leaf-mould

on the inspiration for a dark and drowning tide

some early ADaDT mood boards. back in the day, we made these things instead aesthetic videos

welcome to the ursprung, the section of my newsletter where I write short essays about how my adult debut, a dark and drowning tide, came to be. if you’re only interested in book updates, you can unsubscribe from all sections except “allison saft” here.

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I’m not the kind of writer who worries I have too many ideas and not enough time. I’m the kind of write who worries that the book I’m currently working on will be the last thing I ever do. It’s partly because I tend to shut out the world when I’m deep in a project, for better or for worse; and partly because I am like an elephant, in that my ideas have an 18- to 22-month gestational period. Really, it’s closer to five to ten years.

J.R.R. Tolkien’s metaphor for creative inspiration—the leaf-mould—has always resonated with me:¹

“One writes such a story not out of the leaves of trees still to be observed, nor by means of botany and soil-science; but it grows like a seed in the dark out of the leaf-mould of the mind: out of all that has been seen or thought or read, that has long ago been forgotten, descending into the deeps. No doubt there is much personal selection, as with a gardener: what one throws on one’s personal compost-heap; and my mould is evidently made largely of linguistic matter.”

This just feels true: all the things we’ve consumed ultimately break down and mix together on the floor of our mind. When feelings and memories agglomerate in nonsensical yet intuitive ways, without our even noticing, it’s difficult to pinpoint that “first spark” of inspiration. And when many ideas take shape over years, it’s rare to encounter one you have to catch by its tail.² A Dark and Drowning Tide was certainly not one of those books that came barreling down at me. I had to unearth it. The mould it took root in goes deep. When I sift through it, I see fragments of stories and people I’ve loved, each of them separated by what feels like lifetimes.

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In 2016, back when I still thought I wanted a PhD (ha!!!), I was taking a seminar that explores the crosscurrents of 18th-century science and 18th-century literature; back then, there was not so neat a division between the sciences and humanities. We read things like Erasmus Darwin’s The Loves of the Plants, Eliza Haywood’s The Female Spectator, and Lord Byron’s “Cain.” My favorite, by far, was The Natural History of Selborne by Gilbert White.

It’s a collection of White’s letters to his friends, in which he shares his observations of the natural world around him. Within the first ten pages is this incredible passage (cw: animal death) about a grove set to be cut down for lumber:

In the centre of this grove there stood an oak, which, though shapely and tall on the whole, bulged out into a large excrescence about the middle of the stem. On this a pair of ravens had fixed their residence for such a series of years, that the oak was distinguished by the title of the Raven-tree. Many were the attempts of the neighboring youths to get at this eyry: the difficulty whetted their inclinations and each was ambitious of surmounting the arduous task. But, when they arrived at the swelling, it jutted out so in their way, and was so far beyond their grasp, that the most daring lads were awed, and acknowledged the undertaking to be too hazardous. So the ravens built on, nest upon nest, in perfect security, till the fatal day arrived in which the wood was to be leveled. It was in the month of February, when those birds usually sit. The saw was applied to the butt, the wedges were inserted into the opening, the woods echoed to the heavy blows of the beetle or mallet, the tree nodded to its fall, but still the dam sat on. At last, when it gave way, the bird was flung from her nest; and, though her parental affection deserved a better fate, was whipped down by the twigs, which brought her dead to the ground.

This excerpt feels very representative of the whole: the juxtaposition of humor or wonder and violence. There is no real sentimentality or value judgment here. White is simply observing, and his frankness is what makes his insights so interesting. In only one paragraph, he lets us into local lore, the types of people who live here, what industry is here, and the wildlife.

Something about his writing clearly resonates with a lot of people; this book has been kept in print since its initial publication in 1789. For me, its appeal lies in how much White loves Selborne. I am always drawn to these types of stories: ones about belonging to a place, where everything—no matter how small or banal—is worthy of notice and curiosity. The introduction to the edition edited by Anne Secord puts it so well: “His perspective does not banish wonder; it relocates it in the ordinary.”

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In 2019, my favorite YouTubers began playing Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney. You play Phoenix Wright, a newly minted defense attorney, and defend your clients in court, all of whom are prime suspects in murder cases. After the tutorial, the plot kicks off in typical fashion: your mentor is murdered; her younger sister is arrested as the prime suspect; and your smug, secretly tortured rival, who has never once lost a case, is the prosecutor. Also, there is a speculative element. Your sidekick is a spirit medium. In this world, you can call the victim and the defendant to the stand. :)

This series is incredibly goofy, but I adore it. The characters are all larger-than-life and ridiculous; the twists are absurd; objections fly around the courtroom willy-nilly. And of course, Phoenix and Edgeworth’s dynamic is juicy and filled with dramatics. Sometimes, you’re crushingly defeated so many times by the man you love hate, you have to leave him a note that says, “Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth Chooses Death,” and disappear to Europe for a year. I love the charged antagonism and the grudging respect they forge for one another. I love when they’re forced to rely on one another. And to keep this spoiler-free as possible: I especially love that classic anime trope when you are someone’s friend but ALSO their biggest rival, who you must never allow to win unless they well and truly earn it.

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Somewhere in 2020, after I had finished the last Ace Attorney game, I craved more visual novels. It was then that I remembered Danganronpa—a game I first encountered in 2010—existed. If you are not familiar with it, I honestly don’t know if I would recommend it to you. It is just very much itself (see: weird, violent, and highly stylized with bright, colorful art and an acid jazz soundtrack).

It’s set at Hope’s Peak Academy, a school that admits only students who are the best of the best at what they do. You play Naegi Makoto, who is not particularly talented at anything; you’re just the luckiest guy alive, because you were chosen by raffle to attend. You and 14 other students pass out in a classroom. When you awaken, you discover you’re trapped inside the school; all the windows and doors are welded shut. Soon, a robot bear shows up and says that this is your life now! You’re never leaving… unless you manage to kill one of your classmates and get away with it. If you’re found out, of course, you’ll be executed.

As much as I joke about it, I honestly love this game. It’s just fun. The characters are lovable, the setting is great, and I love this tension that comes from being the only “normal” one among exceptional people. Predictably, I also imprinted on Kirigiri Kyoko, the cold, white-haired detective who may or may not deserve your trust.

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A few months after I turned in A Far Wilder Magic, I had my next book idea. In fact, I had two.

One was a quiet fantasy about a naturalist studying the magical phenomena in her village, against the backdrop of an approaching apocalyptic storm. The other was about rival law students whose mentor is murdered; ultimately, they face one another in court. I turned these into my agents, who gently told me neither sounded quite right as a follow-up to A Far Wilder Magic.

There was something about the second idea that compelled me, though. Could I put these rivals with a murdered mentor in a new context? Better yet, could I combine the ideas make them rival naturalists? Surely, it was possible. I just needed to find the connective tissue.

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In 2012, I was eighteen years old and had my brain chemistry freshly changed after reading A.S. Byatt’s Possession. I have not read it since then, yet I recommend it to everyone who will listen. I remember one image so clearly (at least, I remember the impression it left): a woman, viewed through the crack in the bathroom door; a dragon tattoo on her back; water on her skin; her hair let down. I became fascinated with the recurring Melusine allusions, and how often Byatt described water. I underlined every instance I could find. Reading with that kind of attention—and speculating on why she made those narrative decisions—lit up my mind. That curiosity ultimately brought me to graduate school, where I fell in love with Selborne hundreds of years after Gilbert White first did.

I never lost my love for water imagery. There is something inherently magical about it. Wouldn’t it be cool if it were the source of all magic in the world? Wouldn’t it be interesting if a team of scholars found a magical body of water? It’s impossible for me to know when these questions occurred to me, if they occurred consciously at all. One way or another, all of these things coalesced in the leaf-mould of my mind—and at long last, put out a shoot: a fantasy murder mystery about a team of naturalists studying a magical body of water, in a location they could not escape. The idea electrified me. This, I knew, was right. At the time, I did not know it would almost kill me to write it.

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Thank you so much for reading the inaugural issue of this newsletter segment! Next time, I’ll be talking about the painful process of turning an idea into a story…

In the meantime, A Dark and Drowning Tide is 25% off on B&N until July 17. Alternatively (and preferably), you can get a signed and personalized copy through my local indie bookstore, Kepler’s! It will come with two exclusive prints (one below, one to be revealed). <3

Art by Isa Agajanian

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1. I’ve seen the leaf-mould discussed so often on so many blogs over the years, usually introduced only with a phrase like “As Tolkien once said…” After I began writing this essay, I decided I wanted to know where the quote came from. I had to go down to, like, the tenth Google search result to find out. Apparently, it’s published in a Tolkien biography written by Humphrey Carpenter. I’m not sure that really gives us any interesting context. So, I chose to follow in the tradition of my predecessors.

2. Elizabeth Gilbert on Ruth Stone's genius