New Book Out

 

I have never sat down to write a book, but from time to time it occurs to me that maybe I have written one, in spite of myself. A friend of mine who was preparing a little bio to accompany an essay of mine to be reprinted in an online journal asked me how many books I'd written, and I had to look at my Amazon author page to come up with an answer: eight.

Most of these books consist of essays gathered from a pamphlet I've published occasionally since 1988, suitably edited, polished, honed. And sometimes not. One such pamphlet, which I sent out maybe eighteen months ago, struck a chord. Among the fifteen or twenty people I sent it to, quite a few commented on it. That's not typical. It was called "Cabin in the City."  

Maybe that would be a good theme for a book, I said to myself. I gathered together a selection of pieces that focused on passing events—not only weekend walkabouts and backyard observations, but also social gatherings, wilderness excursions, and a road trip or two. These pieces are largely free of the metaphysical musings that bog down so many of my books, though I found I couldn't abandon that vein of thought entirely. Among the subjects you'll find here are snowy owls, pea soup, kite-flying, the history of agriculture, the linden tree in our front yard, washing windows, the joy of compost, prom night, and wood ticks.

I will say no more on that subject. I don't want to give too much away! But just this morning I received two emails from literary or scholarly sources to which I subscribe. The first, from the publisher Farrar, Straus, Giroux, was promoting a few of their front-list titles. Among them was a book called Time Management for Mortals, and another called Inflamed, in which the author describes how our social and political structure are slowing tuning our immune systems in a very bad way.     

The second email, from the American Scholar, featured a book called Losing Eden, in which the author draws on a vast array of recent scientific literature to underscore all the benefits we receive from close contact with nature, and the many things we lose when we lose contact with it.

I believe it all, but I don't want to read about it. I'd rather go for a walk in the rain. The proof of the pudding is in the tasting.

I think of this new collection as sort of an extended walk in the rain. Refreshing?

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I'll be doing a virtual reading this coming Thursday (Aug 12) at Subtext Books in St. Paul, with Matt Schuth, the naturalist at the U of MN Landscape Arboretum, (sign-up to watch here) and an in-person solo event at Magers and Quinn on October 23. You can get the book from either of these wonderful bookstores, as well as from various online vendors.