Bonnie King Author

The Road to Writing

Sunflower Inn

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I am more than excited to visit Almont, North Dakota (population 135) and stay at the Sunflower Inn on the 30th and 31st of May, 2018.

The Sunflower Inn, built in 1906, became the Merchants’ Hotel in the 1920’s when it was operated by my grandmother, Tomine Teodine (Dena) Ramsland Bateman. Yes, she was Norwegian. Grandpa, James Robert Bateman, ran the pool hall and livery stable across the street. The hotel plays a prominent role in the novel I wrote about my father’s early years.

In The Road To LaReta, it was in the hotel where my father, Webster Warren Bateman, got into trouble with his mother to the extent that he and his brother, Ray, were told to leave. Leave they did. They joined the circus to make money and see the world—or at least South Dakota and Minnesota. It didn’t turn out quite as they had hoped; they couldn’t wait to get back to Almont and the Merchants Hotel.

According to the current owner, Keith Pitman, the hotel has changed very little from when it was first built. Electricity and plumbing have been added to both floors and all the bedrooms have ceiling fans. There is a fully equipped kitchen and laundry. However, the six bedrooms upstairs share one bath. The “Owner’s Suite” on the first floor has its own bath.

Keith said, “You may want to see the place before you decide to stay there. It’s ‘hunter-friendly’ at the moment. We hope to make it a three-season bed and breakfast someday.” Keith is very hospitable and indicated he would serve breakfast and lunch at the hotel, but that I’ll be eating dinner at the Muddy Creek Saloon, the only place in Almont to eat. And I may be the only person staying at the hotel when I’m there.

All of this intrigues me. I asked to stay in one of the front upstairs bedrooms. This was where my dad and his brother shared a room. Perhaps I’ll feel the ghosts of ages past. Two of his sisters shared a room and a third brother spent time with his grandparents because grandma also had boarders. The school professor was one of those who paid rent. That was a chapter unto itself. He was the original “Nutty Professor.”

I’ll begin my 2,392-mile round-trip solo adventure toward the end of May and visit friends and relatives along the way. I’ve had a couple people volunteer to go with me, but this is one trip I want to do alone. In addition to Almont, I’m planning to spend a couple days in Dunn Center (population 173). This is where my father married his first wife, Dorothy. She was born near there and is buried in the Dunn Center Cemetery. I sent my book to the local historical society and museum and while visiting their website, found they have a writers’ group. I contacted them and have been invited to visit the group on the 4th of June. I’m looking forward to it. If it hadn’t been for my writers’ group, which has disbanded, I could not have finished my novel.

I am planning to take photos and to do some blogging along the way. Retracing some of my father’s footsteps and particularly being able to stay in my grandmother’s hotel, has me brimming with happiness and anticipation. Almont, ND, here I come!

 

 

Details in Writing Historical Fiction

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I breathed a sigh of relief. It was finally done, not perfect, but done. Amazon published The Road to LaReta in September 2016. Recently, while cleaning my office, I looked through the research papers I’d accumulated in the last 18 months. I was amused and a bit amazed at the rabbit holes I’d gone down to find details to make my historical fiction novel credible.

For example, I spent hours finding a source for an accurate account of the weather during a five-day period in March 1939. I used www.Weathersource.com.

Along with Weathersource, I used MapQuest to check elevations along the highways Webb travelled. It helped to determine when he would have to gear down and how fast he could go. The fact that one of the women in my writers’ group, Phebe Tademy, used to be a truck driver on those same roads, kept me attuned to details. I also used Google Earth to get an idea of topography.

I researched the national highway system to find highway numbers in the 1930’s and whether they were even paved! And, of course, I had to determine mileage between towns to gage time from one place to another. Webb had to make the 900-mile journey in two days from Ogallala, Nebraska to Dunn Center, North Dakota with a stopover in Billings, Montana. Maps became my best friend along with calendars for the 1920’s and 30’s.

Google Earth came in to play again when I wanted to see what Dunn Center looks like today. That led to the discovery of the Dunn Center Museum and Historical Society nestled in the northwest corner of town. One of the museum’s docents gave me information about Dorothy’s parents’ land claim, her aunt’s murder, and Dorothy’s burial site—all because I spotted the museum from a satellite.

I spent time at the Lemay Family Collection Foundation in Spanaway, Washington, photographing old cars and asking for details. Other information I hadn’t anticipated needing, but did, included: Official Rules of Pool; articles on the dust storms of the 30’s; information about truck and train circuses in the 1920’s; frontier slang, lingo, phrases and songs; rheumatic fever symptoms, causes and treatments; burial locations; prices in the 20’s and 30’s; and an overall view of what was happening in 1939 provided by www.Flickback.com.

Thanks to the Internet, my research into the details was made relatively easy. While some may not appreciate the minutiae, they did allow me to journey with my father, Webb Bateman, during his wild and crazy youth. They also enabled me to better understand the young man whose choices weren’t always the best.

Giraffe Jargo

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“Jeezus christ, Webb!” Shorty screamed as the truck careened over the side of the road and into a ditch. The load of poles shifted and caused the old Model T to buck and sway like a bronco.

Webb sprang back to life. He’d closed his eyes for a second, but that was all it took for the truck to head off the road. He cranked the wheel slowly back to the left, shifted down and gave the unwieldy, top heavy rig enough gas to get her back on the road. “Want to get us killed, kid! That’s a sure way to do it. Good thing we’re not hauling the dogs or ponies. They’d be kickin’ shit about now.”

“Hey, Shorty, Good thing you don’t weigh more or it woulda been all on you. Get it?” Webb grinned sheepishly.

“Look. I’ve been with a lot of these small time circuses and managed to survive. I don’t want my headstone to read, ‘Shorty – Mighty Midget bought the farm at the bottom of a pile of Big Top tent poles.”

“Awe, come on. I was just catchin’ a couple winks. Can’t blame a guy, can you? We work from first light, way past midnight, get only four or five hours sleep a night. How’s anybody s’pose to stay awake under these conditions?”

“You’ll be awake alright when you and your brother are hitchin’ it down the road without a job and probably without pay either. Good ole Honest Bill’s been known to leave roustabouts in the dust, if he doesn’t like somethin’ or somebody. Good thing we’re the last truck or you would be hoofin’ it in short order. Not a pretty thought in the heat of summer in the middle of goddamn nowhere, South Dakota.”

This is the circus chapter’s opening scene (at least for now) in Cat Skinner, A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s. I admit, writing this chapter is intimidating. It may be because there is such richness of possibility with the characters, the setting and where I might go with the story line. It’s not a case of writer’s block, it’s a case of obsession with the research!

Last week and this I’ve spent time contacting a book distributor, publisher and an author to get permission to use a photo of a giraffe jargo. My dad and his brother, Ray, were the two humans in a giraffe suit led around the Big Top by a clown. Since the circus was small, everyone had multiple jobs. Webb and Ray, as roustabouts, also put up the circus, took it down and drove it from town to town the summer of 1925.

So far I’ve only found dead ends in terms of legally using the photo. But the author did give me other suggestions for where to find other photos. I’ve started that search today. As a photographer myself, I’m hoping to share the visuals of my dad’s story as well as the story. But now it’s time to keep writing.

Read and Write

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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)

RECOMMENDED HISTORICAL NOVELS

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

  • 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)

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

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Bateman Family

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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 17, Ray 16 and Webb 14 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!

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

Bonnie King AuthorThat 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 14 and Ray 16. 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 taking down the Big Top, the boys and other roustabouts caught 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”

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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

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Bonnie King AuthorIn 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

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Bonnie King AuthorLast 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 that long since he and his brother were told to leave home when Webb was 14 and his brother Ray 16.

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.