1920's Fashion

I followed Alice down the rabbit hole again – simply asking myself the question, How would I describe fashion of the day when crowds of people came to see the circus?

In my novel, Cat Skinner, my father Webb Bateman and his brother Ray join the circus at the ages of fourteen and sixteen. (Yes, they really did).

I found part of the answer to my question at a wonderful website, Fashion-Era. http://www.fashion-era.com/index.htm. It contains pages of fashion history, costume history, clothing, fashions and social history. I couldn’t resist capturing some tidbits about women’s fashion in the 1920’s.

It was 1925, the year Webb and Ray were roustabouts, that women’s hemlines, if they kept up with fashion, went up 14-16 inches from the ground to mid-calf! It wasn’t until 1926-27, the hemline inched up to the knee and in the following years dropped back down again. We think of the roaring twenties as the decade of short skirts and flapper dresses, but in fact, short skirts were short-lived. Here’s more from Fashion-Era

The Masculine Silhouette of 1920's Females

After the First World War (1914-18) when women's dress became more mannish, each year seemed to get more severe in line which almost emphasized the feminine woman beneath. Female clothes became looser and more shapeless in fit. The bust was suppressed, the waist disappeared, the shoulders became broader and hair shorter and shorter.  Narrow boyish hips were preferred.  The silhouette emphasized a flattened chest and womanly curves were eliminated as the line became more simplified.

The Flat Chest of the Twenties

The slender flat-chested tanned body and face of a 15 year old became the desired silhouette of the bright young things of the 1920s.  Health and beauty clubs helped women refine their silhouettes whilst getting fitter and healthier.

It was a difficult time for the former matrons of Edwardian society, the previous leaders of fashion whose style of dressing became as passé as their rounded figures and older faces.  More youthful women who could party all night and carry the boyish fashions well were all the rage. 

The 1920's Bra

The bras of the early 20s include home made ones in white cotton and which were little more than bust bodices with extra separation.  Some purchased bras were like camisoles and they offered no support.

Big busted girls turned to bandaging their breasts flat, but many adopted the Symington Side Lacer, a bra that could be laced at both sides and pulled and pulled in to flatten the chest.

For young ladies with youthful figures a satisfactory bra was the four sectioned lace bandeau bra, lined in net.  None of the bras gave much shape, but few ladies were seeking anything more than stopping the bust from wobbling. As long as they looked boyish they looked fashionable.

By the 1930s Triumph, Maidenform, Gossard, Warner Brothers, Spirella, Twilfit and Symingtons were all making bras that did the job of separating the breasts. At the same time it was finally acknowledged that women had differing cup sizes and bra sales doubled with the new designs.

Girdles and Underwear

Between 1920 and 1928 corset sales declined by two thirds, but it adapted to changing needs.  Fast flappers refused to wear corsets and rolled their stockings to the knee to enable them to dance easily.  Long Corsets produced the boyish figure, but instead of thick boned corsets many women preferred thin elastic webbing Lastex girdles that flattened the abdomen.  Suspenders were attached to the girdles.

Note: Some of us can appreciate the fact that 40 years later in the 1960's we were still wearing Latex girdles with garters to hold up our nylons!

Read and Write

Writing a first novel comes with a lot of reading, as well as research.
 
Five years ago, I began researching memoir writing. I wanted to write the story of my younger years, particularly those I spent in Australia. The richness of the research and my background in education resulted in a memoir writing class I teach at the local senior center. I still teach two eight week sessions each year between January and May. The class meets for two hours each Friday.

While my own story has been put on hold, my life has been enriched by the memoir classes and hearing other’s stories. It’s also been enriched by the wonderful stories I’ve encouraged my students to read. Some of those include:

RECOMMENDED MEMOIR

·       Angela's Ashes: A Memoir by Frank McCourt (Simon and Schuster, 1996)

·       The Glass Castle  by Jeannette Walls (Scribner 2005)

·       Growing Up by Russell Baker (Signet, 1982)

·       The Liars' Club: A Memoir by Mary Karr (Penguin, 1998)

·       This Boy's Life by Tobias Wolff (Grove Press, 1989)

·       Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia by Elizabeth Gilbert (Penquin Books, 2006)

The historical novel I’m writing about my father, Webster Warren Bateman’s life in the 1920’s and 30’s titled Cat Skinner is somewhat different from memoir. My novel is based on his life experiences, but as the narrator (omniscient voice) in the story, I have to imagine my Dad’s motivation, his emotion and his actions to a great degree. Books that have helped steep me in his youth include:

RECOMMENDED HISTORICAL NOVELS

·       The Boys in the Boat by Daniel James Brown (Penguin 2013)

·       Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen (Algonquin 2006)

·       Two Wheels North by Evelyn McDaniel Gibb (Oregon State University Press 2000)

·       The Eleventh Man by Ivan Doig (Mariner Books 2009)

·       And most of the books above

Those who are long time writers may feel I’m stating the obvious, but for those of us who are novices, the importance of reading great examples can’t be stressed enough. Read and write.

Revision Insanity

I started to beat myself up about how often I print out what I’ve written in Cat Skinner, mark it up and then revise before moving ahead.

To check my sanity, I Googled “novel revision” to see what I could find. Am I procrastinating? Am I too much of a perfectionist – all the while knowing this historical novel of my father, Webster Warren Bateman’s early years in the 20’s and 30’s will never be perfect?

Thankfully, I found I’m not losing my mind and what I’m doing is okay with the one exception – I need to keep writing new material.

Following are excerpts from Revision and Self-Editing for Publication: Techniques that Transform Your First Draft into a Novel that Sells by author James Scott Bell. He suggests four ways to revise, some of which I’m already doing. And yes, I decided to buy the book.

1. Revise Your Previous Pages
Look at what you wrote the day before (or during your last writing stint), and do a quick edit. This practice puts you back into the flow of your story and gets you ready to write the new material.

I’ve been printing out a hard copy of all the chapters I’ve written and I agree with what Bell said: The act of reading physical pages more closely mimics what a reader will be doing, and I catch more things this way.

He also suggests, Write as fast as you comfortably can on your first draft. My “fast” is everyone else’s slow.

2. Try the 20,000-Word Step Back
Whether you’re an NOP (No Outline Person) or an OP (Outline Person), the 20,000-word step back can be a tremendous tool. I’m an NOP; it’s in my head. I know where I want to go and I’m letting the stories determine how I get there.

I haven’t reached 20,000 words yet, but when I do here’s his advice: After 20,000 words you stop, take a day off, then read what you have. By this time your story engine should be running. You’ve done enough of the novel to know pretty much what it’s about. You then take some time to make sure you like the characters and the direction. If you don’t, make some changes now.

It seems I step back every day – as soon as I leave my computer. I’ll walk upstairs and something will dawn on me like: I need to flesh out the chores the women did in the hotel while making the characters more real.

I go to bed thinking about the story and wake up at times, with new ideas.

3. Keep a Journal
The free-form journal is a great way to record notes for yourself as you go. Often, these notes will become fodder for your revision. Remember, that first draft is also an act of discovery. Don’t try to get it perfect the first go-around. Let it breathe. Then you’ll begin the process of cutting out all that isn’t your novel and adding more novel to it if you have to.

I’m not keeping a journal, but as ideas pop into my head, I jot them down and when incorporated (or not), check them off the list.

4. Take Advantage of All Your Tools
Writers today have a lot more tools available to them than ever before. It’s not just blue pencils anymore. Here are just a few that you can fine-tune for yourself.

The ones that follow are those I’m employing or plan to:

·        Running Outline (Seems this would help with synopsis writing as well)
As you write your first draft, keep a running summary—an ongoing outline—of your story. I suggest you copy and paste your first couple of paragraphs from each chapter, and the last couple. Then put a summary statement of the action at the top of each, in all caps.

·        Spreadsheets or Tables (Even though I’m not outlining, I’ll do this to keep track of scenes)
Some writers, almost always outline people, like to put their outlines in a spreadsheet or table. Then, using color coding and other markers, they can see the outline of their story, the characters involved, and a summary of the action, at a glance.

·        Critique Groups (My writer’s group, Wordsmiths, serves this purpose and I’m asking certain people to read my drafts)
Many writers have benefited from critique groups, reader networks, and paid critiques. If you need that extra push, especially early in your career, a critique group can help. But make sure the following factors apply:
·        Look for people you have a rapport with. Previous relationships help.
·        Keep the group small. Four to seven, give or take.
·        Give as much as you get. Make sure you give adequate time to everyone else.
·        Establish realistic deadlines and stick to them.
·        Make sure the people in the group understand the genre you’re writing in.
·        Build trust. Check egos at the door.
·        Be aware of the envy issue. It happens. If someone’s writing takes off, it’s going to cause some strain. Best to talk about this up front.

My goal for this weekend is to revise the 12,000 words I proofed two days ago and get on down the road to writing about Dad and his brother, Ray’s crazy experience as teens working for a traveling circus. Fair to Middlin’ is holding me accountable!

 

The Bateman Family

Explaining family relationships as a backdrop for what’s to come is something akin to begats in the Bible, necessary (at least to the author), but boring. As I write, I’ve tried very hard to stay away from boring in Cat Skinner – a Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s, but you may get a taste of it here.

My cousin, Janet Peterson Esser, and I have been exchanging email about the Bateman family. Her mother, Evelyn (“Toots”) Ruth Bateman Peterson was my dad, Webster (“Webb”) Warren Bateman’s oldest sister. There were six siblings. After Toots came Raymond Wellington, then Webb, followed by Walter Harrison, Vivian Lois, and Blanche May. They were born to James (“Jim”) Robert Bateman and Tomine Teodine (“Dena”) Ramsland Bateman during the first two decades of 1900. 

Thanks to Janet, I now have some details about life in the Merchant Hotel in Almont, North Dakota that I wouldn’t otherwise have. Janet verified the Bateman family did live in the hotel (she remembers visiting the hotel as a young child) while Jim operated the pool hall and livery stable across the street. What becomes obvious in our exchange of information is Toot’s natural instinct to “mother” Ray, the oldest brother and Webb, two years younger. At the time the boys left to join the circus, Toots was seventeen, Ray sixteen and Webb fourteen years old.

“I remember Mom (“Toots”) talking about how upset she was with her parents that they allowed the boys to do it [join the circus],” Janet commented in an email and later asked, “So why did they?”

I responded with facts from Dad’s own brief memoir, information Janet hadn’t known. 

Ray was almost strangled to death by Professor DeNoyer, the head master at school. He might have been if the janitor hadn't pulled him off Ray. DeNoyer was also a boarder at the hotel, paying $30/month rent.  

Jim lectured both boys even though Dad wasn't in the fight. He said (according to Dad), "If you boys don't want to go to school and behave, you can go out and go to work for your own living." Dad and Ray thought that was a good deal and initially "rustled" jobs on separate farms working 14 hour days, seven days a week for $15/month. Dad also said about his farm job, “I think dogs had it better." And from there they joined the circus which made one night stands in small towns in the Dakotas and Minnesota. 

When Dad reflected on Jim telling the boys to go get work, he said it seemed Jim was more interested in getting rent than feeding two hungry boys. Obviously Dena went along with it or felt she had no say in the matter. DeNoyer was later sent to an insane asylum for the mentally ill and criminally insane. He died there.  

While recitation of family lineage may get a bit tiresome, the stories the family relationships produce are truly stranger than fiction – and deserve to be told.

Oh the Places You'll Go!

“Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
― Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You'll Go! 

That phrase keeps buzzing in my head as I scan a used book I just received from Amazon. The title is Step Right This Way by Edward J. Kelty. This is a wonderful coffee table edition of old-time circus photographs taken in the 1920’s and 30’s.

Why a circus book? My Dad, Webster (“Webb”) Warren Bateman and his older brother, Raymond Wellington Bateman joined a traveling truck circus the summer of 1925 when Dad was fourteen and Ray sixteen. The boys drove two of ten trucks to one night stands in towns in the Dakotas and Minnesota. They helped put up the big top and also performed. No they were not the high wire act. Dad was the front end and Ray the back end of a cartoon looking giraffe. After the show they broke it down, caught about four or five hours sleep and hit the road again. 

Dad’s brief discussion of this adventure and my regret at not having asked him more questions when he was still alive, led me to do more research. How many acts did they have? What were they? How many people can you haul in ten Model T Ford trucks along with the big top, bleachers, food, and animals? Yes, I’ve looked at images of Model T trucks used in the circuses to get an idea of size and I visited the LeMay Family Collection (of cars) at Marymount Event Center in Spanaway, Washington. (I was even allowed to open doors and take photographs).

I also contacted Archivist Peter Shrake at the Robert L. Parkinson Library and Research Center which is part of Circus World in Baraboo, Wisconsin. Peter in turn gave me the names of three truck circuses from the mid 1920’s. (I also discovered the names of more in Kelty’s book of photos).

Peter directed me to their library’s archive of photos. There aren’t many photos of truck circuses since the larger more glamorous circuses of the day travelled by train and drew a lot of attention wherever they went. Think Water for Elephants written by Sara Gruen as an example.

The answers to my questions, for the most part, will require a great deal of imagination to answer in my novel, Cat Skinner – A story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s.

Oh, the places I go in my journey to tell Webb’s story and the fun still to be done!

The New "Game"

In my dad’s very brief memoir, he had this to say about the first Christmas in the Almont hotel his mother operated. It was 1922, Webb was eleven years old and he was learning a bit about the birds and the bees.

In six months the hotel was doing well, so all the relatives and their hired help, the boarders and some friends came to the hotel for a two day Christmas party. The rafters rang with merriment and in a dark room upstairs, a Russian girl, who worked for my uncle, and I played a new game that was new and pretty exciting.

Following is my interpretation of what happened:

The bedroom had a couple single beds, straight backed wooden chairs, a small dresser, and a table with a kerosene lamp, which they lit. Webb closed the door, grabbed the key hanging on a hook close by, stuck it in the lock and made sure he heard the tumbler click into place.

“Just makin’ sure we aren’t bothered by some drunk,” Webb offered as an excuse for the locked door, hooking his thumbs over the top of his belt, not sure what to do next.

“I can teach you game,” Alina offered in broken, but teasing English. She smiled. The small gap between her front teeth made her seem even more playful and inviting. Her honey blonde hair was pulled back with a scarf tied around her head, Indian style. There was no reason for her to follow fashion and wear a cropped do like some of the women in town. There were a couple downstairs. Even Toots was wearing her hair shorter these days.

It was also obvious Alina wasn’t wearing the breast flattening, hide-every-curve kind of corset he’d seen his mother cinched into a time or two. As a hired farm girl, that get-up wouldn’t have been practical and she couldn’t afford it anyway. He was happy about that. He had ogled her curves all evening.

Alina sat on the edge of the bed, hazel eyes glistening with anticipation of what she would be showing Webb. She inched up the hem of her long-sleeved, drop-waist wool dress, revealing shapely legs in dark stockings. Earlier as Webb followed her up the stairs, watching her hips sway from side to side as she climbed, he’d counted what seemed to be about a hundred buttons down her back. He was up for the challenge – in more ways than one.

“What kinda game are you talkin’ about?” Webb asked somehow knowing it wasn’t going to be kick the can.

“You take off …” she paused to think of the word. “Clothes. Not all. One first. Then I do.”

Webb hesitated a moment. Under his shirt and pants, he had on long handled underwear with a long row of buttons down the front and a flap in back, the same kind he’d been wearing as long as he could remember, especially in the dead of winter. The only difference - now they were his own. He’d outgrown wearing Ray’s hand-me-downs and thank God, his mother wasn’t making him wear his dad’s left overs.

(To be continued in Cat Skinner)

Not Worth a Tinker's Dam

In the notes my dad left about his youth, I wondered why he started his memoir at age 28, referring to himself as, “not worth a tinker’s dam.” A tinker was traveling repairman a couple centuries ago, who used temporary patches to repair holes in metal pots and pans. The material used for patching might have been mud, clay or wet paper. The dam wasn’t worth a damn! 
 

My dad didn't finish his memoir, but once my half sister, LaReta, shared letters her mother had written to our father, between 1936 and 1939, I understood. Dad was not the man I later knew him to be. (I was born in 1945). My story of his younger years, 1920's and '30's, is fiction, but based on facts garnered from Webb himself, his first wife, Dorothy, and historical information. Following is an excerpt from Cat Skinner, Chapter 1.

 

Dorothy’s too young to be gone. Only twenty-seven, for God’s sake! Webb hunched his muscled shoulders, conditioned by years of farm labor and construction work, toward the steering wheel.

I should be lying in that coffin for the way I treated her. Twenty-eight years old and I’m not worth a tinker’s dam! Been to the top and bottom in a lotta ways, but this is the worst payback a man can get for his mistakes.

Guilt and regret were a load Webster Warren Bateman’s six foot, one hundred and ninety pound frame wasn’t used to carrying. He was a handsome Norwegian with a wavy shock of light brown hair. High cheekbones and a dimpled smile added to his good looks. His facial features were boyishly soft even though he wasn’t.  Born on a farm near Milroy, Minnesota, May 28, 1911, Webb was a guy who could hold his liquor, put on a poker face, shoot pool with the best of them, and tell stories until his audience, drunk or sober, was in stiches. He was a man used to being the center of attention and liked it. The ladies liked him too… long before Dorothy and Ogallala.

Webb’s deep set blue eyes, usually mischievous, scanned the road ahead through fading light. He was headed west from Ogallala, Nebraska toward Cheyenne, Wyoming. It would take another three hours on Highway 30 before he turned north onto 87. His brows furrowed into a serious scowl. Exhaust clouds roiled behind the 1930 Chevy Sedan mirroring thoughts churning in his head. It was Wednesday evening, March 8th, 1939 and it was cold. The temperature had dropped below freezing again. At least it’s not snowing. Hell of a blizzard we worked in just four days ago. Glad it didn’t stick or I’d probably never made it to North Dakota in time.

 

Cat Skinner: The Search for a Subtitle

Last Friday morning, I shared with my once-a-month breakfast group, Women in Transition (WIT), the tentative name of the novel I’m writing about my father’s life in the 1920’s and 30’s.

Cat Skinner drew non-responsive stares - which compelled me to explain the name. I didn’t want my friends to think I’m descended from a psychopath or that I’m promoting cruelty to animals. I recently helped to start a non-profit benefiting animals at our local shelter – for heaven’s sake!

Following is an excerpt from Chapter 1:

He was used to being in charge and in control, whether it was operating heavy equipment: Caterpillar tractors, bull dozers, crushers, backhoes, blades, shovels, dump trucks – or men. He’d been a shift boss on a lot of jobs. He knew how to lead and get things done. He was a Cat Skinner. That’s what they called heavy equipment operators. Webb liked the moniker because it recognized his skill, but he joked with friends about “skinner” since it referred to a man who drove a mule team. Skinning a mule just meant you were smarter than the mule. “A questionable gauge of intelligence,” Webb would say with a belly laugh and a drink in his hand.

There are those who know what’s meant by the term, Cat Skinner, but usually they’re folks with lots of miles behind them and a penchant for starting sentences with, “Back in my day…”

So here is my dilemma. What should the subtitle be?

My dad was a Cat Skinner who was self-educated. He only attended a year and a half of high school – maybe not even that long since he and his brother were told to leave home when Webb was fourteen and his brother Ray sixteen.

The term Cat Skinner fits him so well, I don’t want to change the name, but the subtitle needs to explain he doesn’t skin cats. It has to succinctly convey the essence of the novel which is a working stiff’s story of love and loss in the 1930’s. Does that do it or do you have other ideas? All offerings welcome. J

Finding My Father's Voice

Finding my father’s voice took help from friends.

I’ve been part of Wordsmiths, a small writer’s group in Puyallup, for about 18 months and I may not have found Webster Warren Bateman’s voice without them.

Loretta & Webb Bateman 1939 Wedding Photo

Dad died in 1997 at age 86. I knew my dad as a jovial fellow, who liked to play pranks, dance my mom around the kitchen, smoke, joke and drink whiskey. He was always in charge or attempting to be. That came from years of running construction crews, operating heavy equipment and driving long haul trucks. It used to drive me crazy as an adult when he would tell me how to back out of my own driveway - and offer much more in the way of uninvited advice. 

When he retired from his last job as Superintendent of one-third of the Benton County Washington roads – I always got a kick out of the 1/3 part - he became Mayor of Benton City. It’s a map dot in Southeastern Washington on the way to the Tri-Cities. His position as Mayor included late night calls when the storm drains got plugged. He was up for it. He was the big fish in a little pond.

As a child I thought of him as a hero because he built dams, re-routed railroad tracks, and drove trucks carrying bombs for Uncle Sam along the Alcan Highway in Alaska when there were no paved roads. He was in charge – and that also had Mom and me on the move. I attended thirteen grade schools.

I didn’t think about who Webb was, his motivations, thoughts, desires – he was just my dad. The experiences of his youth were stories he told at parties.  

My draft of the first chapter in Cat Skinner was diplomatically, but brutally critiqued. "Would your father have pleaded with his mother for assistance? From what we know of your dad, he was usually giving orders. Who's speaking here? Are you sure that's not your voice instead of your dad's?" Webb was coming across as too nice. 

Getting into Webb’s character – finding his voice – meant setting aside the child-parent relationship and putting on his work shirt and high-water work pants. Must admit, I'm still getting used to work boots, smoking Chesterfields, shootin’ pool, swinging a sledge hammer, and ensuring a familiar spicy warmth - from lips to belly - with a quick backward tip of my head. 

It's Fiction, but Check the Facts

“It’s fiction, for God’s sake, Bonnie! If you want it to snow, let it snow.”

It may be a mistake to tell friends and family what I’m doing – attempting to write something people will read and enjoy – but I do anyway. Perhaps it’s a way of holding myself accountable. If you tell enough people you’re writing a novel, maybe you’ll believe it yourself and actually write!

Over horses doovers (aka hors d'oeuvres. Have to look up the spelling every time) and drinks, I shared with Sue and Laurie the research I’d done to get a visual on what my dad, Webb Bateman, was seeing as he drove from Nebraska to North Dakota.  

“Phebe, in my writer’s group, pointed out I could check the weather for March 1939 to make sure it was snowing,” I explained. “Sounded like a good idea to me, so I did. Cost me $20 to subscribe to a reliable site ( weathersource.com/past-weather/weather-history-reports), but I actually verified Dad worked in a blizzard on March 4, 1939 in Ogallala, Nebraska, as he indicated in a letter. But then I found out the snow melted and it was fairly mild. So I changed my story to get rid of snow as he drove north.”

Sue, who is an avid reader, just shook her head. I tried to reassure her I wasn’t going to recite the high, low and median temperatures for every day of the trip. “It’s just a method to get me in the moment. Besides, Sue, my brain game, Lumosity, indicates I should have been a researcher or scientist or something like that.” She knows my analytical side well, having worked with me for twenty years before we both retired. Nonetheless, her head wagged back and forth again.

Google and I have become very good friends which doesn't say much for my social life. One of the searches helped me with the typography of Wyoming. “Would my dad have to shift down in a 1930 Chevy Sedan, if he were going from 3000 to 6000 elevation in 17 miles?” I asked my husband, Scott. He also looked at me in disbelief.

The research in and of itself hasn't always been riveting, but it's helped my comfort level in writing description. On the other hand, I've found information I'm not sure my 80 year old relatives would approve of. Lyrics from "Dirty Songs of the Twenties and Thirties" are real eyebrow raisers. Then again, Who am I kidding? My relatives probably helped write them. 

Yup, I’m hooked on research and for now, there may be snow on my roof, but not on my roads.

Hunkerin' Down

Fair to middlin’. Cat skinner. Shenanigans. Fracus. Charivaree. Yoohoo girls. Blind pig. Crazy as a shit house rat.

I’ve been living in the ‘20’s and ‘30’s the past year. Words and phrases like these continue to crawl from the crevices of memory or leap out at me from historical novels. In my attempt to write the story of my father’s youth, the jargon of the time finds me. Is it because I’m steeped enough in Webster Warren Bateman’s brain? Am I recalling his memories or am I remembering the language of my childhood? Whichever it is – it’s an adventure and I’m lovin’ it.

There I did it again. Helpin’. Talkin’. Filterin’. Writing dialogue of farm guys shootin’ pool in Jim Bateman’s establishment during prohibition years will do that to a writer. At least it’s done it to me. Forget the “gs” and to hell with grammar. The fact that I used to teach English in the States and overseas no longer holds sway in this writing. I read aloud what I’ve written to see if the rhythm and tone sound right to me – perhaps not to someone else – but this is my invention, a historical fiction novel based on stories from my dad’s life.

Have I written a novel before?  No, but there have been thank you notes, emails, operator manuals, technical reports, and – oh yes, my first blog of five years, Bonnie King Photography: As I See It. www.bonnie-king.blogspot.com. I also started my own memoir four years ago, From Australia with Love, stories of my wild and crazy youth, but instead of finishing it, I became enamored with the idea of teaching memoir writing to others. That old adage, “If you can’t do – teach.” But I’m a damn good teacher and people like the class so I continue to this day. My photography business also gave me a good excuse not to write seriously, so I didn’t, until now.

My passion for photography as a business waned and the desire to tell my dad’s story took hold. I closed the business. With the help of rain and wind urging me to hunker down with my computer, a cup of coffee, cat on my lap and dog at my feet – I’m finally on my way. Only another 100,000 words to go.