April 12, 2005
Dear Readers,
I have found that sometimes Mother Nature simply refuses to be ignored,
and that she's not above screaming in our ears when she wants our
attention. I was reminded of this early last fall, when I was developing
my fifth Highlander book. A murder of crows (yes, that's what they're
really called), nine to be exact, started screaming at me from the trees
on my front lawn. |
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| One particular fellow (that
I named Talking Tom) seemed to think it was his duty to sit outside my
bedroom window and wake me up at 4:00 a.m., and he would caw, quite
loudly and nonstop, until I got up, got dressed, and headed across the
yard to my writing studio. (Which might suggest why they're called a
murder of crows. Not that I was ever tempted, mind you, but I can see
how some people might be.) It may
have taken me the better part of three weeks, but I eventually realized
that my crows wanted to be in my book. Or else the noisy buggers had
been told I was a pushover, and they merely wanted free food.
Now I don't know many people who feed crows, but I can tell you that
once you've started, you had better not stop with the handouts. Which
was why every morning for all of last fall and through the winter, I
would get up at the crack of dawn, get dressed in multiple layers, and
head outside to arrange dinner scraps and little piles of dry cat food
on the ground as I made my way to work. |
| This seemed to appease if
not to encourage my black feathered friends, and actually proved
entertaining. But that entertainment often came at the expense of my
husband, who was enlisted to snow-blow a circular path through the
deepening drifts, right through the middle of our front lawn. When
people asked Robbie why he was snow blowing his lawn, he would only
mutter something about it being cheaper than a divorce. |
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I got so crazy in fact, that
I began devising elaborate menus. I begged for scraps from neighbors
(though once they realized what the scraps were intended for, and not
caring to be awakened at the crack of dawn on weekends, they suddenly
ate everything on their plates), I brought home doggy bags from
restaurants, and I even purchased canned dog food, knowing my pets
needed plenty of protein in sub-zero weather.
Crows do not like canned dog food, I found out. They wouldn't touch it.
Heck, they took one sniff, looked toward the house, and start scolding.
And they don't like shrimp, or carrots, or overcooked broccoli. But they
do like home cooking (smart birds). Broth-soaked beef stew was a winner,
spaghetti and meatballs got scoffed up, and their most favorite food
turned out to be steak (we ate the steak; they got to pick the bones). I
also learned that crows like dry cat food, although my three confused
cats couldn't figure out why I had started feeding them on the front
lawn.But sometime in early
December, my nine crows disappeared — right when I was shoulder-deep in
my book. Suddenly, I was at a loss. I slept through the sunrises, and I
awoke uncertain and directionless, unable to write. The noisy
inspirations for my book -- especially for one of my main characters,
Talking Tom— had abandoned me.
But one week later, quite literally out
of the clear blue sky, three of my crows flew in off the frozen lake and
landed in a tree overlooking their old feeding spot. The pot-bellied
squirrels had eaten everything I'd put out (who knew squirrels liked cat
food?), and my crows started to make such a ruckus that I rushed out to
give them the leftover stew we were supposed to have for dinner that
night. |
| My crows were back! My book
was saved! I immediately headed to my studio and started writing again.
And when you read Winter MacKeage's story and meet Talking Tom, know
that he truly does live — not only in my imagination, but in my
dooryard. So what is Mother Nature
trying to tell us when she demands our attention? For me, she's saying
listen to the universe, for that is where inspiration dwells. |
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Sometimes
I'll hear only a whisper, or merely sense an unspoken urge, and
sometimes I'll be blasted with a deafening cacophony that demands I
examine my direction and purpose.
Do you ever stop and listen? What do you hear?
Until later ... keep reading! . . .
Janet |
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