Once I’d settled on 1876 as my setting, the other pieces of the puzzle fell into place: a Wyoming frontier that was far less colonized by white pioneers than these ancestors truly found, the vast distance between most homesteads, and Cora’s helpless fear of the wilderness. The setting seemed an appropriate backdrop for my exploration of nature and death.
This book came together far more easily than any I’d written before. In fact, Blackbird almost seemed to write itself, pouring out of me in an ecstatic rush whenever I sat down to work on the manuscript. The setting and the characters—and the mostly fictitious dilemma I’d created for them—carried the theme without any fuss. But midway through the book, doubt began to nag at me. Yes, I was writing the book easily enough. I hadn’t yet run into a frustrating day when the words just wouldn’t come, when I struggled to trudge through a chapter or a scene—common enough experiences for all writers, and a malaise that typically settles on me at least once per book. But still, I felt the novel was missing something critical. There was more I wanted to say about death and the great miracle of life, the sacred connectedness of nature. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly the missing piece might be.
I was beginning to despair, even though the book was still coming together with amiable ease. I gave myself a few days off and decided to spend that time out on the west side of San Juan Island—my home—reading poetry and listening to the voices of nature.
I walked out to my favorite spot for privacy and meditation, a soaring overlook above the nineteenth-century relics of the lime kilns, vast stone chimneys that were once used to process limestone, back in the days when San Juan Island had depended on economies other than tourism. There I sat, staring across the Salish Sea toward Vancouver Island, listening to birdsong and the murmur of the waves far below. I took my phone from my pocket and pulled up a poetry site, one that displayed a poem at random every day.
My scalp prickled when I saw the poem; my breath caught in my throat. It was “The Two-Headed Calf,” written by the late Laura Gilpin, a piece that carries special significance for me. It was the first poem I read after learning that my father had died in his sleep in 2003, when he had been only forty-nine years old. I have associated “The Two-Headed Calf” and its haunting imagery with my father ever since—and now, sitting among the wind and stone on my lonesome overlook, I felt the significance of that poem and of my father’s early death throbbing in the center of my chest.
In an instant, I understood what was missing from Blackbird. I didn’t know why the two-headed lamb belonged in the story; I only knew that it did. And as soon as I returned to my office, I emailed Chris Werner, my editor at Lake Union, to tell him the manuscript was getting a surprise addition that hadn’t been included in the proposal.
The book came together rapidly from that moment on. Blackbird is still the only novel I’ve written that never became onerous for me, not even once.
On July 4, 2018, I took a few days off from writing to celebrate the holiday with my family, who had come up to the island to enjoy our fantastic view of two fireworks shows. My dear old cat Tron took a sudden turn for the worse, and I was obliged to track down the only available veterinarian at her home and bring her to my house to end Tron’s suffering. His was not an easy death, but I was grateful to hold him while he made the inevitable journey, and glad I could alleviate some of his suffering, at least. My niece and nephew, Agatha and Henry, were visiting for the holiday. I was initially sorry that our planned weekend of family fun had turned so somber; and Agatha was upset, for she had known Tron all her life, and like me, she has a special fondness for cats.
While Paul dug a grave under our beautiful old pear tree, I asked Agatha to help me cut cornflowers in the garden—blue flowers for my blue cat—and, together with my mother, we had a nice conversation about death.
“You aren’t crying much, Auntie,” Agatha said.
“I know,” I replied. “I guess that’s partly because I’ve known for a long time that Tron was going to die soon. But also, it’s because I know that death isn’t anything to fear. It’s very special; it’s sacred. Think about all the animals in the world, and all the plants, and everything else that lives. All the millions of different kinds of life in the world. We’re all so different from one another, but there are two experiences we all share. One is birth—or hatching from an egg, or sprouting from a seed, or however life begins. The other is death. Whatever kind of life we are, we all begin and we all end. In the beginnings and the endings, we can understand each other, and that makes a great connection among us all.”
We took the cornflowers to Tron’s grave and lowered his body inside.
“This is the worst part,” my mom said ruefully. “Burying someone you love.”
But I said, “I think this is the best part. Now Tron will become everything else we see all around us—the grass and the lilacs, the fruit on the tree. Every time we eat these pears, we can think of him, and remember how much we loved him.”
I placed one flower on my old friend’s eye, and Agatha and my mother helped me decorate his body with two circles of blue—circles for the endlessness of life, the unbroken hoop of our connection. As I tucked Tron into the soil and returned him to the earth that made us all, I thought of this book, which I was partway through writing. I thought of the story I wanted to tell.
I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it.
I am grateful to so many people for their support and help during the creation of this novel.
Chris Werner, my acquisitions editor, has shown such enthusiasm for this project from the day I first proposed it. I hope we will continue working together for many years to come. Danielle Marshall, Lake Union’s editorial director, has also been a champion for my work, and I am so grateful for her support.
I have had the privilege of working yet again with developmental editor Dorothy Zemach, whose sharp eye and wise suggestions helped make this book all it could be.
Valerie Paquin was my copy editor, and the work she put in to this manuscript astounded me in its detail and thoughtfulness.
I must thank my grandmother Georgia Grant, for sharing with me our family history—and Aunt Mona, who is my biggest fan.
Thank you to Tim, who has promised to keep a close eye on the Duke.
My gratitude to Laura Gilpin, one of the greatest American poets, for inspiring me all these years.
And most of all, my bottomless thanks and endless love to Paul Harnden, my husband. Every word I write is for him.
Olivia Hawker
January 2019
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2018 Paul Harnden
Through unexpected characters and vivid prose, Olivia Hawker explores the varied landscape of the human spirit. Olivia’s interest in genealogy often informs her writing: her two novels, The Ragged Edge of Night and One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow, are based on true stories found within her own family tree. She lives in the San Juan Islands of Washington State, where she homesteads at Longlight, a one-acre microfarm dedicated to sustainable permaculture practices. For more information, visit www.hawkerbooks.com/olivia.
One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel Page 49
