No one told me chemistry would be involved. When I signed up to write a nonfiction book about natural disasters for middle school and high school kids, the silicon-oxygen (SiO2) tetrahedron was the furthest thing from my mind. But there it is, staring out at me with cold logical eyes from the page of a text book I bought about natural disasters. I'm in the volcano section. Breezing along reading about Mount Vesuvius and the thousands of people who instantaneously died. Basically, they suffocated to death. My kind of stuff. I was even sliding easily through the material about plate tectonics, which I had already gone through while writing the earthquake section of my outline. I got it. Volcanic activity takes place along the fault lines of tectonic plates all the time. Most of it we don't see, because it's happening on the ocean floors. And most of it is not harmful to human life. Volcanic activity along transform faults, where the plates grind by one another horizontally, don't create much of a fuss, volcano-wise. Out of sight, out of mind. But volcanic activity along subduction zones, where one plate grinds underneath another, that's where the volcanic mountains we see on Earth come from. The magma in the subduction zones has no place to go but up. And over tens of millions of years, it goes up and up and up until there's a beautiful Mount Saint Helens for all of us to enjoy--until it explodes, of course. So far, so good. Until I came to a section titled: "Chemical Compositions of Magma," followed by: "Viscosity, Temperature, and Water Content of Magmas." My sister, the chemist, can say that chemistry is great. "Totally logical!" she claims, but I'm only going to accept that pronouncement from her after she has analyzed some early Romantic poetry, which I consider great, if not totally logical. Can I get it? Can I understand that Earth's mantle is composed of eight main elements, and that silicon and oxygen are the two main ingredients, forming silicates? Got it. I can even understand that oxygen carries two negative charges (-2) and that silicone carries four positive charges (+4), and that opposites attract, and that's why silicon and oxygen form a nice strong bond--big sheets and vast networks of SiO2, which is what magma mostly is, with some trapped gases, like water vapor. thrown into the mix. And when the magma rises to the surface, pressure is released on those trapped gases, and they explode with various degrees of explosiveness depending on the amount of silica found in the magma. Basaltic magma: low silica + high temps + low viscosity = mild explosions. Andesitic magma: higher silica content + lower temps + higher viscosity = more powerful explosions. Rhyolitic magma: highest silica content + even lower temps + even higher viscosity = most powerful explosions. So what's my problem? What's my gripe with oh-so-logical chemistry? I can't wrap my head around the SiO2 tetrahedron. It's the four-sided pyramid shaped thing (I had to look the word up) that is formed when silicon and oxygen combine. One silicon atom + two oxygen atoms, right? So why am I stuck looking at a drawing that looks like one silicon + four oxygen? And what's with the SiO4-4 business? And how does that turn into vast sheets and networks of tightly bonded silicate? Agh! Where is Walter White when I need him?
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The plan (was it a week ago?) was to read I'll Be Gone in the Dark as quickly as possible. Put it aside, and get back to the work of researching and writing a book for young readers about natural disasters. It was a good plan. I got right to it by dutifully hunkering down in bed and obsessively reading I'll Be Gone in the Dark to the exclusion of all other activities.
I then returned to The Great Quake, a wonderful 2017 book about the 1964 Alaska earthquake, the largest quake to ever hit North America, the most studied earthquake in the history of our planet, and the earthquake that provided definitive evidence for the theory of plate tectonics. it cannot be said, however, that I devoted myself to The Great Quake with the same enthusiasm I showed for I'll Be Gone in the Dark. I regret to admit that I melded with my bed for another round of non-disastrous reading, thanks to a wonderful library app called Libby. I tossed The Great Quake aside in favor of When, a book about how we use and misuse time, by Daniel H. Pink, and The Annals of Unsolved Crime, by Edward Jay Epstein. I would feel really, sincerely bad about this except for two things. One: I have never missed a freelance deadline in my entire career by more than a day or two, and I have always notified my editor--with profuse apologies--in advance. Two: When taught me something about why that might be the case. Turns out that most of us follow predictable patterns when we undertake major projects. The majority of us, whether working alone or in a group, dawdle at the start, then pick up steam and focus as a deadline appears closer on the horizon. It's why deadlines work. So I was in my dawdling stage, and feeling pretty awful about it. But I did pull myself away from the unsolved crimes saga to check what my actual deadlines are, just to make sure I don't need to fast forward from dawdle to full throttle. The first deadline is this process is set for October 15, 2018, when an author questionnaire and outline are due. I don't like taking risks. I like getting my work done in advance. Which means I already feel like I'm behind schedule. Which is why I have avoided Libby for an entire two days, finished The Great Quake (it really is a good read!), completed two sections of the outline, and verified with my editor that the book will consist of eight chapters, as follows: 1. Introduction 2. Earthquakes 3. Volcanoes 4. Hurricanes 5.Tornadoes 6. Floods 7. Droughts 8. Wildfires She's like, yeah, fine, whatever. What else would a book about natural disasters include? Well, I'll tell you! There is an entire category of natural disasters called Space Disasters. That's a real thing: asteroids hit the Earth, solar flares knock out power grids, that sort of thing. But not enough to justify an entire chapter. Do not walk to the local library to return a couple of books about earthquakes and volcanoes and spend a few minutes browsing new releases in the nonfiction area at the front of the library. Do not pick up said books. Do not hold them in your hands. Do not read the back cover blurbs. Do not flip through the pages and start reading wherever your eyes land. Do not pick up one book in particular, read a bit, then put it back, then pick it up again--especially if it looks like it might be a fantastic true crime story, because you know you can't resist a really good true crime story. Do not take the book to the check out counter and check it out. Do not start reading the book immediately after you have checked it out. Do not take the book home and set it on the nightstand next to your bed, pushing aside the book about the great Alaska earthquake of 1964 that you are supposed to be reading. Do not go to bed early and start reading the book. Do not stay up until dawn reading one of the most engrossing true crime stories you have come across in years. It starts with anxiety. As I get close to crossing the finish line of one book, I get a panicky feeling. I don't know what to do with myself if I am not working on something. So I worry: Will there be a next book? So far, there always has been, thanks to my wonderful editor, Andi Diehn, at Nomad Publications. Andi has known me for a long time. It wasn't like I was an unknown writer to her. Still, it amazes me that she hired me to write a nonfiction book about World War II. And then she hired me to write two books about the Renaissance. And then she hired me to write a book about women engineers. I didn't exactly have a comprehensive understanding of any of those topics. And even today, with one book published and two more coming out in October 2018, and another manuscript submitted, I still think those editorial decisions represent an amazing leap of faith. World War II? The Renaissance? Engineering? I was an English major, an English teacher, a freelance writer for local lifestyle magazines, an editorial assistant at a regional newspaper. I was not a historian, and I was even less an engineer. Did that stop me from signing contracts to write books on topics that I knew very little about? Nope! Turns out I can learn, and I can translate that learning into language that young readers can comprehend. I'm grateful for that. And four books in, I always look forward to the next assignment. I'm always excited about it. I can't hardly wait to get started. But the anxiety is always there, too. Natural disasters? Sure! I'll write a book for 12- to 15-year-olds about natural disasters. Why not? I can learn, right? Let's hope so. Because the minute I started researching the topic, I can assure you I learned one thing. I don't know squat about natural disasters! |
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