I am a lazy writer. I cheat my reader by using iconic imagery to set the scene in almost everything I write. This was an easy pattern to fall into. I spent my childhood in the Midwest, where every season was heralded by dramatic change. Every flip of a calendar page could be described with a few key words &mdsh; bare black branches against white snow- crocus blossoms piercing rotting ice to bloom in shivering clusters — new mown grass — dappled shade — nodding boughs of lilacs — orange and yellow maple leaves reflected on a blue lake. These are easy cues — a kind of visual shorthand to set place and time of year.
I'm writing this on an early December morning in south Texas. Ours is not a poetic landscape, or one given to great visual drama. We take refuge from the chilly weather by steaming tamales until the windows fog, and the dry grass landscape outside softens and recedes into blue shadow.
I haven't written anything in months, and when I crawled out of bed this morning to run in the dry creek bed, I was longing for some seasonal magic to force me out of my tamale induced lethargy. Let's be clear, by seasonal magic, I mean snow. I was hoping to see drought-twisted mesquite trees buried in miraculous Midwestern snow flakes. I wanted to indulge in familiar contrasts.
Instead I stumbled on loose stones, twisted my ankle and fell. I landed in damp gravel, my iPod clattered down nearby. I untangled the dangling earphones and balled everything into my pocket. Except for a scraped knee and mysteriously wet shoes, I was undamaged. I was about to drag myself to my feet and limp home, when I heard the "plop" of something jumping into water. I'd fallen at the mossy edge of a depression in the hardpan, a deepening of the creek bed just at the shore line. There were a few inches of water pooled among the rocks. To call this muddy soup a pond would be generous, but I was sure I'd heard something, so I stayed very still and waited.
At first nothing happened. My knee throbbed. A few gnats flew around my eyes, but I didn't move. The breeze rippled the surface of water, silt settled, and one by one triangular heads emerged. In time a dozen green frogs eyes popped to the surface of the tea colored water and studied me with impassive golden eyes. I don't know how long I stayed there, but when I finally moved, my legs felt foreign to me.
On the long gimpy walk home I realized that our Texas winter is painted in a palette of browns and grays. Any true description would have to include the hawks that brood on every fence post, the pale sunlight, the rustling of dry grass, and the way wood smoke drifts low in the chilly air. These are details that are easy to miss in a seemingly monochromatic landscape, but taking the time to notice and document them can make the difference between mundane prose and a story that is authentic in place and time. The miracle of the frogs may never find its way into one of my stories, but the imagery associated with our encounter is vivid, because for that short time I was fully present in the moment. I'm sure there is a lesson here, but I'm afraid it would involve giving up the iPod, so I'll leave you to make your own conclusions.