How it Starts

From the foot of Dexter Avenue, looking toward the capitol.

Sometimes, it begins with an image in my head, sometimes, it starts with stumbling across an old photo, like this one.

I lived in Montgomery for 13 years, and worked in a state building behind the capitol. No one can resist being struck by the juxtaposition of so many interconnected and disparate reminders of Alabama’s past, and her role in history. Being surrounded by the physical emblems, the buildings, historic markers, monuments, forces one to confront, or at least contemplate that past, so at odds that it seems there were two paths, two states, two histories, and indeed, there were. Two peoples.

For some unknown reason, this old photo of what Dexter Avenue looked like in 1906, right about the time the dastardly state constitution was rewritten, the one that had such an impact on Alabama for the rest of the century, and still affects it today, this photo churned up emotions and feelings. I returned to look at it often, letting the feelings swirl and coalesce. I started looking at other photos, and I got some books on Montgomery and started reading. This place began to resonate, to hum, and I could feel a shimmer, a vibration of excitement, as I read and studied old pictures of what Montgomery looked like years ago.

The feelings got mixed up with my strained relationship with my home state. I love it, the places and its people, my relatives, and it will always be home to me.

At the same time, I am torn with exasperation, frustration, anger, guilt, shame, and real pride at some of the things my state has done, some things it has accomplished. I used to moan and wail that the only time Alabama ever made national news, it was bad news. That is simply not true, though. In accepting that Alabama is the starting place for some horrible things, I have to acknowledge that it is also the beginning and ending of some very good things, some accomplishments that helped shape the direction of the nation.

So the research began, with that photo and some very mixed feelings that I wanted to examine, if not resolve. Do I have a right to claim personal pride in the good things? Do I get to share in the legacy? Or should I stand aside, and let all the sense of achievement go to those who walked the walk, who were there? Does the color of my skin bar me from sharing the good?

Alabama is not the only southern state to have this dichotomy, the multiple personality disorder that is our history, but the case can be made that it was the epicenter of much of the good, and much of the bad, all the contrasting things that make southern history so tortured and fractured. We have gold stars embedded in marble, we have monuments and memorials that attest to our service on the highway to a more perfect union.

If the color of my skin doesn’t disqualify me from looking at this history and claiming part of it, does the fact that I am a woman shut me out? History is still, by and large, written by men, about men’s accomplishments. So where does my female image fit in Alabama’s twisted route to where we are today?

I found some excellent books that examine those things, fascinating reading, urgent stories that also made me think. What do I have to add, as a novelist, a writer of fiction? How do I speak of all that I am feeling and thinking, in a way that encompasses everything I’ve learned?




Written by Lynne Olson

I find a story, a simple story of one person, that I want to examine and explore. I think I have found it, and indeed, not just the story of one woman, but three.

I also found a bookstore, one located in Montgomery, a wonderful source for books about Alabama and Alabamians, that has been of inestimable value.
Emails back and forth to Cheryl Upchurch, the owner, with her husband, of Capitol Book & News on Fairview Avenue. Please drop by of you’re ever in Montgomery. “Cheryl, I can’t find this book anywhere, it may be out of print, can you help?” Cheryl writes back, having contacted the author, to tell me yes, or no, or she can get it, should she order and ship it? She recommends other books that might help. She waits until my payday. “Cheryl, I need to know more about Mary Stanton, the author of From Selma to Sorrow, and all I can find is about another Mary Stanton who apparently writes YA fantasy. Can you help me find the right Mary?”

And this is how it begins. A burning desire to see, really see, in my head, these women and their lives and the story I need to tell, because it will be my story too. And while it burns in my gut, while I feel it tingling, itching, forming, shaping, moving from the back to the forefront of my consciousness, that is when it is born, and lives. While it burns.

Bywater Books/Women's week in P Town

Join us for book signings, a wine and cheese party, and an event with comedian/author Kate Clinton on Saturday, October 17, at the Paramount Showroom in the Crown and Anchor. From 10:30 am till noon, we'll have a lively discussion of our history, called Herstory/Yourstory.

I am so proud to announce the release os Beside Myself, a memoir written by Sandy Moore. It is a book about Moore's childhood, growing up on a cotton farm in Frost, Texas. Using the voice and perspective of the little girl, Moore gives us a remarkable look at a time and place, a community of people, of her family. Her obvious love of the land, her family, the animals, and the people of Frost shine. The book also contains photos and drawings by the author.
It is funny, original, insightful, taking the reader to a magical time of being a child. The stories are at times both hilarious and moving.
http://www.amazon.com/Beside-Myself-Sandy-Moore/dp/1448635063/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1249893591&sr=1-3

Family

Family
Posted at 06:59 AM on May 15, 2007

You know, this past week has been amazing, and in many ways, life altering. I want to tell everything that happened, to leave nothing out, but as I sit here, back at home after the literary conference in New Orleans at which my novel Miss McGhee was launched, I find myself thinking of very personal things.

There's a page of acknowledgements in the book. I wrote it and rewrote it many times, for fun, for inspiration, over the years. It was like writing your acceptance speech for the Academy Awards before you ever land an acting role. It was a way to keep myself motivated.

Sometimes I began it this way: "It takes a village to raise an idiot."

Or there was the version that didn't really thank anyone at all, but in a back-handed way, sneered at those who never supported or believed in me.

Then there was the secret version, the one I never committed to paper, in which I thanked my family. The one I knew I'd never put in any book I wrote, because I didn't really believe my family would ever accept or appreciate what I write, because I write about lesbians.

So here's what happened: I met some amazing people, writers I admired, and signed my book and gave it to them. I sat in some wonderful workshops, listened to some pretty smart people talk about writing and craft; I gave a reading from my novel to a room full of people who laughed and applauded. I sat on a panel with three other writers and had a very interesting discussion.

I also had several meetings with my publisher and editor from Bywater Books, and really came to know them as people rather than scary, power-wielding types who hold my writing career in their hands to play with like a toy. And this is what I learned.

Kelly Smith and Marianne K. Martin are very smart, very concerned, and very, very good at what they do. They are committed to finding and publishing the best work in this segment of the publishing industry, books by and for lesbian women.

We talked at length about what I did wrong and what I did right with Miss McGhee, and even sat and went page by page through the editing decisions that were made and told me why and how they made those decisions. They taught me to look at my work differently and to do some of that editing myself. It was an intensive seminar with professionals who want to help make me better at my craft. I don't know of any other publisher that would do that. Most would probably say, your first book took too much work, so go away and get better before you submit anything again. Instead, Kelly Smith, who I have to believe is a brilliant editor, patiently explained what she did with my manuscript and exactly how she improved it and made it into a book.

Then, Bywater spent a couple of hours of time that is limited and precious at these events to listen to me tell the story of my next novel, then they told me they are accepting it!

I'm exhausted, but elated. Home, but still stuck back there reliving everything that happened.

Now here's the good part. I forgot to call my mother on Mother's Day. I was too excited, nervous, too caught up in what was happening. I lay in bed late Sunday night, and thought about that acknowlegments page, in which I did not mention the name of any family member, and I thought about those to whom I owe the most.

I called my mom very early Monday morning, told her all about the conference and the book, and she was so happy for me. My mother said she was going to have someone sit and read every word of the book to her. (My mother is virtually blind, distinguishing light and dark, some color, but is long past the point where she could read the book herself or even see my name on the cover.)

I hung up the phone, and my partner Sandy said, you want to go see your mom, don't you. I took a deep breath.

I thought, in a moment of clarity and courage very rare in my life, (through which I usually muddle by keeping silent about what matters most, hoping for good things but not expecting them, and by dodging important issues because I don't give anyone enough credit to understand what I need them to see) that my mother is proud because I wrote a book, but she has no idea of the subject matter. If anyone is going to tell her what it's about, it should be me.

I had chickened out over the years, and when anyone in my family asked what I was writing about, I told them it was a novel about the civil rights movement. It is, but it is also about two women who fall in love. It is a novel about what I know best, living in fear.

Folks, my mother is a champ. I took my book and put it into her hands and she held it up to her face. I read the title and my name for her and told her what it looked like. Then I sat down and read it to her. I told her the whole story. I read the inscription I'd written to her.

Ladies and gentlemen, I cried through the whole thing. My mother hugged me, and said she was proud of me. That she'd always been proud of me.

One by one, my sisters, my brother, and my nieces gathered as the word spread. They all looked at the book and hugged me, squealed and exclaimed. They promised to buy many copies, so it's destined to be a best seller.

They all were so pleased and happy. I sat there feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.

It's the best Mother's Day I've ever had.

Women's Week In P-Town

Women’s Week in P-Town

July 19, 2009 by bettnorris | Edit

July 19, 2009, 7:20 am
Womencrafts Bookstore
Womencrafts Bookstore

Here’s the Bywater P-Town schedule for Womens’s Week. We are looking forward to a great week of promotion and fun, so come join us!

Thursday, Oct 15

2-4pm: Bywater authors signing at Womencrafts Bookstore. Marianne K. Martin, Cynn Chadwick, Mari San Giovanni, Z Egloff, and Marcia Finical, and myself.

6-8pm: A Night of Wine and Cheese with Bywater authors at Womencraft

Friday, Oct 16

11-1: Master Writers Workshop with Cynn Chadwick at the Level. Chadwick is a lecturer at University of North Carolina-Asheville. She has both an M.A. in literature and an MFA in fiction, and teaches both undergrad and graduate courses in writing. http://cynnchadwick.wordpress.com/ptown-womens-week-master-fiction-workshop/

2-4pm: Bywater authors signing at Womencrafts

Saturday, Oct 17

10:30-12:30: Stonewall 40/Herstory Panel with Kate Clinton & Bywater authors at the Wave Bar of the Crown and Anchor

1;30-3 pm: Bywater authors signing at Womencrafts

Womencrafts Bookstore

376 Commercial St

Provincetown, MA 02657

508-487-2501

http://www.womencrafts.com/

info@womencrafts.com

http://www.bywaterbooks.com




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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.