[ad_1]
Lucy Bryan’s debut is the stunning collection of essays, In Between Places. An avid backpacker, Bryan ties together nature writing, the historical context of the places where she has lived and hiked, and the very personal story of Bryan’s divorce and her new love. Essays in the collection have appeared in Quarterly West, Nashville Review, and Terrain.org, among others, won contests from Parks & Points, So to Speak, and Writers@Work, and one was named a notable essay in The Best American Essays 2014.
I had the privilege of talking with Bryan about her collection last month.
Sarah Blake
I fell in love with your essay “On Naming Women and Mountains” when it came out in the Nashville Review in 2014. So much of this book is about naming. It reminded me of a New York Times article from 2009 that I loved, “Reviving the Lost Art of Naming the World” by Carol Kaesuk Yoon, which specifically speaks of taxonomy and its importance to how we live. What drew you to the art of naming?
Lucy Bryan
I think the desire for meaningful relationships draws me to “the art of naming,” as you call it. Learning something’s (or someone’s) name is a first step toward intimacy. You can’t have a relationship with someone if you don’t know their name. It’s similar with places. If I look at a forest, and all I see are trees—there’s no real connection there, nothing to differentiate that forest from any other forest. But if I look, and I see a maple, an aspen, an elm, spring beauties and knothole moss, orb weavers and caddisflies—then, I’m getting somewhere. There’s a real possibility of a relationship with that place. Learning names requires attention and time, which are expressions of care.
I think Yoon would be encouraged by some of the recent developments in the world of taxonomy. This week, I downloaded an app called Seek that allows users to learn the genus and species of pretty much anything they can snap a picture of—plants, animals, fungi, birds. It’s pretty phenomenal to be able to do that—and to contribute, in turn, to large-scale data sets about the locations, lifecycles, and migratory patterns of plants and animals.
I also want to acknowledge that the act of naming is complicated. I grew up with the story of God giving Adam, the first human, the privilege of naming the birds and beasts. The ecological hierarchy established by the Judeo-Christian creation myth is pervasive and extremely destructive. It undergirds our culture’s treatment of plants, animals, and wild places: we see the world as ours to name and ours to exploit. My essay explores the power dynamics inherent in the act of naming, with a little feminism sprinkled in for good measure.
Blake
The timeline of this book seems important to talk about. You’ve been working on this book for over a decade! How did you approach putting this collection together?
Bryan
When I wrote the first essay in this collection at the end of 2011, I wasn’t setting out to write a book. My marriage had ended, and though I’d begun a new relationship, I was still a mess. Writing seemed like a good way to unravel my history and to begin defining the contours of my new identity.
By 2014, I’d written and published several more essays, and I realized that I might have the makings of a collection. All of that writing emerged from my lived experiences, and all of it was grounded in place, wild spaces in particular, which have been some of my wisest teachers and dearest companions.
So, I kept doing what I’d be doing anyway—going outside, befriending the landscapes I inhabit, trying to make sense of my life and the world around me, and writing about it all. Eventually, I’d written enough for a collection.
Blake
As someone who is recently divorced, I was drawn to so many of the reactions and responses you went through. The desire to build up one’s own life so there are legs left standing if the ground is ever swept away again. The unpredictable hopefulness inside the predictable guardedness towards new love. I could go on and on. But my question is more with regard to writing about all of this. How did you handle writing about it, revising those essays, going through submissions, editing, copyedits? Honestly, I’m in awe.
Bryan
Divorce is so hard. It’s also a really personal and particular experience—and writing about it (or writing about it and then publishing that writing) might not be the best path for everyone. In my case, the end of my marriage was incredibly disempowering. I didn’t want my marriage to end, but it did. I was powerless to stop the upending of my identity, my way of life, my plans and dreams. Writing offered a way to take control of and infuse meaning into a narrative that felt very out of control.
I will say that I worked hard to avoid the temptation of writing myself as a victim and my ex as a villain. The truth, of course, was far more complicated. What I tried to do was to write toward healing and wholeness, toward the ability to love again and to love better, and toward a solid sense of self.
In the revision process, it helped to have readers who knew me well and could push me toward truths I was sidestepping or questions I wasn’t asking. The essays were all accepted for publication as I’d written them, so I don’t have much to report about the editorial process. I did agree to inform my ex when I published anything that mentioned him. Putting that work into the world always made me feel vulnerable. But then I’d hear from readers who connected with or felt encouraged by what I’d written, and that was really validating.
Blake
One of my favorite craft choices in this book is that you have some essays written in present tense. I don’t see this a lot in creative nonfiction. What drew you to write (or revise) these essays in present tense? What do you see as the benefits and restrictions of this tense?
Bryan
I was drawn to writing present tense because doing so allowed me to reinhabit my memories in a really visceral and immediate way. So, initially, it was about process rather than product. But I liked the effect. Present tense says to a reader: Come closer. Walk with me. One challenge, however, was integrating insights into the narrative that occurred to me as I was writing and reflecting on what happened. Present tense made it harder to differentiate the narrator “me” from the “me” of my memories, but generally I did this by beginning a new section and offering a reflection or meditation—still in present tense but separate from the action of the story.
Blake
Because I had the very good fortune of getting to meet you in graduate school, I know that your background is in fiction. I felt like that was evident in your character descriptions. My favorite sentence (though it’s hard to choose one!) is:
He has Scandinavian good looks and forges beautiful kitchen knives in his father’s blacksmith shop—a craft that leaves his skin smelling of steel filings and sawdust.
And it’s set inside a paragraph that captures your husband so quickly and deftly. I would love to hear you talk about your approach to character development, and how it can exist in creative nonfiction.
Bryan
This is an interesting observation, because fiction writing and nonfiction writing feel so different to me. When I’m writing fiction, character development is all about invention—about concocting the right details (and deploying enough of them) to create both interest and the illusion of reality. On the other hand, character development in nonfiction is all about curation. Of the infinite number of details that exist about a person I’m writing about, I can select only a few. And those few need to both serve the narrative and honor the very real and complicated person I’m attempting to represent. That said, I do have a sensibility about what kinds of details will work, regardless of the genre. Descriptions need to offer some kind of sensory experience (ideally an unexpected one), to suggest something about the character’s way of being in the world, and to evoke some kind of feeling in the reader.
Blake
Continuing off of my previous request, I’d love to hear anything about how your background in fiction has come to influence your craft when it comes to writing an essay.
Bryan
You know, it’s hard to be sure about these things. Writing nonfiction feels much more intuitive to me than writing fiction. With essays, I don’t struggle as much with pacing or form as I do for short stories. But that’s not what you asked, is it? I’m sure my training in fiction has influenced the way I write nonfiction. I think my ear for dialogue was probably cultivated in fiction workshops. I’m attuned to conflict and suspense in ways I might not be without that background. And maybe some choices, like using present tense, occur to me because I’m used to considering them when I write fiction.
Blake
I especially love this collection for your portrayal of backpacking and hiking. I have never backpacked, and I think I’ve only slept in a tent once! We hadn’t put a tarp under the tent and I woke up wet, my copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being soaked, and I’m not sure I ever finished it after that. But despite my experiences, I love nature—writing about it, reading about it, watching documentaries, etc. Reading your book tapped into that special place, where I get a thing that I usually only fantasize about. You talk about it in the book, but I wonder if you might talk about it here as well—what started your relationship to backpacking?
Bryan
I love that my book could be that for you. Despite growing up in a large city in the mountainless state of Florida, I was fortunate to be raised with a love of the outdoors. My earliest memories of camping were in elementary school, when my dad and a bunch of other neighborhood dads regularly took their daughters on overnights at state parks. My dad also taught me how to hunt and fish, and he took me on my first backpacking trip in Great Smoky Mountains National Park the summer before I started high school. Then, in college, I met the man who would become my first husband, and we spent many weekends hiking and backpacking, mostly in the Appalachian Mountains. My junior year of college, I applied for and won a grant from my journalism school that allowed me to spend the summer trekking in national parks across the country and writing newspaper articles about my adventures. I think that was when I really started identifying as a backpacker. Of course, as a mom of young children, that part of my identity is currently on hiatus, but we do take our kids camping and spend a lot of time in nature. I dream of the day when I can strap packs to their backs and listen to them complain their way up a mountain, haha.
Blake
Do you have any great stories from backpacking that didn’t make it into the book?
Bryan
Oh, so very many. Hearing about your ill-fated camping experience reminded me of the first backpacking trip I planned on my own. It was that summer of national parks and newspaper articles, and my first stop was in the Smokies. My cousin came along, and within the first few miles, the soles of her boots literally peeled off, and we had to return to my car for her running shoes. We encountered a massive rattlesnake on our way back up the trail. And my pack was ludicrously heavy. I think I packed ten pounds of trail mix, several changes of clothes, and a tent we weren’t even allowed to use (backpackers are required to stay in designated shelters in the park). Twelve miles a day doesn’t sound like much, but with sixty pounds on my back, it was near impossible. On the second day, our water filter broke, and there was a terrifying hailstorm. We called it quits the next morning when my stomach started hurting, and I thought I might have giardia. We decided to hitchhike back to our car from the popular Clingman’s Dome lookout, and we got picked up by a nice midwestern couple who (I soon discovered) had guns lying on the floor of their pickup. But we made it back alive, and I learned from the many mistakes I made on that trip.
Blake
Has backpacking influenced your craft as well as your content?
Bryan
It’s probably influenced my content more than my craft, but I’m sure some of the skills and traits backpacking has developed in me are also useful when I write. Backpacking, more than anything else, has taught me to tolerate discomfort—which is a necessary skill when you write about divorce, death, anger, and other uncomfortable topics. Backpacking has also sharpened my ability to observe the natural world, which is foundational to my writing. For me, backpacking is a mindfulness practice—and the patience, presence, acceptance, and letting go that I exercise on the trail also serve me well in the writing process.
Blake
What are you working on now?
Bryan
I’m currently working on a novel set in a community of homesteaders in Ohio’s hill country. The main character has agreed to conceive and carry a child for her partner’s brother and his wife, which causes some serious conflict with her partner. She’s also helping lead efforts to resist the construction of a deep injection well (used to dispose of fracking waste) adjacent to their community. I’m realizing, just now, that this novel is another way for me to explore one of the same questions I take up in my nonfiction: How do we (women) preserve our independence and autonomy while also loving people and places deeply? Putting down roots is a pretty complicated business. I still haven’t figured it out.
NONFICTION
by Lucy Bryan
Homebound Publications
Published on June 21, 2022
[ad_2]
Source link