In my writing house, which is snuggled into the woods behind our house, there is a big picture window that looks out on a little creek. I see a lot of things out this window. Some of them have weaselled their way into my imagination and from there into my books. And there are some things out there that can’t really be seen. More on this later.
As I write this, what I’m seeing out the window is a lot of snow. Both on the ground and falling. It’s been going on all day—at first a few stray flakes, then in a downpour, as if a large bag of powdered sugar had been opened, and then emptied overhead. Snow and winter seem to figure somewhat prominently in several of my books: Village of Scoundrels, Shadow on the Mountain, West of the Moon, The Legend of the Ladyslipper (a picture book), and most definitely in The Silver Box. Perhaps this is because I spend so much time looking at snow out my window. Winter around here can last until May—and this year it seems to have already started in October.
My writing time is divided between writing and staring out the window.
There’s a lot of wildlife to be observed: Deer wander by, sometimes looking right into the big window in front of my desk. There are ducks and a mink, who is suddenly much more visible now that the ground is white. The yard is full of migrating birds, stalled by the snow, along with the resident chickadees, nuthatches, pileated woodpeckers, and yesterday, a hand-sized saw-whet owl.
There is a real bossy red squirrel, the inspiration for the character of Jean Pierre Petit le Rouge of The Littlest Voyageur. I had only to watch his comic antics high in the trees or listen to him rolling his r’s “better than the Frenchest of Frenchmen” to know what to write about that day. The Enchantment Lake mystery series, of which The Silver Box is a part, have benefited from my observation of the woods and waterways both at home and at my lake cabin.
It’s a pleasure to be able to write about the sounds of birds and critters I hear through the screens of my cabin porch, the smell of fall, and the bite of a cold, crisp winter day—all so familiar.
But some of my books are set in faraway places: France, Norway, Japan. Of course, those books require a lot of research, and also research trips. And yet, looking out the window at a northern Minnesota landscape is still the way I find, on a daily basis, no matter where the story is set, what to write. I don’t think you have to have a beautiful view . . . or a view at all.
Some writers even prefer to face their desk to a wall so they won’t look out the window. This would never work for me. It isn’t even really what I’m looking at, but that I’m looking—looking past the screen, past the blinking cursor, and past what I know. It is, in fact, a way of reaching—reaching with my eyes, I suppose, for something that seems always just out of reach: The better word, the better sentence, the thing you really want to say, the thing you’re trying to get at, finding a way to express the inexpressible. And maybe, if you look hard enough, it’s out there somewhere, past the forest and the trees.
Author’s note: This post was originally published on www.itsalannajean.com.
