I'm finally corralling my brain into a semblance of functionality again. Getting there as least.
Anyhow, on to topic. I've been thinking lately about how much being a writer has influenced me. From the decisions I make, to the books and television that I really love or really don't love - really it's shaped my world view in general, probably almost as much as Christianity has. Writing has never been as simple as a career choice, or a hobby. It's been who I am for almost as long as I've been anybody at all - by which I mean since I grew out of my obligatory childhood obsession with horses as was able to start making informed opinions and decisions. So I guess, thanks to that, it's always been so ingrained that I don't even give it much thought any more, except for once in awhile when I realize I've just done, or am contemplating, something that most people would never even dream of, much less consider. Or if they do, it's not for the same reasons. Or when I realize the thread of thought I'm following is just so bizarre it's a good thing no one can read my mind...
This past weekend was one of those times.
If I was a character in one of my stories, I'd be the little hermit lady living on the mountain, gathering herbs and milking goats, and keeping chickens, that's about two marbles away from being crazy, but the heroes, out of desperation, drag their dying comrade through the forbidden forest, fending off my pet dragon, to seek my herbalist wisdom to cure their friend. Yeah - I'm that character. Not the beautiful warrior maiden or the powerful queen. The crazy hermit. In real life I do keep a flock of chickens, have a garden, do canning and dehydrating, make every single thing we eat from scratch, and pick wild edible things, like huckleberries, dandelion, yarrow, peppermint, and elderberry, though I haven't found a good local source for elderberry yet. (By way of disclaimer, this is NOT any kind of medical blog, nor will it ever be. Nor am I a medical professional. I'm not offering advice, only sharing some interesting experiences. If this sparks your interest, I'd encourage you to do some reading of your own, and remember, it's taken me thirty years to get this crazy. It wasn't something I went looking for over night o.0 )
Anyway, I say all this to introduce the fact that I've already been harvesting yarrow for years, and am fairly well acquainted with many of its medicinal uses, like stopping bleeding, reducing fever and pain, and fighting infection, etc. It's pretty much a super star in its own right. Aside from the herbalist and homesteading blogging community, you don't really hear much about it, but historically, it's been used in fist aid applications for millennia. Something that any savvy novelist would be happy to know and file for future reference. Lately one of my friends who's also into obscure herb lore was saying how she's making yarrow salve, and I thought that sounded like a good idea, especially since I hadn't gotten any dried and put away yet for the year. So Sunday afternoon I dragged Hubby out with the 4-wheeler to take me yarrow picking on the family farm. Then, stocked with a bag full of fresh yarrow, some oil, string, and mortar and pestle, just like the crazy herbalist character, I went to work...
So, while I'm using castor oil for the salve, which will need to marinate for a couple weeks before beeswax gets added, I also did a tiny little batch with olive oil, crushing the yarrow extra well, and heating the oil a little bit so that it would be ready to use right away. Call it my writer's eagerness to experiment, but I was like hey - wisdom teeth out on Monday, let's see if this stuff actually works. And for the record - yes it does. Also for the record, I used olive instead of castor oil on the small batch because I haven't tried castor oil anywhere but on my skin, and since I thought I might be using it in my mouth, I wanted to play it safe. Even though people do swallow castor oil. *Shudders*
Right now you're probably thinking "Man...even by writer's standards you're crazy." But that's not entirely true. I would have used my yarrow concoction with or without the incentive of "research," because it's something I had confidence in. I've used it before, and read a lot about it. It's real-world applicable, not just interesting for the sake of writing. And I wouldn't have used it unless I actually needed it. But after getting home from having teeth pulled, and not being able to get them to stop bleeding (probably because I was having a little panic attack at the time), I did use my yarrow/olive oil solution on them, and it stopped it. Instantly.
So, loooong story short, now I not only have reading knowledge of how something might work in the world of story, I have first-hand experience! Woohoo! Though I wouldn't have complained about a less emotional and painful way of getting it... still. The fact that, in the middle of a completely miserable day of turture, the thing that pops into a writer's mind is "well, this sucks. Maybe I can use it in a book some time," seems to point to writers being not fully human. A sub species, perhaps? There's a standing joke with one of my friends that I'm part were-wolf. Maybe there's some truth to that. On the other hand, maybe writers are the most human of all. Because of anyone, we have the most cause to embrace our pain, and to own our experiences, both good and bad. When you read a book and it touches something deep down in your soul, and makes you cry, or surprises you into laughter, or begins to heal a hurt - I guarantee that's the author's own blood, dripping invisibly onto the page and reaching out to you. Instead of trying to forget their horrible experiences, they've harnessed them, and used them to infuse truth into their fiction, mixing a potent brew as powerful as any spell, capable of healing, or wounding, of changing hearts or changing the world.
