The Writer, Her Brother, and a Wild Pony
The Writer, Her Brother, and a Wild Pony
Summer heat dried up the ditches till the earth cracked, meaning everything, everywhere was floured in a layer of dust. There wasn’t much to do in the lazy hours between lunch, when our father left for his second shift welding job and six-thirty, when our mom made it home from the factory. Well. There were chores, obviously. But those could wait until the last panicked half-hour before we were caught shirking. June-bugs, like Japanese beetles on steroids, thundered around and bumped into clothes on the dry-line. (It was actually late July, but bugs aren’t very good at telling time.) My brother and I had already decided upon our afternoon’s entertainment; we just needed to walk the lane to John’s place.
John was our neighbor, but only sort of. He lived in town and kept the property for his hobbies. And by hobbies, I mean building a magnificent barn by hand, complete with enormous attic room and floor to ceiling windows, as well as a stable and paddock. His daughter always wanted a horse. John did not see the point in getting a horse if a pony would do, especially a pony he may have gotten for free. “Duke” had been retired from service, so to speak, at a local 4H camp. A shaggy brown pony with a white blotch at his nose, he had the smarts of his breed—and knew freedom when he saw it. Left on his own at the property, he went rogue, wild. NO ONE was EVER going to ride him again. To me and my brother, that sounded like a challenge.
In reality, riding Duke wasn’t that hard. Catching him, though. That took strategy. And two people. And some very large beach towels.
I have said nice things about Duke’s intelligence. But he really didn’t “get” beach towels. If you held one out to it’s full length, shielding your body as a giant orange and yellow rectangle, he just assumed that is a wall. Two people with beach towels? A veritable fortress. We backed Duke into the corner of the paddock, taking it in turns to climb the fence and pitch ourselves onto his bare back. No saddle, obviously, and no reins, so you had to wrap your arms around his neck and hold on tight. Sixty seconds of wild-west bucking ensued before Duke resigned himself to the task, and you could get a few laps around the paddock and its overhanging pine boughs.
He would throw you off eventually. He once threw his owner in the pond. But my brother and I could get through whole afternoons just playing catch and release with a half-wild pony. He was oily and dust-coated, we were sweaty and slick, and all the rough-housing meant we arrived home literally pasted with dirt. Duke, well, he got exercise plus carrots and apples for his trouble. Everyone ended the day happy.
Writing, for me, is like catching a wild pony; you’re going to need a plan, a friend, and a reasonable tolerance for getting your hands dirty. It also helps to provide treats at the end.
Right now, I am hip deep in my present non-fiction project. It’s about transgender people and gender affirmation surgery in Interwar Berlin, and a sexology clinic run by a gay Jewish man named Magnus Hirschfeld. More importantly, it’s about Dora Richter, a trans woman whose remarkable story threads through world events (including the first and second World Wars). I’m in the middle of chapter four. I’ve been in the middle of chapter four a while now, because this pony can really run.
Perhaps it’s not quite the same thing as holding beach towels with sweaty palms, heart racing as you cling to a live animal ready to buck and run. But it’s a bit like that. The research can seem overwhelming, the idea or story too difficult to corner. I could do none of this without help—without support. I’ve had so many colleagues suggest, books, authors to read, documents to look for. Bit by bit, it helps me narrow the field. Others let me bounce ideas off of them, and still others cheer from the sidelines when my spirits are flagging. Even I need a carrot now and then.
But that isn’t the only reason for comparing the writing to wrestling wild horses. You see, it’s work and it’s often frustrating. We fall and we fail. But through it all, I want to remember the joy: the moment of gasping, heart-swelling excitement when you tackle something larger than yourself. I want to live for the experience as much as the outcome: the sweat of afternoon exertion; the smell of hay and weeds; the sound of June bugs that can’t tell time. I want you to live for the experience, too, being, and not just doing.
Here’s to the ponies worth chasing. Here’s to the brothers, sisters, and friends who help us catch them.
I host the Peculiar Book Club where I promote the books and carreers of around 20 authors a year in twice-monthly shows. Our next one is January 12th, Kris Newby’s book about Lyme disease Bitten. Davey Berris, my friend and co-host and producer is running a new segment of the show, a podcast called the Peculiar Movie Club. On January 19th, he’s releasing the first of the series. It’s on 28 Days Later, a way of tying fiction and film to the book.
[Photo by Globe City Guide 🌎 on Unsplash]