When I identify myself as a nature writer I get one of three reactions. Most commonly, I get a vaguely affectionate, “Aw,” which I take to mean that my acquaintance has no interest in reading nature writing but supposes it benign, sweet, and mildly virtuous. Frequently, I get a blank response, which I take to mean that the acquaintance considers nature writing a respectable but boring, monotonous, pointless and over-pious genre. If my acquaintance loves nature writing, of course, I see a flash of excitement. This has happened one or two times. Those who love nature writing make up a small church. Sometimes I hide behind the respectability and anonymity of the genre. What I most crave, however, is not respect but engagement.
— Anna Mills, writing from the other side of the Bay.
That’s from a couple months ago. I am continually catching up these days. I do wonder if Anna’s reading a bit more familiarity with the genre into those blank stares than is proper. My experience is that the plurality of such people have never fully connected the concepts of “nature” and “writing,” having unconsciously assigned them to what Steve Gould might have called Non-Overlapping Magisteria, and the blank response identical to that I’d have gotten if I’d called myself a “Presbyterian cook” or “Republican swimmer.”
Speaking of things I missed and nature writers and wishing I had a damn time machine: Jo(e) and Rana in the same hammock. [Update: and Lorianne too. Damn.] I really need to start going to nature writing conferences.
