I'm assisting with an anthology slated to come out later this year, a collection of narratives by some of the world's best mystery writers who, thanks to the astounding efforts of Alaska Sisters in Crime, visited some of the farthest-flung corners of Alaska, places that many of us will never be privileged to see.
More than one has written about how Alaska is the perfect place to set a mystery. Isolation, volatile issues, natural hazards, and a transient element up the ante for crafting a mystery. Great reads by John Straley, Dana Stabenow, Sue Henry, and Mike Doogan prove up on the possibilities.
Tragically, real life violence mirrors fiction. In 2003-2004, there were 134 suicides per 100,000 people in Alaska, compared to 10.9 as the US average. In the same year, there were 41 homicides per 100,000 in Alaska, compared to 6 as the US average.
The dark side of the frontier: alcohol abuse, depression, violence. It's all too real. Complex forces create what is by an standard an alarming issue. Good people work hard to address them. We learn much from the survivors, those who live and love and laugh and learn and forge communities that foster joy instead of despair.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
FRONTIER FREEDOM
What makes an Alaskan? Author and professor Steve Haycox addressed the perennial question in last Friday's Anchorage Daily News. Alaska is more place than state, making for a more interesting discussion than one might asking "what is an Illini" or "what is a Minnesotan?"
Haycox cites the research of UAF professor and author Judith Kleinfeld, summarized in her book Go for It. Alaskans believe themselves to be more independent and more self-reliant than others. They see themselves as more willing to take risks, and they believe that Alaska has given them more opportunities than they would have had elsewhere.
As Haycox points out, some of our perceived independence and self-reliance land closer to myth than to reality. Seventy percent of us enjoy all the conveniences of at least a semi-urban lifestyle. And as a state, we're highly dependent on federal funding (can everyone say "earmarks"?) and the whims of big oil. As in the days of the Old West, frontier freedom is a romantic ideal that stacks short beside truth. But why confuse reality with perception?
Haycox cites the research of UAF professor and author Judith Kleinfeld, summarized in her book Go for It. Alaskans believe themselves to be more independent and more self-reliant than others. They see themselves as more willing to take risks, and they believe that Alaska has given them more opportunities than they would have had elsewhere.
As Haycox points out, some of our perceived independence and self-reliance land closer to myth than to reality. Seventy percent of us enjoy all the conveniences of at least a semi-urban lifestyle. And as a state, we're highly dependent on federal funding (can everyone say "earmarks"?) and the whims of big oil. As in the days of the Old West, frontier freedom is a romantic ideal that stacks short beside truth. But why confuse reality with perception?
Monday, April 21, 2008
HIGH DRAMA
Seasons shift with subtle changes, especially in the Far North. Crocus and daffodils will never grace the tundra, where spring faces brown from sun glaring off the snow. Across Alaska, snow reshapes into icy granules. River ice cracks and tumbles off to sea.
Fresh snow glistening with meltwater clings to the mountains. Snow shakes off in rolling avalanches. Waterfalls cascade, freed again from winter's icy spell.
Along highways birmed by banks of snow, trucks and snowmobile trailers crowd parking lots. Spring snowmachining is risky business. I hike a trail that squiggles along the side of a mountain. Below, the tide rushes in, tranforming the muddy inlet. Besdie the trail, a chickadee bathes in a puddle, dries off with drumming wings, and plunges in again.
Water is everywhere. Slippery puddles on the trail. Ruts along the snowy road. A creek tumbling down the hill. Like the chickadee, I delight in the melting wetness of it all.
Back home, it's Alaska week on Discovery Channel. Melting spreads across the screen in high definition, an ominous warning. A glacier calves, fortelling, the narrator says, disastrous global warming. Another glacier retreats - Lord help us all.
No mention that calving and retreating are normal glacial behaviors. No mention that scientists are divided over whether the current period of glacial retreat is a sign of global warming or part of a normal hundred-year cycle.
Fade to a grizzly fishing fat salmon from a stream. No, the grizzly's diet hasn't been affected by global warming. Not yet. But what if? Music builds to a sinister crescendo. What if the climate changed and there were no more salmon? What would the grizzly eat? Could the bears possible adapt to another food source?
I'm all in favor of preserving salmon habitat, but could we skip the high-drama footage and the horror-show tunes? If bears couldn't adapt to eating everything from trash to toothpaste, the camera crew wouldn't have needed to cache their gear at camp.
We're kidding ourselves if we think our collective consumptive footprint leaves no trace on this amazing planet. Global warming needs to be addressed. But hyperbole, half-truths, and trumped-up drama discredit the cause. Melting may portend disaster. But sometimes all it portends is hope - for spring, for life renewed, for yet another chance to get it right.
Make the distinctions, Discovery. Give us balanced facts, not just the ones that hype the show, and let us sort through to truth.
Fresh snow glistening with meltwater clings to the mountains. Snow shakes off in rolling avalanches. Waterfalls cascade, freed again from winter's icy spell.
Along highways birmed by banks of snow, trucks and snowmobile trailers crowd parking lots. Spring snowmachining is risky business. I hike a trail that squiggles along the side of a mountain. Below, the tide rushes in, tranforming the muddy inlet. Besdie the trail, a chickadee bathes in a puddle, dries off with drumming wings, and plunges in again.
Water is everywhere. Slippery puddles on the trail. Ruts along the snowy road. A creek tumbling down the hill. Like the chickadee, I delight in the melting wetness of it all.
Back home, it's Alaska week on Discovery Channel. Melting spreads across the screen in high definition, an ominous warning. A glacier calves, fortelling, the narrator says, disastrous global warming. Another glacier retreats - Lord help us all.
No mention that calving and retreating are normal glacial behaviors. No mention that scientists are divided over whether the current period of glacial retreat is a sign of global warming or part of a normal hundred-year cycle.
Fade to a grizzly fishing fat salmon from a stream. No, the grizzly's diet hasn't been affected by global warming. Not yet. But what if? Music builds to a sinister crescendo. What if the climate changed and there were no more salmon? What would the grizzly eat? Could the bears possible adapt to another food source?
I'm all in favor of preserving salmon habitat, but could we skip the high-drama footage and the horror-show tunes? If bears couldn't adapt to eating everything from trash to toothpaste, the camera crew wouldn't have needed to cache their gear at camp.
We're kidding ourselves if we think our collective consumptive footprint leaves no trace on this amazing planet. Global warming needs to be addressed. But hyperbole, half-truths, and trumped-up drama discredit the cause. Melting may portend disaster. But sometimes all it portends is hope - for spring, for life renewed, for yet another chance to get it right.
Make the distinctions, Discovery. Give us balanced facts, not just the ones that hype the show, and let us sort through to truth.
Friday, April 18, 2008
RESTLESS IN ALASKA
“Alaska changed my life.” It would be tough to find an Alaskan author who doesn’t share this sentiment with writer Kim Heacox.
In his musings on restlessness, Heacox reflects on what happened when the small community of Gustavus became a second-class city. Governing yourselves, the community reasoned, was part of growing up.
The paradox, as Heacox observed, is that America, for all its self-governance, in some ways refuses to grow up. With 5% of the world’s population consuming 25% of the world’s resources, we’re stuck in ego-centric, perpetual adolescence. Heacox watched Gustavus edge toward the credo “If our town isn’t growing, it’s dying.”
“In creating a city, I wondered if we were losing a community,” he notes in his essay. Full maturity, he says, involves living modestly and not succumbing to a fear of dying.
I agree with Heacox. Restlessness is a good thing. But it can catapult us toward self-destruction if we succumb without reflection. That’s why we need Alaskan authors.
In his musings on restlessness, Heacox reflects on what happened when the small community of Gustavus became a second-class city. Governing yourselves, the community reasoned, was part of growing up.
The paradox, as Heacox observed, is that America, for all its self-governance, in some ways refuses to grow up. With 5% of the world’s population consuming 25% of the world’s resources, we’re stuck in ego-centric, perpetual adolescence. Heacox watched Gustavus edge toward the credo “If our town isn’t growing, it’s dying.”
“In creating a city, I wondered if we were losing a community,” he notes in his essay. Full maturity, he says, involves living modestly and not succumbing to a fear of dying.
I agree with Heacox. Restlessness is a good thing. But it can catapult us toward self-destruction if we succumb without reflection. That’s why we need Alaskan authors.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
THIRSTY IN THE RAIN: KIM HEACOX
Alaskan author Kim Heacox spoke last night in the season's final "Wildlife Wednesday," a multi-agency lecture series sponsored in part by Conoco Phillips. Hailing from Gustavus, population 440 or so, Heacox is one of Alaska's most notable nature writer/photographers. His books include The Only Kayak and In Denali.
Personable and sincere, Heacox read, with commentary, from his essay "Thirsty in the Rain: Reflections on Restlessness." He spoke with genuine love of Gustavus, a place where "green is more than a color - it's a texture," a place that's "the perfect mix of imperfections."
Where he lives, Heacox says, "Nature isn't just another channel on the TV. If you're not smart, it will kill you - and we like it that way." It's an attitude that comes off as arrogance when some folks hop on their homespun soapboxes and rail about Outsiders who should have known better.
Heacox turns it full circle, making us wonder about ourselves. A weird, sick part of us does like it that way. Or maybe it's not so weird. It's how we channel our restless spirits to Nature, who isn't so sure she wants to make friends.
"Alaska's still a frontier," Heacox says. "As such, it's transformative." If we allow it, and sometimes when we don't. Mostly when we stay thirsty, even in the rain.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
TRAIL WISE
It's not a book, but it might as well be. The authors are many. Mushers racing to Nome are known to the world. But there were also indigenous people. Explorers. Prospectors. Railroad workers. Telegraph linemen.
Last night I attended a kick-off function for the four-year celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Iditarod Trail. One hundred is an arbitrary number, given archaelogical digs unearthing evidence of prehistoric use of parts of the route. But on Christmas Day in 1908, gold was discovered in the Iditarod Fields, ending the debate about which route was best for hauling supplies overland from the port town of Seward to the bustling gold rush metropolis that was Nome.
Ghosts must roam the trail. Dreams were chased, tackled, and lost here. Wilderness is quick to erase the human footprint. The once booming town of Flat, a regular stop for Pan American and Alaska Airlines in the 1930's, is now no more than a rag-tag collection of falling-down buildings, barely a comma's pause in the expansive forests, tundra and mountains that surround it.
Like all good books, the National Historic Iditarod Trail whispers of fleeting forms, wild dreams, and desperate souls.
Last night I attended a kick-off function for the four-year celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Iditarod Trail. One hundred is an arbitrary number, given archaelogical digs unearthing evidence of prehistoric use of parts of the route. But on Christmas Day in 1908, gold was discovered in the Iditarod Fields, ending the debate about which route was best for hauling supplies overland from the port town of Seward to the bustling gold rush metropolis that was Nome.
Ghosts must roam the trail. Dreams were chased, tackled, and lost here. Wilderness is quick to erase the human footprint. The once booming town of Flat, a regular stop for Pan American and Alaska Airlines in the 1930's, is now no more than a rag-tag collection of falling-down buildings, barely a comma's pause in the expansive forests, tundra and mountains that surround it.
Like all good books, the National Historic Iditarod Trail whispers of fleeting forms, wild dreams, and desperate souls.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
SMALL GESTURES
This quote, ostensibly spoken by the character playing Harper Lee in the film "Infamous," made the rounds on a few writer listservs last week, generating a bit of discussion:
“America is not a country where the small gesture goes noticed. We’re not a country like France where charm, something light or effervescent can survive. We want everything you have and we want it as fast as you can turn it out. I read in an interview with Frank Sinatra, which he said about Judy Garland. ‘Every time she sings she dies a little.’ It’s true for writers, too, who hope to create something lasting. They die a little getting it right. And the book comes out and there’s a dinner. Maybe they give you a prize and then comes the inevitable and very American question: “What’s next?” But the next thing can be so hard because now you know what it demands.”
The small gesture means much, even if it's not at the forefront of the American mindset. To those who cherish nature, it's nearly everything. Alaska, like so many places, is a paradoxical mix of those who covet the small gesture and those who could care less. I like to think there are more of us small-gesture types, but that might be wishful thinking
Writers do die a little getting it right, not only wielding the broad brush of truth but dabbing their creations with the small gestures that encompass it. If we seek recognition - lasting recognition - then we may as well die all at once and get it over with. We know what this task demands, and we do it anyway. Not because someone asks "what's next?" but because we cannot contain our passion for beauty and truth and the sheer joy of creation.
“America is not a country where the small gesture goes noticed. We’re not a country like France where charm, something light or effervescent can survive. We want everything you have and we want it as fast as you can turn it out. I read in an interview with Frank Sinatra, which he said about Judy Garland. ‘Every time she sings she dies a little.’ It’s true for writers, too, who hope to create something lasting. They die a little getting it right. And the book comes out and there’s a dinner. Maybe they give you a prize and then comes the inevitable and very American question: “What’s next?” But the next thing can be so hard because now you know what it demands.”
The small gesture means much, even if it's not at the forefront of the American mindset. To those who cherish nature, it's nearly everything. Alaska, like so many places, is a paradoxical mix of those who covet the small gesture and those who could care less. I like to think there are more of us small-gesture types, but that might be wishful thinking
Writers do die a little getting it right, not only wielding the broad brush of truth but dabbing their creations with the small gestures that encompass it. If we seek recognition - lasting recognition - then we may as well die all at once and get it over with. We know what this task demands, and we do it anyway. Not because someone asks "what's next?" but because we cannot contain our passion for beauty and truth and the sheer joy of creation.
Monday, April 14, 2008
WHY SHOULDN'T I BE OKAY?
This weekend I finished The Glass Castle, a memoir by Jeannette Walls. It's a mesmerizing read. Walls' irresponsible, dysfunctional parents were, as her mother put it, "addicted to excitement." Had they had more money, they would have run off to Alaska - it made her alcoholic father's short list of escape routes.
Reading the book reminded me of two exceptional Alaskan memoirs: Kim Rich's Johnny's Girl and Natalie Kusz' Road Song. It's been awhile since I read Road Song, which came out in 1991, and unfortunately it appears to be out of print. If you can get your hands on a copy, I recommend it heartily. Thankfully, Rich's amazing memoir is still available. She recounts a harrowing childhood, growing up in the underbelly of Anchorage during the 1960's, with a father as incredibly dysfunctional as Walls'.
Rich states clearly what Walls implies. People marvel at how well she turned out, despite the wild ride in her formative years. "What did you expect?" she asks. "Why shouldn't I be okay?"
Much fuss has been made over the dysfunctional family. I'm as much an advocate of good parenting as the next person. But I've yet to meet the perfect parent. Parents do the best they can with what they have.
I once heard a husband say to his wife - and I'm paraphrasing here - "Why don't you admit it? Your family was dysfunctional. Of course you're messed up." That sort of statement says more about the arrogance of the speaker than anything else.
Walls and Kusz and Rich traveled roads no child should have to go down. But they did more than survive. In telling their tales, they celebrate the triumph of the human spirit and the power of love.
Reading the book reminded me of two exceptional Alaskan memoirs: Kim Rich's Johnny's Girl and Natalie Kusz' Road Song. It's been awhile since I read Road Song, which came out in 1991, and unfortunately it appears to be out of print. If you can get your hands on a copy, I recommend it heartily. Thankfully, Rich's amazing memoir is still available. She recounts a harrowing childhood, growing up in the underbelly of Anchorage during the 1960's, with a father as incredibly dysfunctional as Walls'.
Rich states clearly what Walls implies. People marvel at how well she turned out, despite the wild ride in her formative years. "What did you expect?" she asks. "Why shouldn't I be okay?"
Much fuss has been made over the dysfunctional family. I'm as much an advocate of good parenting as the next person. But I've yet to meet the perfect parent. Parents do the best they can with what they have.
I once heard a husband say to his wife - and I'm paraphrasing here - "Why don't you admit it? Your family was dysfunctional. Of course you're messed up." That sort of statement says more about the arrogance of the speaker than anything else.
Walls and Kusz and Rich traveled roads no child should have to go down. But they did more than survive. In telling their tales, they celebrate the triumph of the human spirit and the power of love.
Friday, April 11, 2008
APRIL SNOWS
Talk about weather. We do it everywhere, especially in Alaska, where our weather is something of a novelty. Our seasons don't jive with the tidy patterns learned in grade school. Winter begins early and ends late. Summer, fall, and spring sprint past in a blur.
Outside my window, an icicle has fallen into our latest blanket of snow. Each day it grows like a fat carrot, thickening like our winter, holding on. Down the street, a dozen mallards huddled beside an open spot in the pond, beaks tucked beneath their wings, blinking at the swirling snow. The next day they were gone, the open spot glazed with ice.
This winter, though odd weather-wise, has been the finest of the 29 I've spent in Alaska. There've been complaints about scant snow, snow too late, warming when it was supposed to be cold, cold when we thought it should be warm. I took my snow tires off too soon.
But every day was an adventure. No more waiting, longing, or planning my escape.
Weather changes. Finally I did, too, finding joy in what is, right now, and not concerning myself with what should be.
Outside my window, an icicle has fallen into our latest blanket of snow. Each day it grows like a fat carrot, thickening like our winter, holding on. Down the street, a dozen mallards huddled beside an open spot in the pond, beaks tucked beneath their wings, blinking at the swirling snow. The next day they were gone, the open spot glazed with ice.
This winter, though odd weather-wise, has been the finest of the 29 I've spent in Alaska. There've been complaints about scant snow, snow too late, warming when it was supposed to be cold, cold when we thought it should be warm. I took my snow tires off too soon.
But every day was an adventure. No more waiting, longing, or planning my escape.
Weather changes. Finally I did, too, finding joy in what is, right now, and not concerning myself with what should be.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
PAST TENSE
Two days ago, BP and Conoco announced that they're going to build a natural gas pipeline to haul Alaska's gas to markets in the Lower 48. They emphasized that this was not a plan; it was a project that begins now - the Denali project. Alaskans know how much political wrangling wraps around this simple announcement. It's the answer to prayer begged for on the bumper stickers: "Please, God, give us another pipeline. We promise not to waste it this time."
Pipelines are deja vu for Alaskans. We boom and bust, hoping for more boom and less bust on each go-round. We watch the road ahead, all the while glancing in the rear-view mirror.
All of which has me thinking about the past. One of my upcoming projects (Sasquatch, 2009 - in conjunction with the 50th anniversary of statehood) has me exploring Alaskan archives. Amazing places, these archives. Millions of photos, tens of thousands of family stories - all preserved. A person could spend a lifetime there and only skim the surface.
Paradoxically, in my own life, I'm trying to focus myself on the present moment, to not get caught up in the past or worry about the future. It's not as easy as it sounds. All sorts of pithy little things can be said about the past - how we learn from it, how we try not to repeat its mistakes, how it forms who we are.
As I pour over amazing photos from Alaska's past, I think of each as a moment captured not in time but outside of it, a snapshot of what was one person's present. The energy can't be relived or captured in two dimensions, but like a good poem or story, the images ring with truth.
Now if only we can figure out the truth about the pipeline, which will carry hopes and dreams, some of them twisted and wrong, along with a more mundane kind of energy.
Pipelines are deja vu for Alaskans. We boom and bust, hoping for more boom and less bust on each go-round. We watch the road ahead, all the while glancing in the rear-view mirror.
All of which has me thinking about the past. One of my upcoming projects (Sasquatch, 2009 - in conjunction with the 50th anniversary of statehood) has me exploring Alaskan archives. Amazing places, these archives. Millions of photos, tens of thousands of family stories - all preserved. A person could spend a lifetime there and only skim the surface.
Paradoxically, in my own life, I'm trying to focus myself on the present moment, to not get caught up in the past or worry about the future. It's not as easy as it sounds. All sorts of pithy little things can be said about the past - how we learn from it, how we try not to repeat its mistakes, how it forms who we are.
As I pour over amazing photos from Alaska's past, I think of each as a moment captured not in time but outside of it, a snapshot of what was one person's present. The energy can't be relived or captured in two dimensions, but like a good poem or story, the images ring with truth.
Now if only we can figure out the truth about the pipeline, which will carry hopes and dreams, some of them twisted and wrong, along with a more mundane kind of energy.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
American Idol for writers? Sounds like fantasy, but a new venture, WEbook, is giving it a spin. At the newly launched www.webook.com, writers can initiate either public or private collaborative efforts. Post your work on WEbook and you'll have a shot at being published - not vanity publishing, but royalty-based. I haven't checked out the legal fine print, but it's an interesting concept.
Writers complain that the current publishing model is broken. A multitude of problems prevail: unrealistic advances to big-name authors whose books don't earn out, mergers into mega-companies, overly-generous return policies, and the takeover of the book market by chain stores where publishers pay for books to be positioned.
As the traditional market becomes increasingly dollar-driven and exclusive, the far end of the market is busting at its seams. Print on demand machines can now print and bind books in 15 minutes, all at your local bookstore. And now comes online collaboration, with investors onboard.
Any takers, Alaska?
Writers complain that the current publishing model is broken. A multitude of problems prevail: unrealistic advances to big-name authors whose books don't earn out, mergers into mega-companies, overly-generous return policies, and the takeover of the book market by chain stores where publishers pay for books to be positioned.
As the traditional market becomes increasingly dollar-driven and exclusive, the far end of the market is busting at its seams. Print on demand machines can now print and bind books in 15 minutes, all at your local bookstore. And now comes online collaboration, with investors onboard.
Any takers, Alaska?
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