How fun to celebrate a “dinosaur” verb—the last survivor of its species from the early 1600s! After the hectic holidays, please catch your breath and enjoy a leisurely stroll through my word garden.
While visiting our West Coast family last summer, Mark and I whiled away a day at the Jack London State Historic Park in California’s beautiful Sonoma Valley. We traveled there with our friends Mark and Kim.
My Mark and Kim’s Mark—for that is how I distinguish them in conversation—have been best buddies since the second grade. I find this reMARKable! My longest friendship only dates back to Mr. Fleagle’s fifth-grade reading class, where Dawn Ann and I debated the merits of teen idol Shaun Cassidy’s musical masterpiece “Da Doo Ron Ron.”
The two Marks, Kim, and I made our literary pilgrimage to the home of THE most popular and highest-paid American writer of the early 20th century. Jack London was born on January 12, 1876. Monday marked the 150th anniversary of his birth. Before his death on November 21, 1916, the 40-year-old author had written over 50 books!
London is best known for his novel The Call of the Wild, which chronicles the struggles of a sled dog named “Buck”. I can scarcely believe London persevered with his pen after receiving over 600 rejection letters from editors! The author and Buck showed a similar determination to succeed.
The literary critic Alfred Kazin once remarked, “The greatest story Jack London ever wrote was the story he lived.” Allow me to cite an eloquent, pithy summary of the author’s life from a placard at the park museum:
Born a seeker, adventure defined Jack London’s life. A bay-sailing “oyster pirate” by the age of fifteen, he later went on to ride the rails as a “hobo,” survive the freezing Klondike in search of gold, work as an international war correspondent, champion the lives of the working poor, and travel the remote South Seas by ship.
Jack took risks to feel alive. His daring explorations provided the fodder for his writing and the fuel for his spirit.
In short, London “lived voraciously to write vigorously.” Today we would have called him an adrenaline junkie.
By contrast, I would describe myself as an anti-adrenaline junkie. I don’t climb rocks, snow ski, or bungie jump. I am the opposite of London’s second wife Charmian (pronounced charm-me-in, unlike the brand-name toilet paper). She broke the mold of a proper Victorian lady by riding her horse astride rather than sidesaddle and by regularly boxing her husband, literally, with her fists. I, on the other hand, keep my distance from horses altogether and rarely put up a fight.
Though I couldn’t be more different than the Londons, I learned much from visiting their cottage and the farm they called “Beauty Ranch.” The work habits of writers both inspire and intimidate me. Jack rose at 5 AM every morning and cranked out his daily goal of 1,000 words. He famously wrote, “Don’t loaf and invite inspiration; light out after it with a club.”
Jack was born into poverty and left grammar school at the age of 14 to work 12 to 16 hours a day in a factory—not an auspicious beginning for an aspiring author. But happily, for posterity’s readers, Jack discovered the world of books at the Oakland Public Library and was mentored by a librarian named Ina Coolbirth. What an excellent example of the influence one person can have in encouraging another’s dreams!
One of the things I admire about London is that he wasn’t afraid to fail. On his ranch, he experimented with sustainable agricultural methods way ahead of his time. To increase food production for his cows, London tried growing spineless cacti. Alas, the plants grew too slowly and required too much water to be profitable.
London also spent a fortune on groves of eucalyptus trees to be used and sold for lumber. Unfortunately, the variety he planted made terrible building material. Nevertheless, a few flops didn’t dim his enthusiasm. A line from London’s novel White Fang captures his own sensibility well: “Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on.”
During my leisurely day at Beauty Ranch, I discovered a writer who was determined, disciplined, and above all—daring. While Jack London answered the call of the wild, I listen for the call of the whiled. I enjoy spending time pleasantly, not recklessly. I prefer taking risks vicariously than in person. Yet I trust that one may still lead a remarkable life, even while coloring inside the lines. I like verbs that survive.
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