Climate Fiction, aka Eco-Fiction

What follows is a tiny sample of fiction that addresses the effects of climate change. And the list grows daily, a reflection of concern among writers. For those who do not or will not read scientific and other non-fiction sources of information about what’s happening to our planet and the life that depends on it. Giving a particular name and face to those who suffer may just reach readers of the fiction persuasion.

Some of these writers have shelf space in my special collection, some are new to me. I welcome suggestions and responses.

Atwood, Margaret. Madd Addam–a writer who needs no introduction; but if you missed her (how could you?), get informed

Bacigalupi, Paolo. Wind Up Girl

Ballard, J. G. The Drowned World

Crichton, Michael. State of Fear

Douglass, Karen. Accidental Child; Providence–it’s me

Halvorssen, Anita. The Dirty Network–a debut novel by a devoted legal eagle

Hiaasen, Carl. Razor Girl –only one of many zany stories about what’s eating at Florida

Kingsolver, Barbara. Flight Behavior–butterflies go free

Kraub, Daniel. From Here

McCarthy, Cormac. The Road–very dramatic and downright scary

McEwan, Ian. Solar

Miller, Walter M. A Canticle for Leibowitz–a classic set in the far future

Rich, Nathaniel. Odds Against Tomorrow

For a more complete list, see Jim Dwyer’s Where the Wild Books Are: A Field Guide to Eco-Fiction (University of Nevada Press, 2010).

Reading the Climate

As some of you know I have published two climate-fiction novels, Accidental Child and Providence. While I write fiction as a way of thinking deeply about climate issues, I read lots of non-fiction. Here’s a partial list of books that have enhanced my understanding of climate issues. Some of these books scare me, and that’s a good thing. We should be scared of what we are doing to the only environment we have.

Non-fiction Climate-literature

Bloomberg, Michael and Carl Pope. Climate of Hope: How Cities, Businesses, and Citizens Can Save the Planet.

Weisman, Alan. The World Without Us.

Gelbspan, Ross.The Heat Is On.

Beg levy, Ed. Jr. Living Like Ed: A Guide to the Eco-Friendly Life.

Gleick, Peter. The World’s Water, 1998-1999.

Posted, Sandra. Pillar of Sand: Can the Irrigation Miracle Last?

Barlow, Maude. Blue Future: Protecting Water for People and the Planet Forever.

Schor, Juliet. Plenitude: Economics in an Age of Ecological Disaster.

Jones, Van. The Green Collar Economy.

Nordhous, Ted and Michael Shellenberger. Break Through: From the Death of Environmentalism to the Politics of Possibility.

Browser, Michael and Warren Leon. Consumer’s Guide to Effective Environmental Choices: Practical Advice from the Union of Concerned Scientists.

Terry, Beth. Plastic Free.

Rogers, Heather. Gone Tomorrow: The Hidden Life of Garbage.

Beavan, Colin. No Impact Man.

Stover, Bill. Heat: Adventures in the World’s Fiery Places.

Hermès, Edward. Garbology: Our Dirty Love Affair with Trash.

Barnett, Cynthia. Rain: a Natural and Cultural History.

Donne & Goldman, Eds. His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Ecology, Ethics, and Interdependence.

Schwartz, Judith D. Water in Plain Sight: Hope for a Thirsty World.

I am happy to share this list and to hear from others who might recommend additional writers. Next blog post I intend to offer a list of climate-fiction reads, and there after a list of pertinent climate-related online selections. Let me know if this is useful.

A Novel Approach

Writing a novel is work; no news there. But it helps to gain perspective from other writers. I was feeling stuck about the plot line for my work in progress, hiking up a steep slope with no idea how to reach the summit. Not a good idea for a Coloradan. So, in desperation I checked out a how-to book from my wonderful Anythink Library–my walking stick, my water bottle, my sturdy backpack, most of what a writer needs when she’s on a long walkabout.

Reading James Scott Bell’s Plot & Structure has set my feet (and my fingers) on the right path. It took a while, as I tiptoed my way through the three-act structure that has become important to novelists. Finally I focused on a page suggesting that the end, the blessed, welcome peak, might be reached in such a way that the lead character does not get what she wants but the result is still positive. Combine this with Bell’s advice to up the tension between the lead and the antagonist—voila! A vista to behold on a sunny day.

I have yet to write the scene, but driving to an appointment Friday morning, I decided on the exact setting for the decisive scene. And I’ve identified more clearly the two opposing characters who will make the scene memorable—I hope. So, my work can resume. I’ll go ahead and do all the little edits that I’ve scribbled into the “Yellow” copy (I print on colored paper until I’m pretty close to done.) And then add that all important scene before hitting save. Oddly enough, I already have the final sentence. Just have to hike that hill to where I can declare the first full version done, let it stew a while and then dig in for the final run.

What a Writer Needs

Packing for a roadtrip to Telluride CO for a poetry weekend. And I’m suffering my usual doubts and desires about packing. After many years of writing I know, sort of, what I need to get writing done. But traveling means that I can’t have it all. I cannot take along my office space or my favorite coffee shop despite my need for a place where I’m comfortable and not likely to be distracted or interrupted. So, scratch that for the next few days, although I’ll find a corner now and then. Being an early riser often means that I can write before fellow travelers are afoot.

Of course, I need my basic tools–plenty of paper and ink, a reliable, portable thing, in my case that’s an iPad and attached keyboard. Of course, I need time. When my children were young, writing time was late evening. Now my internal clock prefers early morning. I’ll just have to be flexible as a guest in someone’s home.

My real need is writing every day, yes, every day. And of course, I need readers and other writers. I need librarians. (This week, I tried to read The Library Book by Susan Orlean, an account of the horrific fire years ago at the Los Angeles Public Library. Had to set it aside before I finished because it’s just too hard to read with tears in my eyes.)

Every devoted writer needs what she needs–the sound of language, the sight of words lined up across the page, margin to margin, good ducklings after their mama. Most of all I need to keep writing, because as E. M. Forster said, “How can I tell what I think till I see what I say?” Hope you all have a good week. See you after I get home.

All About Poets #5

Typically, my poet focus here is on poets I have known, face to face. Well, what was it Emerson said about consistency? “A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds …” Who wants that? Not me. But today I’m thinking about W. S. Merwin. I’ve leaned on and learned from him the only way I could, by reading with great admiration his poems and essays. So, I took him along to a poetry open mic on Friday via a compilation of his work, Migration: New & Selected Poems. I read the last poem in the book, “To Impatience” and his “most famous poem,” (according to Dan Chiasson in The New Yorker, September 18, 2017), “For the Anniversary of My Death.”

Poets and poetry lovers meet in Longmont, Colorado, the last Friday of each month. This month, despite the promise of snow, two friends and I headed ten miles north to join the party. For one thing, the Longmont poets are a delight and the venue is gorgeous. The city of Longmont turned its abandoned firehouse into an arts center. Each month the displays change and the main room turns into a venue for poetry.

And thus the community of poets grows. As I read, those who knew Merwin’s work nodded and smiled. Those who didn’t know, scribbled his name on whatever was handy. So the work of the poet, the work of Copper Canyon Press, the Lannan Literary Fund, about twenty or so living, breathing human beings were united. No one paid us, no one charged us, there was no news flash about argument or deception. The evening was balm to a hurting world. I’d say a world less beautiful after Merwin’s departure, but he joins the vast, energizing cloud of those who keep me sane.

Gluttony

How little resistance I have for books. I walked into the library, slid two novels by Donna Leon into the return slot, a machine that reads the barcodes into another machine that tells the library that I’ve returned these two Guido Brunetti mysteries. What the digital system cannot do is record that I actually read the books. Nor if I liked reading them or not. For all the library knows, I might have used them as paperweights on my desk. Dear Reader, I read them and longed for more.

But I came to the library intending not to carry any books home this weekend. Because if I do, I’ll read them. And I already have poems to critique for Monday morning, a poetry reading to prepare for this coming week, and a hefty assignment for the workshop looming on Monday evening. Like any other addict, my intention means nothing.

Sitting in a quiet corner of the library, I have three books on the table beside my easy chair: James Wood’s How Fiction Works, Mary Robinson’s Climate Justice, and Elaine Pagels’ Why Religion? Gluttony is one of the seven cardinal sins, so I’m a sinner. Mea culpa; wanna make something of it? I also have a hold at another library for Margaret Atwood’s Surfacing, recommended in Adrienne Rich’s Essential Essays: Culture, Politics, and the Art of Poetry, which is, partly read, on my coffee table. Despite the assignments for Monday, I’m going to start with Wood’s book. It’s the smallest one on the stack and if I don’t dawdle, I might finish it before lunch.

Claiming the Title

As I write this, I’m sitting in a quiet space with nine other writers in the meeting room of a large grocery store. We have a three-hour writing session once a month and each time we meet we share our immediate intentions and a short description of whatever project we are working on. This morning we are a diverse group ranging from fiction to fact, from memoir to a letter to a local editor about a national issue. The variety of projects and backgrounds shifts from month to month, but the most important thing here is that we all dare to call ourselves writers. Claiming the title has little if anything to do with publication, money, or publicity. I’m looking across the table at a man with his eyes on the ceiling and his hands over his mouth, classic signs of inspiration. Good for him.

Our newest writer left early. She had announced that she finally stopped cleaning her house and came to a place where her only goal and responsibility was to put words on paper. Good for her. She has taken the all-important step to declare publicly that she’s writing. I may have reported this before, but my greatest inspiration in taking that step was to have met and spent a day with Harlan Ellison, whose business card bore his name, phone number, and the words “I write.” A simple declaration, no frills, just the brazen truth. Claiming the right to write can be hard. The consumerist society demands that we sell what we write, and it measures our success by earnings, sales, fame. Truth is, few writers meet these criteria.

Being a writer means diving in without promise of worldly success. It means staring at the ceiling and leaving domestic distractions behind for a few hours. Messing with early drafts and focusing on punctuation and paragraphs, clever lies and startling images. It means that you love/hate the results, but  just can’t stop the trickle or the deluge of language from head to fingertips.