Stalking Wild Words

The wilderness of publishing & the role of foraging

“I always enjoyed thunder, thinking it some ancient language, the earth’s own patois of sound, a grammar of wildness”—Harry Middleton

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To maintain my “brand,” it’s time I wrote something directly related to publishing. Vanilla Ice Cream and Yolk White Skies are fun, but I suspect they seem less than straightforward. So, that’s where I’ll try to take this post: publishing with a capital P.

Let me start this way, then: Most things are edible… Huh? I know; I’m off the rails already.

<Take two> Most things are edible. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my early publishing idol should have been Euell Gibbons. I mostly recall him because of an advertisement about Grape Nuts cereal and then spin-offs and jokes about how, “Most things are edible, ever tried ______< fill in the blank.>”

I ran across his book Stalking The Wild Asparagus some years ago and soon realized two things: He really did know what he was talking about, and second, what a good title for a book: wild and yet not so wild. Wildness disguised, or in some way camouflaged. How many of us think asparagus is a wild thing? Not many, I will guess.

Stalking the wild, or foraging, is an ideal publishing model. Why do I say that? As a publisher (and a reader), I’m looking for wild and untamed ideas that spark thoughts I’ve never had, which remind or inspire me beyond the tainted realms of normal. I stalk like it’s an expedition, similar to the adventures of Pooh Bear:

“Going on an Expotition?” said Pooh eagerly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on one of those. Where are we going to on this Expotition?”
“Expedition, silly old Bear. It’s got an x in it.”
“Oh!” said Pooh. “I know.” But he didn’t really.

What makes this relevant to writing is the part with the missing X and the last line, “but he really didn’t.” Foraging for wild writing is like anything wild, it’s a search without certainty. Elusive, with a dash of enlightenment. We go off in a direction we believe correct, but not always aware of what we’ll find. Then, at some point, there’s discovery and surprise. My life as a publisher is like this: counting on luck through the foraging of words. Learning to trust the unexpected is part of what creates good writing and good books.

When I get a new submission or meet a new author, I feel like Euell:

“My love affair with nature is so deep that I am not satisfied with being a mere onlooker, or nature tourist. I crave a more real and meaningful relationship. The spicy teas and tasty delicacies I prepare from wild ingredients are the bread and wine in which I have communion and fellowship with nature, and with the author of that nature.”¹

An excellent book title for a writing guide.

The simple told well is anything but simple; it’s knowing to both search and trust. Therein lies storytelling talent: finding what you can do well and doing it so well that it becomes a passion, not the other way around. One person may try to explain an event, and yawns break out; another can extoll what happened, and I’ll be on the edge of my seat.

I think mushroom hunters, fly fishers, publishers, and writers share at least two qualities: roaming and hoping. Plus, knowing not to share until we are comfortable sharing.

I’ve frequently thought the best job for me would be Community Forager. I’d set out each morning to find what was available, then arrive at a local market about 5pm with my day’s cache to sell. I think there’s a need for this, and it would be remarkably educational. Translation: From the findings of the day’s foray emerge stories of the day’s bounty. Or, you may think there’s nothing out there to eat on a late December day, but alas, there is.

All publishers want well-tuned, well-turned phrases and ideas that erupt from a wild place and take us unexpectedly where we didn’t know we wanted to go—toward a thought we hadn’t yet placed in our minds. We want “murderous yellows laced with impotent greens.”²

Gibbons wrote this:
“I think fiction can help us find everything. You know, I think that in fiction you can say things and in a way be truer than you can be in real life and truer than you can be in non-fiction. There's an accuracy to fiction that people don't really talk about - an emotional accuracy.”

I agree. What do I mean? This: what’s truer than the truth? The story.

We write to explode and discover. However, rushing to write, to be finished as a goal in and of itself (& believe me, most people do this) tells a publisher you’re not a writer. Tell me you’ve edited your book three times—it’s been so hard, but now it’s ready—I’ll roll my eyes and laugh. Please don’t tell me your aunt or uncle (sister/brother/spouse) who once worked at a newspaper has read your book and it’s perfectly edited. In fact, don’t ever say this to anyone, ever. Any of these comments tell me you aren’t foraging, hunting, or longing for the results of what good writing can be. If all you want is to be done, well, the fastest way to be done is not to start at all. Here’s a hint: If you find a morel, you must always, of necessity, know from where you stand; there’s undoubtedly another to notice if you stay in place and observe long enough.

So much writing I see in the world could be improved by “stalking” for a slightly better word. Often, the most passionate story you really have to tell would start exactly where you stopped. Natalie Goldberg suggests: Sometimes when you think you are done, it is just the edge of beginning. Probably that's why we decide we're done. It's getting too scary.”

Publishers like me are foraging through words like alchemists; we’re panning words for gold.

The wild is at once an arrival and, at the very same time, the beginning of understanding.

Savor, look closely. Explore an unthought thought.

Go outside and look for mushrooms and wild asparagus.

Forage for your best words before you bring them to the table.³

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I’m a low-level member of the

Iowa Writers Collaborative Roundup

meaning, I contribute far less than the others, but I do keep the posts a’ coming. My excuse: I’m out stalking wild asparagus.

1. You could easily trade out the word nature with writing here.

2. Harry Middleton

3. This, my friends, is publishing advice with a capital P.