Leaps of Faith: Lessons from a Toad
Nurturing new ideas in the new year!
During a winter warm-up last month, I went to replace a basement window well cover that had been dislodged by the wind. I jumped back when I noticed a visitor in the well, looking up at me with its black eyes. A toad!
I knelt down for a closer look. I live near wetlands, and toads are among my favorite neighbors, creeping on to our back patio in the summer and fall. They lurk in a shady corner, or next to the hose. Evenings, they emerge to sit by the sliding glass door, drawn to the banquet of insects.
I like the quiet company of toads. They exude a calming presence. Whenever I see toads, I carefully step around them. Sometimes I put out toad houses, clay pots on their side with leaf debris and dirt. The houses, I have read online, may help shield them from the snakes that circle our house searching for meals, though a few toads have been unlucky.
This was the first time a toad has appeared in December, probably thanks to our mild winter. I wasn’t sure if it belonged in the window well. It looked content enough, on its bed of leaves. Had it sought out the window well, looking for a winter refuge? Or had it fallen in, since the cover was dislodged? Could this toad escape if it wanted to? After watching it try and fail to make the leap or climb over the foot-high wall of galvanized steel, I wasn’t so sure.
The toad then moved along the steel wall, pressing up against it, as if looking for a secret panel it could push on to escape. Its subsequent attempt to climb was valiant but not successful. Quick research on my phone informed me that toads, unlike frogs, are not known for leaping. Toads are more likely to sit still, lay low, wait it out . . . even when predators are nearby. Their short hind legs are better suited to hopping, and they usually walk or crawl. After a few more failed attempts, it was clear this toad was not leaping out anytime soon, and the steel was simply too slippery to climb.
I researched to find out if the toad could survive in the window well. The odds seemed low. It would need to burrow one to two feet down, below the frost line, in order to go into hibernation and survive. Its best chance was to get out of that window well before our warm spell ended. Like, now would be good. The next day’s forecast showed snow.
Thus began a series of well-intentioned and even comical attempts to help the toad out of the window well. Now you may be wondering why I didn’t just reach down and pluck it out. I was probably thinking of the toxins they carry on their skin. I also didn’t want to stress it out by handling it. Also, well, if I’m being honest, I was kind of freaked out. Observing toads was one thing. Touching them was another.
My hope was that I could simply coax it out of the well, and facilitate its freedom with gentle assistance that wouldn’t stress the toad or me. My son, an aspiring engineer, stepped in to help rig various toad rescue contraptions. We created a series of ramps and pathways to lure it up and out.
Each attempt proved unsuccessful. Our materials were all too slick, too long, or too short. The dimensions and angles of the window well meant our ramps were quite steep. We held our breaths watching the toad scale a plastic gutter downspout extension at a sharp 30 degree angle, cheering it on as it ascended the ramp by pulling itself up on the textured plastic. We hoped it might then make the shorter leap of faith to the patio. You can see in the video below how well that worked out.
I’m telling you, this toad was like an American Ninja Warrior competing on the warped wall, but never quite making it up to hit that buzzer for the prize. We looked for more nearby objects to modify escape routes, even putting a toy Minecraft sword down in there in the hopes our Amphibian Ninja Warrior might cling to the jagged edge. But the toad was getting exhausted, and we were losing the light.
In the end, my son saved the day with the simplest solution. Lifting the toad on a plank of wood and carrying it to the edge of the yard. Yes, it was just that simple, the obvious solution staring us in the face—as was the toad, which we slowly lifted up to eye level. At the yard’s edge, the toad looked around for a few minutes, perhaps reorienting itself, before it crawled away.
I had started this newsletter thinking I’d write about ideas—shiny new ideas and new projects in the new year! And now here I am writing about toads. I guess I had more to say about toads than I thought.
But I am also thinking about ideas: how we find them, capture them, and nurture them. How we decide when they’re ready to release. I think my ideas are sometimes like toads. They don’t always leap out at me. Often, they just quietly sit there. They may show up and then vanish, inexplicably. Sometimes they’re eaten by snakes—by my inner critic, my insecurity, and my imposter syndrome. Sometimes they just fall into a window well and don’t emerge for months. Or years.
But I have a big new idea I’m playing with this month, an idea for a story concept that I’m suddenly super excited about. I was cleaning old files on my laptop, and suddenly came across a rough pitch and synopsis for a story I thought up over a year ago. My writing critique partners, though supportive, had sounded a little meh about it when I shared it with them. I didn’t know what kind of feedback I needed and perhaps had shared it too soon. My confidence faltered; I didn’t feel up to revising. I buried the idea in a file within a file, the digital equivalent of a basement window well.
Excavating it recently (we’re talking about the idea, now, not the toad), I looked at it in the light of day. I really looked at it carefully. And it appeared . . . different. Dazzling, dare I say. I could see details and contours I hadn’t noticed before. I could see that I’d been trying to stuff this story idea into a form that didn’t suit it. This story needed a different genre, maybe a whole different medium. I was more qualified and ready to write this than I thought. I also realized I’d been overcomplicating my initial idea, throwing sticks and ramps and levers and Minecraft swords at it, hoping to force it into some semblance of a plot, when in fact the story could be so much simpler and streamlined. It didn’t need all these clever hooks and devices and bells and whistles. (This is a common problem we mystery writers have, by the way! We want to send characters down the creepy staircases and into the alleyways, and roll out countless obstacles in their paths. We can aim for something complex and end up with convoluted).
Anyway, I’m excited about this new idea in a way that feels like being in love. All I want to do is be with this idea! I wake up writing down new ideas about the idea, and it feels like remembered knowledge rather than forceful execution, discovering more than dictating. I feel as if I’m seeking to understand an idea that already exists. Because it does.
Elizabeth Gilbert describes this feeling so beautifully, and without any toad imagery, in Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear. She writes,
“I believe that our planet is inhabited not only by animals and plants and bacteria and viruses, but also by ideas. Ideas are a disembodied, energetic life-form. They are completely separate from us, but capable of interacting with us—albeit strangely. Ideas have no material body, but they do have consciousness, and they most certainly have will. Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner. It is only through a human’s efforts that an idea can be escorted out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.” — Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic
So I will learn some lessons from my toad of an idea, and from Elizabeth Gilbert, and use care as I gradually escort it back into the world. I will try to remember that sometimes simple solutions are better. I will also give the idea more visibility. This means rescuing it from the digital morass of my desktop files, putting the document front and center, printing out important story concepts and drafts as I proceed, placing these documents in a binder.
For me, much like putting a photo in a frame, printing creative work and making it look like a book makes it feel like a “Thing” that exists in the world. Paper gives an idea heft and weight. A three-ring binder is binding, an agreement I will fulfill.
The idea, which could have just died in obscurity, now takes up some space in my life and demands attention. Ideas deserve our care, and I will handle this one with great care, sharing specifics and seeking feedback when I’m ready.
And so! What strategies have you used to nurture your ideas and projects? Are you excited about any new ideas in this new year? And have you ever rescued an idea that you almost gave up on? Or found a simple solution to something? I’d love to hear your stories; please do share in the comments!
School Visits, Writing Workshops: Some Spots Available for Spring!
Teachers, librarians, homeschoolers, environmental educators! I have some space in my schedule for virtual visits as well as in-person visits within a couple hours of Boston. Nature writing and mysteries are my most popular topics, but I offer author talks and writing workshops on a menu of topics, many of which can be customized for your age group, audience size, or curricular needs. Please see the For Educators page on my website for details and download free copies of my discussion and activities guides! Click here to fill out an interest form!
Oh hey—shout out to Skyridge Middle School librarians in Camas, WA, pictured here with a copy of TOKYO HEIST! (My first novel).
These mystery fans and partners in crime won a grant from Sisters in Crime toward rebuilding their library after a burst pipe. Part of the entry process requires librarians to hold up three copies of books written by Sisters in Crime members. They were awarded $500, and I was happy to send them some Tokyo Heist crime scene tape and copies of my newer books for their library. This was the first time I’d heard about this cool grant program for libraries; applications are rolling and awards go out monthly! You can read more about the Doris Ann Norris We Love Libraries Prize here!
Mysteries that Matter moving toward audio!
Thank you, as always, for reading this mostly monthly newsletter on Substack or in your email! I have some fun updates planned for 2025, including, at last, a Mysteries that Matter podcast! (I said that last year, but this time I really mean it!) I am rounding up some fun guests to converse with, and trying to learn just enough about audio editing to get this off the ground. If you have specific topics that you think would be fun to hear about in conversations with mystery writers (for Season 1), please drop me a note!
In the meantime, as part of my learning process, I’ve been playing with adding audio content to essays in some of my past newsletters. Here’s a link to an older post, The Travel Journal Mystery, which might be a fun listen if you’re in the habit of thinning out your bookshelves — it’s the story of an unusual little volume that’s never quite made it out my door. (Audio play button appears at the very top of the essay).
I am wishing you all a happy 2025! Onward!
Diana
"Anyway, I’m excited about this new idea in a way that feels like being in love."
Oh, how perfect! I love that feeling of being in love with a story. It's a great feeling. And what a tragedy when we're in the middle of a first draft and realize that the love has died! So glad you're still feeling the love.