Squidlog.net

When I heard about Twttrlist lenses, I thought about various topics that might make a good fit. Usually when I’m searching for writing ideas, I open my memory bank up wide and let a good breeze blow through. Yesterday that breeze swirled around a memory of my first vegetable garden.

Oh boy. Did I really want to talk about how a know-it-all, 30-year-old daughter of a farm advisor treated a 10×6′ plot of dirt as if it were the size of a city lot, overplanting, underweeding and thoroughly botching up a perfectly good little garden bed? The results looked more like a tangle of rainforest vines than the garden I’d dreamed of having someday.

To add insult to injury, I hadn’t thought to leave room to maneuver through the rows to water and hoe. I couldn’t tell where the cucumber vines ended and my Big Boy tomatoes began. Bell peppers, carrots, onions, and a couple of cauliflowers held on to each other for dear life, as cucumber tendrils curled around stems like a snake exploring uncharted territory.

Ohhh, Martha.  Please don’t hate me.

So that summer, my parents decided to pay us a visit. In my ignorant bliss, I eagerly dragged my dad around back to show him my pride and joy. He tried his best not to laugh, really he did. He even slapped that big ol’ mitt of a hand over his mouth to hold back the rising guffaw. But I spotted those telltale laugh lines hugging both eyes, and knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Wow. What a garden!” he said. “Uh…just one question: Why did you plant eight tomato plants in such a small space?” he asked in his best imitation of a polite person.

“I like tomatoes.”

He moved around the fringes of the garden. “Hmmm. These look like carrots,” he said, reaching down to touch lacy green tops.

“Yep. They’re carrots alright.”

“And…?” He could see that they were hardly mature. In fact, they lay there like castoff greens from a fastfood dumpster. Sad sight.

“Well, I was curious how fast they would grow, so I sort of tugged at them every now and then to see how cute they were. Little baby carrots…”

Yesterday I launched my first TwttrList: Great Gardening Tips on Twitter, because I still need all the help I can get. I’m happy to report, though, that I’m not previewing carrots anymore, and I now plant three tomato plants every year instead of eight.

I feel like such a grownup.

(*image ©Bonnie Bruno 2009)

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Behind every Squidoo lens lies a story waiting to be told. Whether you’re writing from a humorous slant or crafting a piece about a life-changing event, each and every lens has a backstory–a history that simmers and eventually evolves into a topic  worth sharing.

Even photos have a backstory. Last spring, I planted pretty pink lupines in my backyard, a Mother’s Day gift from my daughter. I love lupine, because their blossoms contain so many intricate parts, like dozens of single flowers connected as one. So I took my trusty Canon out back early one morning, as first light began to creep across my flowerbeds. I decided to take a photo of the lupine, and crammed my macro lens into the blossom as closely as possible.

The results surprised me, because this is actually just a tiny piece of the overall flower, hidden away in the middle behind the main “fluff”. It didn’t show from the outside, and I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t taken a deeper approach. It’s the backstory of the plant, similar to what happens behind the scenes of every Squidoo lens.

As writers, photographers, or lensmasters, we have opportunities to locate that tiny bud of an idea. Dig around in our thoughts and dreams.  Draw from a memorable moment, and share how it has affected our lives. Our words have the power to influence a reader’s outlook, relieve a nagging stress, or perhaps, to encourage them to rethink a long-held attitude.

In this SquidLog column, I plan to do exactly that. Backstories will focus on the serious (and sometimes zany) nuts and bolts of lenscrafting, but I’ll also share meaningful life experiences that stop me in my tracks;  discoveries from nature that stir a sense of awe and wonderment; and nostalgic observations that have a way of tiptoing into the everyday. I’d like to think of this space as a humongous buffet, with something for everyone.

If you disagree with a certain topic, no problem; let’s begin a conversation. If a post flips the switch on a long-lost memory, I hope you’ll share your thoughts. If one of my topics serves to seed your next lens, all the better. I’d like to hear about that, too. Let the conversation begin!

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