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We nonfiction writers tend to live more in the real world than in the world of the imagination. I know I feel very grounded in place, wherever I am, and I’m experiencing what goes on around me—the sun, or not; the breeze, or the heavy dense air; the soft forest path under my feet or the hard concrete sidewalk. Roz Schanzer expressed this feeling very well in her recent blog about her Costa Rican photo safari. At times, like during a drab, hard winter, our way of being so intimately in touch can be perhaps more difficult than for those who can escape into their heads with flights of fancy.

But when spring finally does break, as it did just a week ago at my home in Montana, the natural perception and appreciation of the real becomes an energizing joy. With a bedroom window open, my house soaks up the amazing smell of spring—of growth, life, fruit trees in bloom, whatever goes into that heady concoction that proclaims, “Spring is here!”

I haven’t discussed this idea with my fiction-writing friends, and maybe I’m wrong; maybe they find a gray, cold winter just as oppressive as I do. It depresses my creative juices, and nonfiction writing is a creative art, as we nonfiction writers struggle to recreate the real world through words invented by humans. We struggle especially hard to describe sensations like smell and taste, for which our language has few useful words. And when I see the amazing variety of color and size and shape in natural beings like these flowers in the garden of my friend, I’m overwhelmed by the idea that I might even try to express their beauty and variety in mere words. Then I remember that doing is not only my job, it’s my passion and my great challenge.

I put off writing about Dorothy for a couple months because she did a guest blog here, but I just can’t help it any longer because she’s great! Like Larry Pringle, Dorothy has been one of those people quietly blazing the trail for a whole generation of other nonfiction writers, especially in science. Like many other science writers, she grew up with a fascination in the world around her. She earned a bachelor’s in Biology from Stanford and a Ph.D. in Zoology from my own alma mater, Berkeley. Her first children’s book, Weasels, Otters, Skunks and Their Family was published in 1973—a full twenty years before my first book came out! Remarkably, she is still actively pushing the envelope of nonfiction, even after having more than 130 books published and winning countless awards.

What I most admire about Dorothy’s work is that, like Larry Pringle and other top writers, she tackles subjects she thinks are important instead of only focusing on their sales potential. She was one of the first writers to tackle evolution, mimicry, and reproduction. She has helped educate young people about everything from horses to mosquitoes to living in a family that hunts.

Some of my favorite recent books by Dorothy have been published by Clarion. They include Biodiversity; Fire—Friend or Foe; and The Buffalo and the Indians—A Shared Destiny. All of these books tackle tough, controversial subjects, but Dorothy explains them in straight-talking, highly readable ways. And some of her recent picture books are just downright fun. My faves include The Right Dog for the Job; Fabulous Fluttering Tropical Butterflies; and Slinky Scaly Slithery Snakes. The last two include astonishing artwork by Montana artist Kendahl Jan Jubb.

Besides greatly admiring Dorothy’s work and her contribution to children’s literature, I am fortunate to be able to count her as one of my friends. When I moved to Montana twelve years ago, she welcomed me into her writer’s group, and we have been friends ever since. I continue to learn from her and her work, and always look forward to what she comes up with next!

Let's face it--the dirty secret of many a nonfiction writer, and even some fiction writers I know, is that the best part of working on a book is the research. We get to learn all sorts of interesting facts, snoop into the private letters of long-dead people, and stare into the faces of folks from other cultures, wondering what their lives were really like. We get to feel important--only a pencil and loose paper allowed in the archives--we're dealing with valuable materials, no ink marks or pilfering tolerated. And how about those silly white gloves that never fit that you have to wear if your handling something really important?
I'm in Cody, Wyoming, as I write this, doing research as a Resident Fellow at the Cody Institute for Western American Studies--doesn't that sound impressive? I'm writing a book about the relationship through time between Indians and horses and thoroughly enjoying being a total nerd for a couple of weeks. Not only do I get to enjoy ferreting out obscure facts, I get to appreciate the beauty of exquisite objects like this beaded horse blanket in the Plains Indian Museum.
The Harold McCracken Research Library here has an abundance of books and archives relating to all aspects of the history of the Old West as it's part of the Buffalo Bill Historical Center. If you ever need information about Plains Indians, Buffalo Bill, Yellowstone ecology, or western art, this institution should be on your list. In addition to the above, the The Cody Firearms Museum contains the most complete collection of American firearms as well as European examples from as long ago as the sixteenth century. Who would know that a little town tucked into a Wyoming valley would contain such research resources? And where else will you be told, "Turn left at the Gatling gun," when you ask how to find a curator's office?
I was lucky enough to become a Fellow here because a friend alerted me to the opportunity. I wonder how many other institutions around the country offer such residencies to people like us. It's a good idea to check on grants and residencies when you are planning your research.
Book authors aren't the only sticklers for facts. Hugh Fordin includes this story in his book, "Getting to Know Him: A Biography of Oscar Hammerstein II." Hammerstein researched every detail for his lyrics, such as the ingredients in a genuine New England clambake for his song in the musical, "Carousel." For "Oklahoma," he wrote this lyric:
June is bustin' out all over
The sheep aren't sleepin' any more!
All the rams that chase the ewe sheep
Are determined there'll be new sheep
And the ewe sheep aren't even keepin' score!

Alas, a colleague told him, sheep mate in the winter, not in June. But Hammerstein couldn't let go of this clever lyric, so when anyone asked about it, he replied, "What you say about sheep may all be very true in most years, sir, but not in 1873. 1873 is my year and that year, curiously enough, the sheep mated in the spring."

We, however, can't be so loose with the truth in our pursuit of our craft, so research away--after all, that's where so much of the fun resides!