TwoThings at Once

I'm at an odd place, editing the latest draft of What's Best for Jane, doing research for my next book, as yet untitled. Going back and forth between the two tasks, it seems that one is infusing the other. How did that happen?

At first, it would seem logical that this cross pollination would occur, because the research is for an historical novel set in Montgomery during the decades leading up to and including the civil rights movement, and the main character in What's Best for Jane was involved in that struggle too.

But Mary McGhee is a complete, finished character with a very specific history and personality. One reason I wanted to return to this era was because I still feel connected to it, and the story of my first two novels didn't lend itself to more depth and breadth regarding that long fight. A lot of the research I did for those two books didn't find its way into the story.

Casting around for a subject that interested me enough to write about, I found that all the passion I have for that era, that place, and that struggle still burned.

So I'm doing two things at once, together, and both are helped, I hope, by the research. It happens that most of the facts, the information, the details of research don't often end up in the novel. Some are simply fact-checking, making sure there are no anachronisms. Then, a lot of work is done just to get the time right. You can't have a character storming the Bastille if she lived in the 19th century, for instance. She can't be talking on the phone before phones were common in households, or driving a particular make and model of car if it didn't exist at that point in the novel.

Fitting a fictional character into actual historical events can be tricky also. If the character is based on a real person, you risk crossing the line between fiction and history. Stealing certain acts committed by real people and pinning them on to a fictional character is dangerous, especially if you're dealing with an era such that those actual participants may still be living.

You also don't want to manufacture fictional events so that your fictional hero can be in them. Unless you're writing science fiction, I suppose.

So you pick a person whose participation was minor or overlooked, not generally known, one of the grunts instead of one of the giants.

And that's where my dilemma starts. As I am discovering, the civil rights movement was one of massive, in the trenches, local feet on the ground, action. The people we study and read about today, the giants of the movement, the leaders, were very often a few steps behind the locals who reached a point where they simply couldn't wait any longer. There certainly can be no more eloquent spokesman for the time than Dr. King, but when he showed up, there were hundreds and thousands behind him, and they had already been marching for a while when he stepped to the front of the line. Which is not to belittle his importance or his contribution. He drew national attention to local injustices, he drew federal attention, and he drew support and money and publicity, all of which were vital and necessary. He was uniquely suited, talented, and a wonderful writer and speaker. He risked his life and gave his life to the cause. But so many others did too, and they haven't had books written about them or national holidays named for them.

There's a wonderful book called Freedom's Daughters, written by Lynne Olsen, that has become my Bible. So many names, so many women who were there first, and longer, and were never known. IN many, many of those public marches, the hundreds were mostly women, for a number of reasons. Men had a lot more at risk. Men got lynched. While so many of the women suffered jail and beatings and abuse right along side everyone else, very few lost their lives. Many lost their jobs, and suffered horribly.

Mary McGhee's dilemma was that she didn't suffer. She prospered. And she felt guilty for the rest of her life, and wondered whether her contribution achieved anything at all.

Miss Mary Leila McLeod, 1917-2009

Miss McLeod was a formidable woman whose family was very prominent and respected, who owned what was once the largest house in town, right next to the post office. The house, a huge, two-story Victorian, and the lot take up most of a city block. Miss McLeod lived at home with her parents all her life, and never married. I have no idea of her personal life. There were never any rumors about her. She walked across the street to the Methodist church every time its doors opened. She taught generations of barely literate and hardly interested children the discipline and beauty of language, though they did not know it. When you left her class, you spoke correctly, though you may not have learned to appreciate literature. Language to Miss McLeod was a matter of personal pride, as much a part of your appearance and conduct as good grooming and good manners. I remember endless hours working on grammar, learning how it all fit together like a puzzle, like a math equation, diagramming hundreds of sentences on her blackboard. She wanted us familiar and comfortable with the tools she gave us. As long as we became practiced and sure with them in our hands, she would let somebody else worry and fret over our creative efforts. She cared about us, the children of her town, that we conducted ourselves with respect, and that we knew how to speak as though we had been raised and taught properly. Miss McLeod prepared us for the lives she knew we would live, most of us right there in that town with her, no slouching, no mumbling, no disagreement between subject and verb, ever. When we left her class, we represented her work, and she wanted us to represent her well, and we did.
I admit I sometimes wondered about her, even as I began to wonder about myself. At times I rebelled against her adherence to the discipline in language, and I thought she would probably have corrected Shakespeare. She taught me about Emily Dickinson, and oddly, this is the only writer I can remember from her class. I wonder about that now too. Did she feel a certain parallel with her own life? I saw a similarity, and then of course applied that same pattern to my own life. I can’t say that I ever developed a crush on Miss McLeod, as students sometimes do. She was far too intimidating to inspire worship like that. When I think of her, I remember being almost afraid of her. If I know anything about how to construct a sentence, then it is due to her. Other teachers may have taught me to write, but she taught me to love the way words fit together. She gave me the tools to work with, while others may have tried to give me style and feel. Miss Mcleod gave me a hammer and a saw. I did sometimes wonder about why she never married, why she lived at home in her parents’ house, whether there may have been some tragic love affair that ended badly when she was young, some boy of whom her parents could not approve, or better, some form of love of which she herself could not approve. The discipline in which she lived would not have permitted indulgence of that sort. But Miss McLeod did not inspire the imagination. She was no Emily Dickinson. If there was tragedy or unrequited or forbidden love in her past, she never hinted at it.I remember how much she seemed to enjoy catching us napping. She seemed to really like teaching, and seemed not to notice our boredom, did not care that we were bored. She did not whine about it, she just taught what interested her, and soon enough, we came to care deeply about not getting caught by her in lazy, half-hearted work. We came to care about the appearance of things, about how we said what we had to say, because she made us care.

Twice now I have tried to approach her inner life. And each time I have veered off into her work, teaching. She would approve of that. As I said, she did not inspire speculation. Even now I can’t bring myself to do it. I wonder though if she ever speculated about us, her students. I wonder if she made assessments and assumptions, and I wonder how accurate they were. I wonder if she would be surprised about me. Probably not.

In Miss McLeod’s class, you sat up straight and cut out all foolishness, the posturing so integral to the maturing process of teenagers. Later, as a teacher myself, the respect she demanded, and gave, remained a mystery to me.

My first novel was published in 2007. That achievement, the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, was due in large part to Miss McLeod’s influence. I named the main character, a woman of singular strength of will and determination, after Miss McLeod. The book is dedicated to women like her, who made their own way in the world when it wasn’t easy to do.

This photo is looking east, up Dexter Avenue from Commerce, in 1906 Montgomery, toward the state capitol. The Dexter Avenue Baptist Church is on the right, at the top of Dexter, not seen in the picture here. Is it my imagination or is that lamp post to the right of the fountain leaning? You can see the electric streetcars. There seem to be a lot of people downtown, so I would guess that this is a Friday or Saturday morning. There is water in the fountain but it's not running.

Bookstores and Libraries

It is amazing to me how helpful people are. Librarians and bookstore owners, in particular, will burn with my same enthusiasm when I ask for help. The other day I called Capitol Book and News in Montgomery, Alabama. I know they carry a lot of regional books. I was looking for books about Montgomery in the early decades of the twentieth century, particularly books with photos showing how the city looked in the twenties and thirties. Research for my third book. Still in the thinking stage, but as I explained what I needed, Cheryl Upchurch, the owner of the bookstore, caught on and suggested several books that might have what I want. She called again a day later to say she had found another one. I don't know how long she'll keep searching, but I love her now.

Back From the Conference

Back from New Orleans, safely, after driving twelve hours through thunderstorms. Tired, but energized and eager, as these conferences always affect me.

Friday Master classes: I first sat in Jess Well's class about writing credible, creative historical fiction. (I am thinking about my next book already, which may return to the civil rights era, or be set in the 1920's-1930's.) First, let me say that Jess Wells is a brilliant writer. If you haven't read The Mandrake Broom, and you are considering historical fiction, you really will enjoy this book. It could be used as a template on how to write historical fiction well. Her class was tremendously helpful regarding research, how to make it come alive in the story, how much is too much, and she provided a gold mine of useful tools.

Next I sat in Ellen Hart's class on the art of revision. Ellen teaches writing, and she is good at it. I took notes. I consider myself the queen of revision, but torturing a good story through endless revision that is not producing a better manuscript also tortures the writer, and Ms. Hart gave detailed instruction on specific goals to be accomplished through revision, so that one is not simply spinning wheels and getting nowhere. (Kelly Smith of Bywater Books asked me to type up my notes on this class, as a means of future torture methods she can perhaps inflict on me and other writers. Let it be known that some editors do have a sadistic streak, which combined with the power they already hold over a writer's lifeblood poured onto paper, is a nasty mix. This is a joke, people!)

Saturday panels: I sat in the audience as Ellen Hart, Anthony Bikula, Jeffrey Round, and Gary Zebrun discussed the mystery novel. Even if you don't write mysteries, there is a lot one can learn from masters of this genre regarding plot and pacing and tension, which all good books need. These writers are also very charming and witty, so it was a delight to hear a group of mystery authors talk about their craft.

Next, I attended a discussion of groundbreaking lesbian literature, which was a look back at the beginning of lesbian fiction, and the panelists were Radclyffe, who has an extensive personal library of many of the early works and is a walking encyclopedia about them, Elana Dykewomon, who wrote a couple of those groundbreaking novels herself, and accepted an award at te conference because of her contribution to the literature, JM Redmann, whose award-winning Mickey Knight series has just added a fifth installment, and the afore-mentioned Ellen Hart, author of 25 books. The panel was moderated by Fay Jacobs who asked some pointed questions, and classics of our body of literature were discussed, and Elana Dykewomon made a poignant and eloquent plea for us not to forget those early writers. We must keep their names and their work in our mouths, she said.

Next I attended a lively debate on art and entertainment in fiction, which was the old, never-resolved argument between popular fiction, genre fiction, and "literary" fiction. Canadian writer Peter Dube spoke most to the point about this, when he said the who proposition is moot, good writing is good writing, whether it is found in erotica, the mysery novel, science fiction, poetry, or in the literary novel. The distinction is, he said, and the other panelists agreed, a false premise. categorizing work is a necessary shorthand for bookstores and readers, so they can find what they want to read easier, but the argument has no place is discussing quality. Jane Austen wrote genre fiction. If she were writing today, you'd find her work in the bookstore next to Danielle Steele. And fifty or a hundred years from now, some of our work may be found in the classic literature section, if we write well enough. It all comes down to the work.

Sunday: I attended a very informative workshop on the art of self promotion, got a ton of helpful information from panelist Michele Karlsberg, a working publicist, on what to do, and what not to do.

Finally, I attended a panel discussion about capturing the past in prose, during which panelists Jess Wells, Justine Saracen, and Jim Duggins totally enthralled me about why they write historical fiction, and why I should too. Lively conversation about combining research with imagination.

I skipped the discussion of the realities of the market in these economic times, by publishers Linda Daniel and Kelly Smith. I didn't want to hear bad news. For that, I have royalty statements.

I'm Off

Today I leave for New Orleans and the Saints and Sinners conference. I love the place and I love this writer's conference, which serves as a fundraiser for NOAIDS. I'll be meeting with my publishers, Bywater Books, and that's always fun. A writer doesn't normally get many chances to meet face to face with editors and publishers.

I'll also get to meet up with some friends from my Montgomery days who I haven't seen in many years.

I'm excited about some of the panels and workshops, so I thought I'd let you know some of the ones that particularly interest me. Writing Credible Historical Fiction, a master class taught by Jess Wells, who certainly knows what she's doing. The Art of Revision, taught by the extremely talented Ellen Hart, who has written 24 books and won 5 Lambda literary awards, so she ought to know something about this.

There's a panel discussion called Art and Entertainment, delving into the timeless question of literary fiction versus genre writing. There's a panel called Tales of the New Depression, with various publishers, including Kelly Smith of Bywater Books, talking about how thw economy has affected the book market, as well as online vendors who offer used copies for sale right along with new. Not naming names. Mid-Career Blues, with Elana Dykewomon, who has a new book out called Risk, which I highly recommend. A panel discission of the origins of lesbian literature, discissing the sixties and seventies and those great early books and writers that began our canon of literature.

I'll be busy, totally immersed in conversation about books and writing. What could be better? Drinking and talking about books and writing, at the opening and closing receptions, of course.

More about New Orleans conference

I thought I'd share a little more about the Saints and Sinners conference. This has become an annual event for me. When I first attended, I was an unpublished, unknown writer, there at the insistence of a friend of mine. By the next year, I had a contract for my first novel and was there to meet with my publisher and editor. The next time I attended, it was to meet them again and receive the very first copy of my book, do a reading, and sit on a panel for the first time.

This conference holds a special place in my history, then, and it is always a special time.

This year, I meet with my publishers to present them with the final, rewritten, finished ms of What's Best for Jane.

I've been talking to my oldest and dearest frined Lori. She and I are trying to coordinate plans to meet in New orleans during the conference. I've haven't seen her very often since moving to Florida, so that will be a big thrill. I have another reason for hoping Lori can attand, and it has to do with What's Best for Jane. My friend already knows that she serves an an inspiration for one of the characters in the book, but I don't think she knows just how significant a role this character plays, and I think it would be interesting to do a reading with her in the audience, or discuss the book and the character on a panel while my friend listens in.