Fair Weather Writing

woman writing under a tree

Almost since the publishing industry’s inception, it seems, book sales have suffered drastically during the summer months.

Fine weather is—rather unfairly—labeled the sole culprit, but it is more its effect on people that is to blame. The golden rays of the sun seem to induce strange actions in humans all over the Northern Hemisphere, causing them to burst into song or give into the sudden inkling to find a field of flowers and run through it–when they think no one is looking—perhaps accompanied by an indiscreet whoop and holler. And… despite a bevvy of trendy commercials–picturing folks sitting by the seaside in a curving chair, swiping their way through a good digital book on their dedicated devices–eBook sales drop just like those of their paper counterparts.

Large online platforms try to remedy this seasonal slump by cutting prices across the board so that the pain can be borne by many shoulders. I cannot really blame companies for slashing prices, though—to me–it brooks of desperation. Surely there is a better way to garner the attention of folks other than promising rock-bottom prices for literature slaved over by its writers, but I have yet to find a better solution to offer. Folks do love a bargain…

The consumer is the big winner in summer, able to cruise the lists of freely falling book fares and stock up on reading material until the winter holiday sales begin. Such is the climate in which the indie writers and self-pubbers of the world finds themselves in summer. Most writers I know remedy this odd state of being by writing feverishly so that they have a brand new book to offer come autumn.

Fair weather holds little sway over many wielders of the pen. Oh, most writers appreciate nature, and utilize it’s beauty to color our scenes and set some of our stages… but it is often viewed with an outsider’s eye. Through a window–or under the protection of a pergola–writers sit and watch and make notes… smiling at the folks charging over a city soccer field… shaking one’s head at the bold youth diving off a bridge trestle into the murky river waters below… messily writing down every little detail of the witnessed frivolity, much like a painter trying to capture the effect of changing light on leaves.

Why not join in, one may well ask. A fair question… one that could similarly be asked of the cameraman who records the film that wins an award statue. Some are made to stand on the outskirts and see, notating or filming as they go. Indeed, some prefer to step back and observe life as it happens rather than be constantly in its midst. I’m certain many writers and artist have felt as I do, and yet find it hard to explain “why.”

My oldest daughter once asked me how the world looks to me, as writer. I told her–without hesitation:

“It’s like being in the eye of human hurricane, an eerie calm surrounded by varying winds speeds and raw displays of power… and yet there are moments of beauty and unrivaled color.”

Her surprised expression led to a more gentle explanation, but… she did ask. She dove headlong into music, I am happy to say; I don’t feel all that sorry that the pen held little allure for her, or the others. My children all have the care-free ability to play in the golden sun, not feeling that pull to stop, to look and whisper a few lyrical lines to themselves in order to solidify the moment in their mind. They merely run and shout… and wouldn’t even think of reading a book, until later, when the sun has set and their limbs are tired.

I watch them in contented silence, writing away… not minding in the least that my fingers muscles are the only part of me anyone would label “dexterous.”

 ~ ~ ~

L. R. Styles is a writer for Belator Books

Writing of Comfort

Comfort… a thing at times overlooked in this novel age of the supernatural thriller and intense crime drama. Intensity sells, or so I’ve heard, especially in our favored genre of Epic Fantasy but—to me–it is a thing best displayed by small moments of respite in the prose. Comfort is a universally sought after thing, and when found it is enjoyed with wordless displays of emotion. It can be a lull in the driving rain or the oft-overused calm before the storm; it can be a seat by the fire after the battle is won, or a warm cup of sweet drink for the night watchman on a chilly evening.

Comfort provokes a particular sigh… one of neither relief nor sadness, but appreciation.

The simplest things seem to quantify what humans view as “comforting.” In my mind, the word is best embodied by a weathered Adirondack chair that sits in a sunny corner of our backyard. It was built over two days by our children—with some help from Mommy—as a birthday present for my husband and made entirely from reclaimed wood. Using a pair of my husband’s old jeans (for a custom-fit) we tracked down a free pattern on the Internet, traced lines on the cobwebby boards, found wayward galvanized screws and hauled the compound miter saw out from the garage.

As I looked up—about to saw the first cut—four pairs of eyes met mine. A mixture of wonder and eagerness lay behind those large safety glasses slipping down the slender noses. Their expressions lent the entire project a buoyancy that transcended the materials and imbued themselves in the finished product. What comfort the chair was meant it give it thereafter exuded with unapologetic frankness and does still, sitting in the dappled sunshine of a late California afternoon. A man of multitasking brilliance, my husband needed only a bit of encouragement to tempt him out of doors to the enjoy the charms of our little urban oasis. The worn depths of the chair provided just that, let alone the idea it was crafted by loving hands while he was toiling out in the forbidding Realm of Work. The look on his face–as he sinks into the chair–makes me smile, every time.

Moments like these require no quatrains of verse to describe but they have often inspired them. Poets and writers of literature alike have lauded comforts both sweet and simple, from seeing a field of flowers to enjoying a good meal, or even just hearing a peasant’s song. Because of comfort many great writers have penned some of their best pieces… such as my favorite poem by William Wordsworth, The Solitary Reaper.

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending;—

I listen’d, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

O’ fellow writers, forget not to place within your pages a few moments of comfort. It is a peerless thing to use when touching a chord with your readers… and beautiful in its simplicity.

L. R. Styles is a writer for Belator Books