Sedona is for the Birds

Last night, while I was making pizza to the sounds of Mozart, a warbling song drifted in through the open windows. In the deep twilight, I couldn’t identify the singer by sight, but it seemed like the bird was responding to the violins playing on the stereo. Spring has brought a symphony of birdsong to our backyards and “neighborwoods,” the local nickname for the Coconino National Forest boundary that encircles Sedona.

Being so close to national forest, we host a mix of species, shy spotted towhees shuffling beneath bushes in search of insects, scrub jays scolding loudly from pinons, the occasional kestral silently watching for rodents or smaller birds from a branch or telephone pole. A popular neighborwoods walk is to climb Sugarloaf, a red sandstone butte in West Sedona, where white-throated swifts zoom past hikers’ heads.

Deeper in the forest, the liquid song of the canyon wren is sweet music to hikers' ears. These small reddish-brown wrens (about five inches long) hop in and out of rocky crevices and boulder piles in search of insects. The male’s song is a descending, flutelike tew-tew-tew-tew-tew-tew. Females usually choose nest sites hidden in the rocks, though one little mother raised her brood inside the room of an ancient cliff dwelling at Palatki. She tucked her nest in the hole from a roof beam, and her four offspring grew up under the watchful eyes of the site’s rangers and hundreds of visitors.

Cliffs and ledges in Fay Canyon, Sedona

Rocky canyons like Fay, Boynton, and Long also echo with the piercing cries of hawks and peregrine falcons, a threatened and endangered species (TES). Peregrines nest on the ledges of Sedona’s famed rock formations—the second highest concentration of breeding pairs in the state. Where canyons climb to higher elevations, acorn woodpeckers drill holes in ponderosa trunks to store row upon row of acorns, then spend most of their time relocating and defending their accumulated wealth. (Nature’s metaphor for modern life, perhaps?)

With nearly two hundred avian species, from tiny black-chinned hummingbirds to bald eagles, Sedona is a paradise for birdwatchers. Most birds nest here during summer, then spend winter months in Mexico or Central and South America. Seventeen are on the TES list, many of these—including the Southwestern willow flycatcher and belted kingfisher—dependent on riparian areas, the lush environments of Oak Creek, Beaver Creek, or the Verde River.

Some of the best places for birdwatching near Sedona are Red Rock State Park, the wetlands (reclamation ponds) west of town, or the Page Springs Fish Hatchery. Today is the final day of the area's top nature-themed event, the Verde Valley Birding and Nature Festival held each April. Whether you're an experienced birder or a beginner hoping to learn a little more about the feathered musicians in your backyard, the "Birdy Verde" is a fabulous event with workshops and guided field trips throughout central and northern Arizona.

Being a naturalist wannabe, I've made an effort over the years to study Sedona's flora and fauna. And yet every spring I find myself needing to relearn birdcalls or distinguishing marks. Binoculars sit by windows, and field guides pile up on shelves and tables along with a notebook and pen. After hearing last night's anonymous warbler, however, I've decided it's okay to remain in appreciative ignorance. Sometimes, not knowing can be sweeter. As psychologist Eric Berne once said, 

"The moment a little boy is concerned with which is a jay and which is a sparrow, he can no longer see the birds or hear them sing."  

As a writer who travels, I'm often too quick to put a label on the things I see. Sometimes it's better simply to enjoy them.

The Secret of the Senses

Cliffrose near Walnut Canyon National Monument

When I’ve spoken to other writers about making their work more sensual, a few have jumped to conclusions, thinking I’m suggesting they change their manuscript from a memoir or mystery into a romance novel. What I mean is this: Whether you’re writing a romance novel or a travel story, involve the five senses in your work.

I learned this simple technique at the very first writing workshop I attended, about 25 years ago. At the time, I’d published poetry and corporate materials, and I'd finished a romantic suspense manuscript that had just been politely turned down by Harlequin. The workshop leader, Richard Jewell, was published across a multitude of genres and markets, and his advice was universal and easy to implement. To date, it remains the most valuable workshop I’ve ever taken.

Some of us respond well to inspiration, some to nagging. I respond to practicalities and tools, and Jewell matter-of-factly shared several over the course of a couple evenings. Incorporating his suggestions, I revised my manuscript and sent it to the next publisher on my list. It sold.

Are you ready for the secret?

Ground your words in the reality of taste, touch, sound, smell, and sight, and they will come alive. Incorporating the senses in your writing is a bit like cooking, however. If you add too many seasonings, or too much of one spice, the dish will be unpalatable. Instead, sprinkle in the senses in proportion to how we use them.

Because most of us are visually oriented, sight—describing how things look—will be the dominant flavor. Very likely, you’ve incorporated the visual sense intuitively, without having to think about it. You may have even overdone it—too much description and not enough dialogue, for example. The danger of engaging so much with the virtual world is that we rely more and more on the sense of sight. Without including the other four senses, our writing can become as flat as our screens. 

Though sounds may be harder to spot in your writing (just as we often don’t notice the sounds around us once we’ve become habituated to them), we rely heavily on our sense of hearing. Does your fictional heroine respond to a footstep in the dark? Does your travel story include the sound of the wind or the pulsing beat from a nightclub? Include a sound on each page of your story.

The sense of touch--the itch of wool against skin, the slick coolness of a glass of ice tea--should pop up every couple pages. Smell and taste are more challenging to incorporate, especially if you’re writing nonfiction, but a dash of these every few pages will add immediacy to your work: the bitterness of stale coffee, the heady vanilla-like scent of a blooming cliffrose.

When you engage all five of the reader’s senses, you’ve opened a doorway into your world—the one you’ve created on the page (or screen)—and the reader becomes an active participant. 

Try it. I know it sounds simple, but what have you got to lose?

The View From Sedona

Oak Creek, Sedona, Arizona

Among the pitfalls of writing for a living is that you can find yourself in an echo chamber, spending too much time in front of a computer, cut off from your subject and isolated from your audience. Even if you’ve never needed to supplement your writing income with a day job (lucky you!), getting out in the world can bring a fresh perspective, or at least a few good anecdotes.

One of the most entertaining encounters I had while working on Sedona’s busy retail strip was with the guy looking for The View. He burst into the gallery a bit disheveled and out of breath. “Where’s the view?” he demanded. “People told me there was a view here.”

Bear in mind there are only three ways in and out of Sedona, each considered scenic routes. After a few questions, I learned that he had arrived via the Red Rock Scenic Byway, which winds between several monumental red sandstone formations, including Bell Rock, Courthouse Butte, and Cathedral Rock. If he didn’t spot a “view” along that route, I wasn’t sure I could help him.

I suggested a couple possibilities, somehow managing to refrain from adding the suggestion he get his vision checked. After he left, I realized it was his inner vision that that needed examining. Chances are, he had heard about Sedona from someone, and he traveled here with a particular vision in mind. For me, it was a lesson in how expectations can close us off from experience.

Expectations, familiarity, busy-ness—all these can cloud perception and separate us from the things we love, both people and places. When we take a vacation, we vacate our everyday lives. And when we travel with an open mind and open heart, we feel a renewed sense of discovery and enthusiasm. But we don’t need a plane ticket to make every day a discovery.

Today, plant a seed, smell a wildflower, enjoy the sun on your skin. Do something you’ve never done before, or try approaching something familiar as though you’re a traveler seeing it for the first time. Open your eyes and heart to the majesty of your familiar earth home. As T.S. Eliot wrote: “[T]he end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

Happy Earth Day!

The Writer's Craft: Learning From Failure

I’ve always been more intrigued by questions than answers, and I find the fluteplayer image painted or carved on cliff walls throughout the Americas (but most famously here in the Southwest) particularly evocative. Is the fluteplayer a traveling salesman, a supernatural being, or a specific individual? Does he symbolize fertility, rain, seeds, music, or a particular ceremony? 

Fluteplayer pictograph near Sedona, Arizona

I had a lot of time to contemplate these questions while acting as a volunteer docent at Palatki, near Sedona, leading tours of alcoves containing centuries of rock art. One afternoon, a set of possibilities magically shaped themselves into a children’s tale. Thus far, it is the only time in my writing life that I felt visited by a muse. I decided that destiny was playing its hand, and a couple weeks later I sent off the completed manuscript for Kokopelli’s Gift expecting great things: a major publisher, a fat advance, tons of sales, maybe even tie-in products like notecards or refrigerator magnets or, heck, why not a Kokopelli stuffed toy?

The manuscript limped back, rejected.

As the saying goes, this wasn’t my first rodeo, so I knew that I needed to detach, reprint, package, stamp, and send it to the next publisher on the list. And the next. And the next. And the next.

All tolled, I queried and pitched dozens of publishing companies, coming close only once before the book finally found a home at Kiva Publishing, a small company in California that specializes in Southwest-themed books. Owner/publisher Stephen Hill had a talent for matching up writers and illustrators, and he contracted a gifted artist from New Mexico's Santa Clara Pueblo, Michelle Tsosie Sisneros, to illustrate my story about a mysterious stranger who visited a drought-stricken village.

Though I’d expected fireworks from Kokopelli’s Gift, I received instead a small but steady flame that still burns. My articles and guidebooks have been ephemeral—useful to travelers I’m happy to say, but out-of-date in a month, a year, five years, whisked away by rack-jobbers or replaced by new editions. What pleases me most about Kokopelli’s Gift is that it's beautiful (thank you, Stephen and Michelle), and it endures (thank you, muse).

I might have given up on this story after the first round of rejection letters, but I once knew a novelist who sold a Gothic romance twenty years after writing the manuscript, when Gothic fiction resurged in popularity. The obvious moral is “never give up.” In other words, be committed. But there’s an equally important corollary to this moral: Don’t mistake attachment for commitment.

If you’re attached to your story, you may not make necessary revisions, or you may resist tailoring it to a publisher's needs. If you’re attached to a particular outcome—being published, getting a six-figure advance—a sense of failure is likely after a few tries or a few years, and you’ll probably throw in the towel.

But how can you be committed and detached at the same time? 

For most of us, this is one of life’s greatest questions, and there’s no easy answer. Like an archaeologist searching for the past, you may need to dig deep to uncover the origins of your attachment. My attachments, I’ve found, are often responses to feelings of lack or fear. When you’re able to bring up an attachment and look at it in the hard, bright light of day, you can begin to free yourself. Then, with renewed insight, you can commit to your progress as a writer.

Flowers in the Desert

Poppies and phaecelia  in the Sonoran Desert

Spring brings improbable splashes of color to the rocky deserts of California, Nevada, and Arizona. Something about flowers blooming in an arid landscape calls to the human psyche. Photographers and travelers hoping for an iconic scene dial hotlines or check websites for wildflower reports. (Desert USA is a superb resource.) Gorgeous coffee table books by Larry Ulrich or Jack Dykinga get snapped up along with wildflower field guides. Many of us bring home seed packets, hoping to replicate Mother Nature’s annual surprise party in our own backyards.

What is it about flowers in the desert that speaks to us so? Certainly, they are a metaphor for perseverance. Or for finding beauty in unexpected places—a swath of golden poppies at the base of a rocky peak, a red plume of Indian paintbrush bursting from a split boulder. A flower in the desert also reminds us of the ephemeral nature of beauty and youth: Here today, dried sticks tomorrow.

Speaking from a writer’s standpoint, I think that the vision of a tender plant surrounded by cacti, dirt, and rocks creates a feeling of tension. It’s like starting a story in medias res (in the middle of the action), intriguing the reader with questions: How did this get here? What happens next? There’s a sense of impending doom, for you know this delicate flower won’t survive the harsh desert summer.

Or will it?

What I’m getting at in a roundabout way is that all types of writing, even nonfiction, can incorporate fiction-writing techniques to pique the reader’s interest or simply to entertain. Though I haven’t written poetry in many years, I still think about rhythm, consonance, alliteration, and other poetic techniques when I write travel pieces. Similarly, I’ve found that the ingredients of a compelling novel—tension, conflict, characterization, sensuality—often work well for nonfiction.

Maybe you’re writing a piece about an upcoming city council meeting, or a blog post about using Facebook for marketing. As you re-read the draft of your article, think of the wildflower in the desert that makes you stop and take a closer look. Have you unconsciously incorporated storytelling techniques in your work? Will readers feel compelled to stop and take another look themselves? Will they ask, "What happens next?" 

Take a Hike: Long Canyon, Sedona

Overlooking Long Canyon, Sedona, AZ

I have a soft spot for Long Canyon, located about four miles northwest of Uptown Sedona as the raven flies. A story about hiking the canyon was the very first piece I sold to Arizona Highways magazine, back in 1999. But Long Canyon was one of my favorite places way before then, with its deep shade, candy-striped cliffs, giant manzanitas, and entertaining bird life.

Decades ago Long Canyon was a hideout for bootleggers. (Some well-meaning but misguided hikers removed the bootleggers' “trash” a few years back, so that bit of the past has been erased for history buffs and archaeologists.) Today, the canyon is a great place to hide out from the bustling shops and galleries in Sedona, offering a change of scenery, a moderate hike, and a breath of fresh air.

The Long Canyon Trail starts at an unpaved parking area off Forest Road 152D and leads through manzanita, scrub oak, and junipers as it gently climbs toward deeper forest. Ponderosa and piñon grow beside Long Wash, and after snowy winters, the musical notes of flowing water echo off the surrounding cliffs. The tall trees play peekaboo with the views as the trail continues to climb, ending at about four miles.

At certain times of the year, the last mile of trail can be obscured by snow or lined with a gauntlet of poison ivy, so I prefer to approach Long Canyon without an agenda. You don't have to hike to the end of the trail to find beautiful places to linger—a sandstone arch, a wide tributary scattered with rocks and pinecones, a cliffside perch perfect for watching the antics of Stellar jays and acorn woodpeckers.

Other than poison ivy, Long Canyon has only two drawbacks: tour helicopters that buzz overhead with annoying frequency on busy weekends and the Seven Canyons golf resort, which sprawls near the canyon entrance as out of place as, well, green grass in a desert.

Even so, the canyon remains one of the wildest places within a few minutes of Sedona. Here, it’s easy to imagine a mountain lion blending into the buff-colored Coconino sandstone cliffs high above, or a black bear nosing a mossy fallen pine. The last few miles of the Long Canyon Trail lie within the Sedona–Red Rock Wilderness Area, but mountain bikers can turn off the main trail for Deadman Pass, outside wilderness boundaries and scenic in its own way.

People occasionally ask why I write about Sedona’s hidden places instead of keeping them to myself. I believe that when I introduce someone to this wild beauty (especially someone who’s never hiked a wilderness before) that person becomes a potential defender of natural places. Yes, I'm hoping to recruit an army of tree-huggers.


For those who have already been transformed by the outdoors, stay tuned: I'll be writing about a hike or two every month.

The Writer's Craft: Spring Cleaning

George Orwell once said, “Good prose is like a windowpane.” Getting your prose to that state of clarity is, of course, not as simple as it sounds. Maybe that’s why Orwell also said, “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a bout of some painful illness.”

Though spring is associated with fresh starts, writers need to polish and prune all year long. A few quick tips at making every word count:

Organize. Take a metaphoric step back and look at structure. Rearrange or toss out words, sentences, and even entire paragraphs that don’t support your story. If you’re in love with a section that simply doesn’t fit but you can’t bear to trash it, save it in a “Cuts” folder. Chances are you’ll never miss it and never return to it … but it’s there just in case you want to try it on for a different project.

Lose the deadwood. Can you say the same thing in fewer words? Helper verbs (was, been, have, could, does, etc.) aren’t always helpful. Take a closer look. Maybe you can even trim a letter here and there. (“Toward” is better than “towards.”)

Go for more color. Cut back on nonspecific verbs like “went” and aim for something better suited to character, setting, or story, like “raced” or “dawdled.” Trade in vague constructions like “There are” for something more pointed.

Retrain. Look for overused words or lazy habits. Make a list of your usual suspects and search them out. (Use your word processor’s Find feature if necessary.) Eventually you’ll recognize the offenders as you’re typing and replace them automatically.

Tweak, trim, and repeat until your prose sparkles. Self-editing is a skill that can be acquired through practice or with the help of a style guide. A classic is Strunk and White's The Elements of Style.

Which writer are you?

Everyone’s a writer, or at least it seems that way these days. Blogs, Facebook posts, e-newsletters, self-published books…. I could go on, but for someone like me who’s old enough to remember how thrilling it was to break into print (i.e., ink on actual pages) and who’s still dreaming of writing a hardcover bestseller—well, the new reality can be a bit disconcerting.

I feel a bit like a traveler who suddenly realizes she’s hopelessly lost. But years of traveling have taught me that getting lost sometimes leads to great discoveries. First, I needed to discover—or uncover—what kind of writer I am. Or, in other words, who have I been all these years?

I’m not an artist. Some writers are. Terry Tempest Williams comes to mind. For me, her evocative prose triggers a spectrum of senses and emotions, and the visual images inspired by her writing linger long after reading. To reach out and touch someone … that’s art.

And I’m not a storyteller (but how I wish I were!): the writer who keeps you up past your bedtime so that you can read just one more page. Paragraph. Chapter. (Oh, wait—is that the sun coming up already?) Nora Roberts, John Grisham, Diana Gabaldon, Val McDermid…. I bet you have a list of favorites too.

Me, I’m more of a bricklayer: A blue-collar writer who approaches writing as a skill more than an art, as a job more than a calling. My dad was a union carpenter, and like him, I go to work every day and apply my skills to different projects. He helped build bridges or buildings. I’ve written novels and articles, press releases and brochures, technical manuals and poetry. I’ve worked for publishers, businesses, a film producer, and even other authors. And when writing gigs were thin on the ground, I took second jobs to learn more (proofreading, editing, page layout) or to earn more (retail, teaching yoga, housecleaning).

Many people think of writing as a purely creative pursuit. I agree in one sense: You have to be creative at how you pursue writing if you want to make it a bigger part of your life. If I waited for the muse to strike, most days, I’d just be sitting here. Waiting.

I prefer to think of writing as a craft. Tools, mentors, experience, luck, inspiration, hard work—take these “bricks” and over time you can build something that looks a lot like a career. Travel writer and bricklayer, that’s me. Now that I’ve settled the question of who, it’s a question of how. And why. Did I choose travel writing, or did it choose me?

Since the “hows” are pretty straightforward, I’ll start with those, in between writing about what I like best: traveling.

Sedona Vortex Sites

Airport Saddle vortex

Now that I’ve mentioned Sedona’s famous (or infamous) energy vortex sites once or twice, it’s time to go into further detail. And no, this has nothing to do with April Fool’s Day!

Right now, you may be blissfully unaware of the mysteries of vortices (plural for vortex). But if you visit Sedona, you’ll encounter scores of vortex-related books, souvenirs, tours and—if you’re fortunate—even a vortex or two. Among locals, there are as many skeptics as believers, so the best thing to do is keep an open mind and decide for yourself. Is the vortex phenomenon real, or—as a dear friend claims—is the only vortex in Sedona the one that pulls money from tourists’ pockets?

The buzz over Sedona’s vortex sites began around 1980, when they were identified by a local psychic named Paige Bryant (no relation). She pinpointed several locations around the Sedona area that amplified or focused particular types of energy emanating from the earth. Later writers expanded on her theories, and the majority concur that Bell Rock, Cathedral Rock, Airport Saddle, and Boynton Canyon are the most active energy sites in Red Rock Country, each with different properties.

I can tell that some of you are dismissing all that as “New Age hooey.” But here in Sedona, as elsewhere, the New Age is anything but new, blending aspects of such venerable world traditions as Native American spirituality, shamanism, Christianity, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Sufism. Several of these ancient traditions have incorporated geomancy or earth magic—aligning a doorway with the rising sun, for example, or building a chapel on a site already sanctified by long centuries of worship or pilgrimage.

No matter what camp you fall into, skeptic or believer, perhaps we can all agree on one thing: Sedona’s greatest magic is the way this breathtaking red rock landscape can awaken us to the enduring majesty of our Earth home. 

If you’d like to find out how to get to Sedona’s vortex sites or learn about some of their associated Yavapai legends, click here to read a story I wrote for Arizona’s travel council.