Journey

The difference between the writer and the wannabe writer is … one writes and the other, due to choice, chance or circumstance, thinks about writing rather than getting it done. That’s where I’ve been the last couple weeks. Thinking, reading, procrastinating.

From what I’ve read and been told, that’s not unusual, but it’s also what keeps a story in one’s head and not on paper. 

I’m now in Part 3 - The Funeral of Cat Skinner: A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s. This is the final third of the story. Webb and his sister, Blanche, have exchanged personal information and experiences as they motor the 350 miles from Billings, Montana to Dunn Center, North Dakota on Friday, March 10, 1939. Their goal is to reach Dunn Center by 1 pm in time for Dorothy’s funeral.

The journey is more than watching the straight-as-an-arrow highway disappear beneath the spoke wheels of the 1930 Chevy. It is a journey for Webb to figure out, with the help of his sister, what kind of man he wants to be, the real thing or a wannabe. Is he going to think about what he should have done and what he should do now regarding his three-year-old daughter, LaReta, or is he going to do it.

I’ve been stuck these past few weeks trying to think my way to the end of the story. How do I pay homage to the real people who lived this story, show their perspectives, their feelings and fears, in a fictionalized version of the truth? Tonight is the first time I’ve gained a little traction. I'm letting the story tell me where it wants to go.

Hopefully, the story will reveal itself in a way that readers remain sympathetic to all the characters, including Webb, and in part, to this wannabe writer, his daughter.

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.