Fiction as disguised memoir

 

Georgia Arbuckle Fix (and Mattie) did not consider herself attractive.

“Write what you know” is classic advice to beginning writers. Sometimes it’s true. I probably shouldn’t write about traveling to Antarctica because I’ve never done it, and no amount of research will make me warm to the subject (okay, bad pun). The flip side of that advice though is the general belief that creative writers pour some of themselves into everything they write. I’ve had a strong lesson in both these truths this week.

I’ve been reading proof of Mattie, my 1988 novel that will be reprinted by Two Dot in coming months. First published by Doubleday in 1988, it tells of the life, career, and loves of Mattie Armstrong, pioneer woman physician on the vast and bare prairies of western Nebraska in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The novel is loosely based on the life of Dr. Georgia Arbuckle Fix, who was the first woman physician in Nebraska and who really did leave Omaha to heal the widely scattered settlers in sod huts on the prairie. But don’t attribute everything in the novel to Dr. Fix. That the novel won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America as the best novel of the year, was high praise, especially in a category one man angrily declared was for the men’s action adventure novel.  The funny news about the original Doubleday hardback is that it was in their Double D Western line, which sold mostly, I’m told, by subscription to prison libraries. The digital edition, indie published by me at something like ninety-nine cents, sold well for years, making it the bestseller of any book I’ve written. Now it will be in a hardback again.

If you can’t attribute the fictional story to the real Dr. Arbuckle, you can attribute a lot of Mattie’s story to the real Judy Alter. Re-reading it, after all these years, I realized that in some ways I had written the memoir that I was always reluctant to attempt. When she was first settles on the prairie, Mattie meets a charming, charismatic man with a sad story about being disowned by his wealthy family back in St. Louis. Against the advice of her brother and stepfather, Mattie marries Em Jones, who turns out to be, as we would say in Texas, all hat and no cattle. In 1964, against the advice of my family, I married a medical student and followed him to Texas (the Texas part worked out well). The two stories are variations on a theme, but it’s all there—the sweep-you-off-your-feet joy, the domesticity, the quarrels over money and child-raising (I had a few more children than Mattie’s lone daughter), the growing estrangement, and the final betrayal. My ex and I divorced in 1982; the book was published in 1988. I had had time to process, but I don’t think at the time that I realized that I was writing my own experiences into Mattie’s life.

In her forties, Mattie Armstrong developed an unlikely relationship with the uneducated but skilled workman who single-handedly built her a two-story sanitarium on the prairie. Here’s a spoiler: the relationship was never meant to last, and he rides away, both of them filled with regret for what could not have worked on a permanent basis. As I was writing the last pages of this book, I was in the midst of the one serious relationship I had after my divorce. I clearly remember sitting at my desk and pecking out the scene where he leaves—and the realization came like a load of bricks that the man I thought loved me—and who I thought I loved—was going to leave. As it was for Mattie, so it was for me—decisions turned out to be right, and a more than satisfactory life followed.

I have talked before about my reluctance to write a memoir. Oh, I wrote Cooking My Way Through Life with Kids and Books, but it was a surface memoir, hung on a peg of cooking. I don’t think in it I came to grips with the emotions involved on my journey. And I have since shied away from memoir.  With minor variations, this novel is the memoir of two significant periods in my life. I’m still processing that realization.

My children may say this is TMI, as they put it, but it’s something I felt I needed to say. And one other thing: Mattie’s husband was Em, short for Emory; the builder was Eli (okay I hadn’t yet learned the lesson not to give two characters names starting with the same letter). The original dedication to the book was “For Em and Eli/They know who they are.” Em is dead now, and I suspect Eli maybe too. But I have asked the editors to restore the original dedication, replacing the one now that says it is for my daughters. They have enough books dedicated to them. I want them to know how close this story hits to home.

 

 

 

 

 

A bit of excitement for the day--and the plots of possible novels

            Jacob called a little before noon.  “Lock your doors,” he said breathlessly. “The police are driving up and down our street looking for someone.” It seems he and his mother were outside when a policeman drove up and told them to go into the house and lock the doors. I did as I was told.

Thereafter, for almost three hours, we got bits and snippets. I couldn’t see the police from the cottage, but I certainly could hear multiple helicopters overhead. Jordan reported that police presence on the street was heavy. The neighborhood email listserv came alive with this bit of information and that. Put altogether, it revealed that a mental patient wearing a floral shirt and possibly armed had escaped from Baylor Scott & White Hospital, perhaps half a mile north of us. Police were concentrating their search around the hospital, but then I heard of a heavy convergence of helicopters and police cars in the southwest corner of our neighborhood.

Jacob came out to the cottage, again breathless, to report police were still everywhere, and he thought he saw the man riding a bicycle. He protested it looked like him, even if the clothing was different. He warned me that Sophie could not go out. She looked at him in despair. Police were discouraging pedestrian travel, so Jordan drove a woman, a stranger, to the Old Neighborhood Grill. Then she urged our neighbor, who was outside sweeping her walks, to go in the house. So proud of my daughter.

About 2:45 I texted Jordan to say I was going to take a nap, and she said it apparently was all clear. Police had left the neighborhood; the helicopters were gone. But there was no official word. Tonight I watched the local news but there was no mention. What became a big deal for our neighborhood was not such to the city at large apparently.

Note to the Fort Worth Police Department: I know it’s difficult and in a crisis,  you have many demands on your time and services, but a public relations announcement to neighborhood listservs would help keep neighbors informed and safe. And you could let them know when the all clear sounded—and maybe what happened. Even a truck with a loudspeaker might be useful—the water department does that, so why not the police?

Tonight we did find out it was not (necessarily) a mental patient (who knows for sure?) but a domestic dispute, apparently in the hospital. The guy was armed or so they think, and the girl screamed for security. He was last seen walking away from the hospital. Hours later he still had not been apprehended. Thanks to our neighborhood police officer (NPO) for the update

I can sure see at least the subplot of a cozy novel in this incident—maybe Kelly O’Connell to the rescue in my Fairmount series.

In the midst of the search, I turned on the TV hoping there was an update on our local bad guy. No such, but I got extended “special report” coverage of the helicopter crash on a skyscraper in Manhattan. A horrifying accident that for many of us, even those not in the city, brought back 9/11. Planes crashing into buildings, buildings on fire. Fortunately tonight there seems to be agreement that this was a tragic accident, involving a seasoned pilot but not terrorism. Still, imagine the fright of the people in the building as they were evacuated and, like 9/11, not allowed to use elevators to go down fifty-four floors.

In this accident, I see the makings of an espionage novel—not my cup of tea, but someone could sure run with it.

And, hey, I’m still gonna lock my doors tonight.

God compensates

Reality is the leading cause of stress among those who are in touch with it.

—Lily Tomlin

The quote above is something I liked well enough that I wanted to share it. My mom would have liked it. She was fond of such sayings as “The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine,” or “God works in mysterious ways his wonders to accomplish.” The latter is sort of what’s on my mind tonight.

Between Jordan and me, we have a fairly constant stream of visitors to this house, usually at happy hour. Since the discovery of my broken ankle, most of them make a beeline for me to ask, “How do you feel?” My answer is that every part of me feels perfectly fine except for my ankle which hurts like sixty. A month ago I would have cheerfully said I felt fine when I really didn’t, but now I do. I think it’s one of God’s mysterious ways.

As many of you know, I’ve struggled with anxiety, balance problems, fear of falling, even some insecurity. Now that there’s something in my body that actually hurts badly enough to focus all my energy, those neurotic (my term) ailments have all gone away. Sure, there are some logical explanations—I’m on a new anti-anxiety medication, and it works wonderfully, makes me feel like a new person. I’m also on my new bright red walker, and I have no fear of falling. I sleep well and pain free at night, and during the day I sit at my desk and think all is well and I can conquer bear. But when I stand up and walk, I am indeed in touch with the reality of pain. It’s as though God said, not unkindly, “You want something to worry about? Here’s a real something.”

The fracture, as I understand it, is not exactly a hairline but almost. No displacement of bones. If I’ve got it right I sprained the ankle, and the sprain pulled the ligaments apart until the bone broke. That’s why it hurts worse now than it did a few days after I fell. The fracture is at the bottom of the fibula, the lesser bone in the leg, and not weight-bearing.

So tomorrow I go in the morning to have my puffy hand x-rayed (it doesn’t hurt but has an ugly bruise) and to have a bone density test I should have had several years ago. Then I go to be fitted with a walking boot that I will wear night and day for at least four weeks. I hope that will lessen the pain by supporting the ankle better and also begin the healing process.

The Dean DeLuca Golf Tournament is this weekend (nobody in Fort Worth calls it anything but the Colonial) so Jordan and Christian will both be working. I’ll have Jacob at least one night but pretty much I’ll be home alone for four days. I can either mope and have a pity party or I can get a lot of work done. I have invited all the non-golf people I know to stop by for coffee or wine, so I’ll probably have visitors. Life ain’t so bad.

Writing about everyday heroes

Please welcome my Wednesday guest, Susan Schreyer, the author of the Thea Campbell Mysteries. The sixth in this locally-set, humorous series, Saving the Queen of Diamonds, has just been released in print and e-book format. Susan lives near the scenes of her murders with her husband, two almost-on-their-own children, a bunch cats, a couple of tame lab rats and the ghosts of a number of family pets of various species. Her horse lives within easy driving distance. Occasionally, Susan makes a diligent effort at updating her blogs "Writing Horses" and "Things I Learned From My Horse," and writes articles for several worthy publications. Mostly, she works on stories about people in the next town being murdered. As a diversion from the plotting of nefarious deeds Susan trains horses and teaches people how to ride them and, when the weather gets to her, works in a veterinarians’ office. She is a member of the Guppies Chapter of Sisters in Crime and is co-president of the Puget Sound Chapter of SinC. When she has a minute she cleans her house and does laundry.

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      Hi, my name is Susan Schreyer and I write about people and events on the edge of reality. No, I don’t write paranormal (although part of the fun is the distinctly unexplainable element or two in every book). I write about people with jobs, families, friends and lovers, pets, hopes and dreams -- and conflict. Pretty normal stuff, right?
Now, throw in a murder or two, life-threatening situations with dramatic conclusions and emotionally satisfying endings. Ah, now you see where I’m going. Not the stuff of everyday life, for most of us, right? Especially if you’re not law enforcement, but you do get to put the world right again.
What about the heroism? The “above and beyond” selfless act? Isn’t that pushing at reality? Nope. That’s normal, in my opinion.
“Aw, come on, really?” you say.
Really. Most readers will identify with a character’s struggles, desires, their less-than-noble thoughts, and their failures readily enough. But what about when the chips are down? How often does that elusive chance to shine come our way? Heroism is action everyone can hold to their hearts as something we would at least try to do if presented with the opportunity.
 “Yup, got that part.”
 Good. We’re on the same page. Now, look around you. There are acts of heroism all the time, every day -- even in our own neighborhoods. It’s right-thinking paired with right-action. There’s a hero in each and every one of us, although I don’t think we often recognize it, even when it happens. That’s why I write it. It’s every reader’s chance to say, “Me, too!” and see the hero in ourselves.
These elements are the substance of the Thea Campbell mysteries: excitement and situations that stretch the
limits of reality in a setting that has a high degree of familiarity, then touch on the human desire to participate in heroic action and make the world right. Oh, and one more thing:
Along the way, let’s not forget to laugh! Life, even when very serious, has distinctly farcical moments!

Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Susan-Schreyer/e/B004CLPMUG   Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/SusanSchreyer; Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/susan-schreyer?store=allproducts&keyword=susan+schreyer webpage: http://www.susanschreyer.com blog (Writing Horses) http://writinghorses.blogspot.com blog (Things I learned from my horse) http://thingsilearnedfrommyhorse.blogspot.com Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Susan-Schreyer-Mysteries/161359303906634 Twitter: @susanschreyer