And now self will introduce an essay on Travel Writing. She ponders this genre much lately because she has undertaken to teach a class on Travel Writing. Would that she could persuade UCLA Extension to have her teach something new, like Travel Writing. In the meantime, this workshop/class on Travel Writing that self is gearing up to teach will be taught elsewhere. Likely, Mendocino. Which is up a very winding coast road called US Highway 1. But self will not get into it. Because she’s just finished writing a short story, which is very futuristic, and she hopes she can sell it before “Snowpiercer” appears in the local cine-plex, because the plot of that movie and self’s story are virtually the same, even though self wrote her story last year, before she had even heard about a science fiction thriller set in a dystopian universe which is not The Hunger Games and stars Chris Evans. The reason self tells dear blog readers about her story is because US Highway 1 plays a very, very, very important role in it. And, as usual, self has gotten completely side-tracked.
Okey dokey, back to Travel Writing.
Best American Travel Writing 2011, edited by Sloane Crossley, has an essay Annie Proulx wrote for Harper‘s.
From the Introduction by Sloane Crosley, self learns that “A Year of Birds” is about how Proulx spent a summer (a summer is not a year, dear series editor) “meticulously documenting Wyoming eagle nests.” Crosley writes: “. . . you really have to be as grossly talented as Annie Proulx to write thirteen thousand words on birds – and birds only.” (No, Crosley. You just have to have a lot of time on your hands and a conviction that whatever you choose to write about will be read. Because, after all, YOU ARE ANNIE PROULX)
Well, it’s been years since self read Annie Proulx, so why not give “A Year of Birds” a shot?
Paragraph 2 of the Proulx essay begins: “The house at Bird Cloud took two years to build.”
A few sentences further on: “The ravens raised families every year and then went somewhere else for the summer to hunt once the young began flying.”
Next page: “Bird Cloud is 640 acres, a square mile of riparian shrubs and cottonwood, some wetland areas during June high water, sage flats, and a lot of weedy, over-grazed pasture.”
And self is just raving jealous! Not that Proulx flaunts it or anything, but if she happens to own 640 acres, that means she earned enough from her eight books to pay for the land.
And now self is reminded that her own little patch of earth is in dire need of attention. At the very least, she should trouble to re-fill the bird feeders.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.