The "Nature" of Writing

In my readings, I've noticed the use of nature to set the tone, the mood, the tension. It's a reassuring connection for me; nature is so closely tied to our well-being, whether we like to admit it or not. The use of it in writing is a seemless activity.

As I was reading ATLAS SHRUGGED, by Ayn Rand, a scene from my own story struck me... quite literally struck me - the image of this scene flashed in my mind, the words with it. The more likely reason for such a sudden inspiration would be Divine Intervention - I'll happily give credit where credit is due.

But it wasn't just the reading that brought about this writing piece, but the fact that I was reading outside. Just a simple change of location made all the difference. I read about the sound of the wind in the book as the wind around my house made a sudden appearance.

In the book I'm writing, the main character finds herself stranded in a snow storm. After several days of heavy snow fall, she finally ventures out into the woods and spends time in nature. I've been wanting to personalize her experience in that first walk through the woods, to describe the walk, the sounds, sights, smells. But I couldn't write: "It's smelled fresh" or "She heard the wind whistling through the trees". That falls under the "read that before" category. Writing needs to be new; describing experiences we might not all share, but writing it in a way that makes it real for all readers through the character. In doing that, we, as writers, are shaping a puzzle. Not only shaping it, but creating the master picture from which to work.

Here's what I wrote:

The wind blew genlty across the white fields. Not the angry wind that carried the snow clouds, but a cotton kind of breeze. The caressing touch brought images of her childhood summers along the shores of Lake Michigan. The smaller beaches were her favorite; a narrow strip of sand between water and woodland, a haven from the deep public beaches crowded with chatter and radios.

Her beach had no name. It was almost a two mile walk through a green and brown wonderland filled with the thrilling trills of Michigan birds and the sporadic crunching scatter of squirrles darting from hiding places under last year's leaves. The wind couldn't penetrate those woods, it only skipped along the tops of the trees, dragging it's fingers over the upper most brances like a harpist playing chords meant for only those with feathers.

But she had heard it then and she strained to hear it now.

The harpist was too early here, the trees were out of tune. Haunting sounds fell from above - a whistling of the ghosts of trees. I'll not be afraid of that sound, she reassured herself. It's just the beginning, the wake up call, Mother Nature's five-minute warning to earth-bound children that spring is almost here.


My question for today... What other places should I visit to write? Where should I go to read the next chapter of ATLAS SHRUGGED? How different would the book be if I bought a train ticket to California?