the characters we write. In our minds they might be isolated, but they have a constant background buzz of interactions (unless they’re in a cave by themselves at the bottom of the arctic, in which case they’d probably make a community from the recognizable icicles and whatnot). People are sociable; we’re pack animals. We need interaction.

As a writer, I have to be aware of the communities surrounding my characters. The temptation to write them in isolation can be a strong one and it would be so easy to say I don’t want to have to think about their friendships away from the main characters or leave out bits about where they work or go to school because it seems like too much work. Hey, if it’s too much work for me to imbue the story I’m writing with hints about their lives outside my scope of interest, then I think maybe I shouldn’t be writing those characters at all. Does it mean I’m going to walk them through a day at the office? Hell no, unless the story takes place there. But do I want to know for my own purposes what that office is like? Hell yes, because it informs and molds my character. I want to know the boss’s name, whether my character sits in a corner office with a view of everything or in a cubicle or in a lab or in a classroom. I want to know what time he or she goes to work, who else is there, what time they leave, how long they have for lunch. Luckily for my readers, those aren’t details they need spelled out unless they’re critical to the story. It’s enough for me to know them, so that when my character makes an offhand comment to someone about seeing them at lunchtime (for example, and I know you’re thinking what a thrilling story this must be!), at least I know what time of day it is and where they’re likely to go and how much time they’re likely to have.

Nah, I’m not detail-oriented at all. Except I am. I want my characters fully formed enough so I know their surrounding cast of characters. I want to know their families. I want to know their environment. I want to know how many other people in that environment know them, how crowded it is, what the demographics are. I’m making a long story longer: I want to understand not just the trappings but the culture of their community.

I don’t remember who first told me that to understand a culture we have to understand the language. I’ve studied a lot of languages, both blatant and obscure, and I’m not fluent in most of them but I do get what that was all about. So many discrete pieces come together to make up the flavor of any given culture, and I don’t want to do any of those segments a disservice by discounting them.

Our own personal communities are like ripples on a pond. They start out in nice tight proximity, then widen and widen. Sometimes they intersect. Sometimes they remain separate. But all of them stem from who we are (or in the case of a story, who that one character is). I don’t think I’m the only one who sits around thinking about these kinds of things, and that means I’d love to hear your thoughts on community and culture, and on how you handle those things in your writing.


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Back to Basics

“There is only one plot—things are not what they seem.” —Jim Thompson

In an attempt to steer this blog away from peacocks and back toward writing, I’m pleased to let you know that I will have a story included in Happily Ever Afterlife, the next anthology from Untold Press. I’ll pass along details as they become available.

Meanwhile, Dragonthology is always available from many fine retailers. Click on the book cover in the sidebar for a link to its page on Amazon.

(By the way, if you’ve never read Jim Thompson, you’re missing some beautifully terse and poignant writing. I highly recommend The Getaway. It’s a little bit dated, but the book is still one of the most riveting pieces of writing out there: subtle, succinct, and chilling to the bone.)


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And here ya are, and it’s a beautiful day

Name that quote.*

I know you’re probably all sick of seeing peacock photos, but today Richard Parker posed for me with his feathers out so I had to take a few closeups of my boy. I know eventually he’ll move along — he’s a mature male in search of a peahen and no one around here fits that bill, even though I think he likes me — but while he’s a guest in my yard, I’ll enjoy having him. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy seeing him too.

Click on any of the photos to see them in their full glory.

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And for a change of pace, some columbine flowers:

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*Marge Gunderson, Fargo (one of my favorite films): “So that was Mrs. Lundegaard on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And those three people in Brainerd. And for what? For a little bit of money. There’s more to life than a little money, you know. Don’tcha know that? And here ya are, and it’s a beautiful day. Well. I just don’t understand it.”


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Update

The peacock hasn’t gone anywhere. Just the opposite, he seems to be more content than ever.

On general principle and with apologies to Yann Martel, we named him Richard Parker. We should know better than to name a stray anything, much less a peacock. Once they’re named, they become ours on so many levels.

Fly, little peacock, fly away home. I can’t take you with me when I move.

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