We learn halfway through Creative Writing 101 to write about not only what we know, but also about what fascinates and intrigues us, even what thrills or terrifies us. Lyric poets learn quickly to color outside the lines, moving beyond broken hearts and changes of season. The older I get, and the more convinced I am that our species and the planet are in serious trouble, the more I’m drawn to topics of urgency. Yet as a suburbanite who rarely travels, I’ve also learned that writing about what I don’t know first-hand can lead to an inauthentic use of voice if I’m not careful. There’s a fine line between honest concern and true credibility.

Recently I attended a reading by T. C. Boyle, who happens to live in a Frank Lloyd Wright home in the posh hills of Santa Barbara. Boyle shared that most of the ideas for his stories come from the newspaper, which didn’t surprise me. They cover everything from science and religion to education, office jobs, medicine, and sports; and they’re set in places urban and rural, past and future. But threaded through each story is a kind of mythic exploration of what makes us human, mainly how our response to crisis is tied to our connection to – or disconnection from – the ecosystem. His main characters, time and again, reach epiphanal moments when in the presence of something wild: an opponent of creationist education bends over a nest of snakes that resemble “ribbons of God;” a lonely widower’s home is overrun by rats that began as pets; a fearful immigrant’s neighborhood is destroyed by a brush fire begun during his own Buddhist ritual. Boyle uses irony and a detached narrative to probe the universal nature of his characters and their dilemmas, inviting us to ponder our own weaknesses as reflected through them. 

Earlier this year, I was riveted by a news story out of southern Africa. Horrible flooding resulted in a crocodile farmer’s momentous decision: to save15,000 crocodiles from drowning in their cages by setting them free into the rivers of Zimbabwe. Well, first I had to let the very idea of a crocodile farm sink in. (A farm – of crocodiles!) Then, in a flash, I jumped to condemn the farmer for such a rash act. How selfish – to endanger unsuspecting animals and children by loosing an army of predators on them! And yet . . . which of us would not have done the same thing in a moment of panic? The farmer may be supporting several families with the profits from this farm. Who are we to judge, especially those of us who may own a vintage Maxx New York clutch or covet that slick white Victoria Beckham bag at Selfridges?

So the poem I wrote, “Armada,” doesn’t take a stand on the crocodile farmer or his decision. Instead, taking a page from Boyle’s guidebook, I decided to simply relate the facts of the incident and then dig down further, comparing the crocodiles to their ancient ancestors, the dinosaurs, buried beneath them. The fateful opening of the cages becomes an eerie moment of scale-tipping evolution, like the meteor that probably doomed the primal beasts to extinction. In this more recent episode, I wondered, what poor river creatures were consumed in the few days it took for emergency crews to recapture the farm-bred crocs? (Apparently over half of them were caught within two to three days. But the rest. . . ?) Might the armada of reptiles have wiped out a whole species of fish – or two or three – by week’s end?

We can’t assume an authentic voice for a character whose world is vastly different from our own. But by using the voice of what we might call “human consciousness,” zooming in close on a real incident and then stepping back from it to a wider perspective, we can allow our poems to carry richer meanings and provoke more expansive reflection about our own choices in this crazy and precarious world.