(or, A Peek into a Chaotic Mind)
This book mugged me out of the blue, turned my writing on its ear, and left me reeling. But it left me grinning, too. I built my career writing contemporary books. What began itching in the back of my mind for this book was different. I kept getting amorphous glimpses of a part-straight-historical/part-historical-romance story that would unfold primarily in the first decade of the 1900s. I find the early part of the twentieth century fascinating. America was beginning to go through a lot of changes. It was a more innocent time, but also more judgmental and unforgiving of human foible, particularly if you were female. Modern elements were becoming more commonplace, with telephones, utilities, and indoor plumbing spreading beyond cities and towns to reach more rural areas. Old-school ways of thinking were slower to change, and I enjoyed plopping the fictitious town of Mattawa, Oregon, atop that dichotomy.
Most authors are asked, of the books they’ve written, which is their favorite. I never know how to answer. It’s tempting to say the one on which I just wrote “The End.” And since I write largely by correction, it’s true I’m hella thrilled with it after so long spent fearing I would never slap it into shape. But I think my most persistent reaction is feeling like a mother of twenty-six kids being asked to choose her favorite. I confess I only have one son. Still, I can’t imagine ever favoring any spawn of mine over another.
Famous last words, though, you know? Because this book became the passion project of my bibliography. I’d like to say the story came to me full-blown and all plotted out for me to write down flawlessly in a red-hot rush. But, yeaaaah . . . no.
I’m a character-driven writer at heart, and that often means a persistent voice that begins whispering in my ear. It’s the catalyst taking me into a new story, but in the beginning, I frankly don’t know with any precision what that story will be. I do know it will ultimately be born through my characters. For reasons I can’t pinpoint, my catalyst characters have generally been male. And the couple times they were female, they were adults. Yet this orphaned, redheaded eleven-year-old, with a mouth on her that would not quit, began agitating in my head for her story to be told. Hattie Witherspoon Taylor simply would not leave me alone until I helped her come of age and find her happy ending. And in that give-an-inch-and-they’ll-take-a-mile way, she dragged a host of 1900s women’s issues in her wake.
Two of those were rape and a rape trial. Sensationalizing sexual assault was never my aim. But this is an important story to tell today, because while things have changed in some respects, they have made little progress in others. I felt compelled to explore the onion-skin layers of hurt, shame, healing, and sisterhood—as well as the machismo of an earlier age, both toxic and benign. Women were ostracized in those days simply because they weren’t strong enough to fight off their attackers. Men were the only ones allowed to sit on a jury. Attitudes have come a long way from much of the draconian mind-set of Hattie’s time. Yet disgracefully, our society has not evolved nearly enough. Women still have to fight the asking-for-it mentality, simply because they dress in revealing club wear or enjoy a healthy sex life. Still, it was fascinating to research the history.
Research, however, is a two-edged sword for me. I love learning new things about different times, places, and people. Unfortunately, every fascinating fact unearthed constructs a time sink where hours disappear while I’m busy salivating over the things I’ve uncovered. And I know full well, even as I’m allowing those hours to be eaten up, that I will never use half the stuff I spent the afternoon chasing.
So that’s a peek into this writer’s mind. I often feel less like a professional author and more like a circus animal trainer with a whip and a chair. Still, I eventually do wind my way from beginning to end and tame that snarly beast. And I gotta tell you. Best. Feeling. In the world.