Writing soil: inspiration and dissonance
Author and soil scientist Jennifer Jones explores the dissonance between writing that seems attractive to potential readers, but not to publishers. She presents the evidence for positive comments from publishers … followed by rejection.
Image credit: Jen Jones
Judges’ comments, Nan Shepherd prize 2021:
‘The judges thought the ideas in your proposal were captivating, urgent and fascinating, particularly the sections focused on science and climate. They felt your proposal was smart and your expertise shone through.’
‘Our in-house Nan Shepherd Prize readers also loved your proposal and here are some of their comments: I love the topic and the writing – an accessible writing style with humour. I love it, it reminded me of Rachel Carson’s books on the sea in how it approached the subject. Somehow changed my mind about soil!’
I was on Cloud Nine. I had been shortlisted for the Nan Shepherd prize. The judges’ comments boosted my confidence. Reminding them of Rachel Carson: wow! Surely, this was the tipping point I needed: my book ‘A Teaspoon of Soil’ was bound to be published … wasn’t it?
I’d better come clean: I am passionate about soil. Despite many years as a soil scientist teaching and researching soil, I continue to learn something new daily. It enthuses and uplifts me. I want to share its glories widely. I wanted everyone to know all there is to celebrate in soil. That is the crux of my book.
Soil doesn’t get a very good press. Dr. Karen Van Campenhout suggests soil is perceived as a ‘boring, brown blob’ and, therein, lies the challenge. Who will want to read about a boring, brown blob? How can I write about soil to make it attractive? Who would want to publish such work?
We interact with soil much more than we realise. It underpins our heritage. Most people know that 95% of our food is soil-derived. Some see soil as synonymous with gardening or agriculture. Yet, there is so much more to this innocuous-looking material.
Let’s imagine, for a minute, a life without soil. Our food supplies would be impaired. With no substrate to filter and control water, we would continuously experience flooding. We would lose our great climate change mitigator: soil is the greatest terrestrial store of carbon. Forensic scientists would lose a material crucial to crime solving. Buried archaeological artefacts would lose their protection. Soil is a habitat in its own right and hosts more than 25% of global biodiversity. Surely, there is much to celebrate here.
Food and soil. Image credit: Jen Jones
My friend Christine was busy with school children burying underpants, 100% cotton of course. They buried some in fields where the soil was farmed for agriculture; others were buried in land with minimum land use or left fallow. Christine wanted to show the children the magic of life in the soil. As a scientist, I probably shouldn’t use the word ‘magic,’ but sometimes no other word suffices. Two months later, Christine and the children dug up the underpants. Those from the site regularly under agriculture appeared grubby but more or less intact. Those from fallow sites were shredded and in holes. The children were amazed. The state of the underpants showed the health of the soils and the life living within. The fallow soils were so rich in fungi and organisms that they had fed voraciously on the underpants; the soil in the other field was far less healthy, as witnessed by the lack of any greedy organisms. Holey underpants equal soil magic.
Recent Twitterati comments and conversations with authors show that when I chat about soil, they are enthused: ‘I’d love to read about that’ one well-known nature writer gushed. Requests on Twitter asked where they could buy the book, or when was it being published.
And yet there is a dissonance between a writer’s passion for their subject, people’s desire to read about it, and the vagaries of the publishing world. The Nan Shepherd feedback had been so positive my agent described my manuscript as ‘literary gold’ and it was clear when I spoke to people about soil, I could inspire them. Yet, despite my agent’s best efforts, we have still to secure a publisher.
Those publishers approached have, largely, fed back positively:
‘I’ve really enjoyed reading the material - it’s clear that Jennifer is a soil fanatic and really knows her stuff.’
‘We think that she (Jennifer) is great - so well qualified and rounded in her knowledge and experience. And this is a very thoughtful and engaging proposal.’
‘Jennifer is remarkably knowledgeable about soil and the natural world, and I came away from reading her proposal with a newfound appreciation of the ground below our feet. Her passion is infectious and she wears her considerable learning lightly.’
It seems I can impress with my knowledge, can impart a ‘newfound appreciation of the ground below our feet’, but I’ve clearly not got that headline hook. All the above were followed by … BUT. Rejection followed rejection.
My knowledge and experience as a soil scientist pose no impediment. I wonder if the word ‘soil’ is the culprit. Deriving from the 12th century, it first appeared as the verb ‘to soil’, which according to today’s dictionary means, ‘to make dirty, smear or stain with dirt.’ By the 13th century, the noun ‘soil’ appeared. When I give talks to schools and ask pupils what the word ‘soil’ means, they will often say ‘dirt’ or ‘muck’. I wonder whether, unconsciously, publishers perceive a book about soil, as something dirty.
Soil speaks to me. When I handle it, I sense its energy. I feel something finite and precious: it inspires and enchants me and triggers curiosity. One colleague suggested we should call soil ‘brown gold’. Soil has many stories to tell. The challenge is to tell those stories, to entice people with soil’s many dimensions. To weave my words so that soil is no longer perceived as a ‘boring, brown, blob’.
Can soil inspire? Yes, it can. In North America, and here in the UK, artists have extracted pigments from soil to paint with them. Ceramicists have experimented by sprinkling soil onto the outside of their produce to explore the impact of the high temperature furnace on them. The answer: beautiful patterns enhance the exquisite works.
The poet, Seamus Heaney, was inspired to write about the peatland soils of his childhood home. Clare Shaw was Poet in Residence at the Lancashire peatlands. She writes eloquently of all she experienced. John Steinbeck wrote about the damaging impact of soil erosion in The Grapes of Wrath.
Soil even inspired musical composition. In 1940, Woody Guthrie sang his Dust Bowl Ballads passionately, while Johnny Cash produced his album Songs of Our Soil.
Soil can and does inspire. The challenge is to demonstrate this to potential publishers. I have had many articles published on different dimensions of soil. It seems soil written in small parcels is welcomed.
All the creative people I have written about have used soil as a form of exploration, whether in paintings, structures, poetry, prose, or music. What is clear is that soil, not only helps us to feel grounded, it also touches our innermost emotions, which just adds to the beauty of this substance. The work of these creative people has shown there is so much more to soil than being ‘a boring, brown blob’; it is not something dirty, to be overlooked or ignored. It is to be celebrated.
Jennifer Jones is a soil scientist and writer, based in north-west England. She loves writing about the natural world, but soil is her passion. Having taught for many years in higher education, she now focuses on creative writing. Jennifer has just completed the MA course in Nature and Travel Writing at Bath Spa University and nervously awaits her results. She has had work published in The Clearing, Resurgence & Ecologist, Birdwatching and The RSPB magazine. Follow Jen on social media:
Facebook @jjonesauthor
Instagram @jenniferjonesauthor
Twitter @bogtrotter99
Website: https://jenniferjonesauthor
Blog: https://oldbirder.wordpress.com/
