Is It Still Historical Fiction if I can Remember It?
I was a little taken aback when I saw that Whistling Past the Graveyard was on historical fiction lists. Historical??? Hey, I was seven years old in July of 1963. I always think of history as being, well… before me!
Susan Crandall at seven (middle), with sister, Sally and father, Vic.
The exploration of these changes enhanced this story in more ways than I’d imagined when I began writing Starla’s journey. As I researched the historical details of the era, I was able to compare the reality against my own understanding of the world in 1963. I didn’t know squat, nor did I really care to. Of course, Starla Claudelle my narrator in WHISTLING was nine-and-a-half, not just seven, so I’m sure she’d tell you she was more worldly than I. She was also living in a less-than-loving environment, so I guess that might have opened her eyes some, too. Still, the cocoon of innocence of the era prevailed; bred by days when kids were out on bicycles for hours on end and no one worried that they’d be snatched, where we weren’t constantly bombarded with world-wide crises and National headlines, where summer days were spent drifting with our imaginations instead of on an organized schedule of activities and the anchor of electronic devices keeping us indoors. (Okay, now I sound like someone who remembers “history.”) But it’s true. Life was different. Not always better, but certainly not the same as children live today.
First Ward Elementary (Noblesville, IN) where Susan attended second grade in 1963. Demolished 1965.
Fictions of Youth
In 1963, the possibility of children suffering at the hands of those who are supposed to care for them was beyond my comprehension. I assumed all kids were safe and secure in their own families—maybe not always happy, but safe.
When I was seven, the only reason I even thought about the President of the United States was because he had kids and there were magazine pictures of them in the White House. That held true until November of that year when I watched a black-and-white TV as his flag-covered casket being pulled through Washington, D.C.
When I was seven, kids were kids. Kids with money were the same as kids without money—truthfully, I couldn’t have identified the “haves” and “have nots.” Kids who lived on my street were the same as those who lived on every other street. Kids with divorced parents (kind of a rare and big deal in the 60s) were the same to me as kids with married parents. Kids were nice, or mean, or fun, or boring; those were my designations. We assessed each other blind to all but our interactions with one another. None of the little compartments in which we sort people as adults had yet been formed. I’d like to think that the same stands for seven year olds today.
I thought the teenagers who worked at the public swimming pool at our park were grown-ups and they had the best jobs ever. I watched Popeye cartoons at five o’clock. I loved sparkle paints (they made such a mess it was a rare treat to get them). I was working on hot peppers with my jump rope. My best friends were Patty, Janet, Kathy and Patricia. Boys were generally invisible, except Roger and Steve down the street because I’d walked to kindergarten with them. I liked to walk the two blocks uptown to G.C. Murphy’s, a dime store that seemed much bigger than that building is now, and check out the colored chicks and ducks at Easter time (yes, live chicks and ducks, dyed spring colors) and the pet turtles (little guys, no more than 2 inches in diameter) the rest of the year. I had a clear plastic turtle bowl with an island sprouting a plastic palm tree and lost count of the number of pet turtles that passed through my house.
When I started writing this book, I was amazed at all of the little details of that time that popped back in my head, things I hadn’t thought of for years. I was able to incorporate some of them into Starla’s life as “color.” Of course, since I was so ignorant of the greater world, there was a great deal of research involved in this book, too. Let’s face it, a seven year old in Indiana (probably some adults, too at that time) had little awareness of in the segregated South. Current events were scraps of overheard adult conversations, incomprehensible in their far-reaching implications and had little to do with me.
When the Adult Remembers what the Child Saw, Does it Become Historical Fiction?
Whistling Past the Graveyard is so special to me in part because it allowed me to both walk down memory lane, enjoying my childhood perspectives, and investigate the reality of a world I’d dwelt in but had little true understanding of. My adult perspective had prepared me for much of what I discovered in research, and yet there were many, many things that were surprising … and sometime shocking. It was much different than researching an historical period that you yourself did not experience. I prefer not to think of 1963 as a historical period, but in fact, ladies and gentlemen, it is. It was a time of great change in our country, which gave me a deep well of material to flesh out this novel.
Once you’re past the trial period and have decided to go on together, that doesn’t mean you’re married for life. You may sail along on similar seas for eternity. But quite often there comes a time when you need to write that Dear John/Dear Joan letter. Sometimes you outgrow a critique partner, you’ve given each other all you can and now it’s time to move on. Sometimes one writer’s goals change, you may both start as casual hobby writers, but may change your commitment to the craft in either direction. Sometimes time and distance become a problem. And sometimes there has been a thread of toxicity stinking up your relationship from the beginning and has grown to be a serious detriment to your creativity.
Once you find someone you think you might be compatible with, it’s best to start with some parameters. Whether in person or online, set up a trial run with some structure.
When I first began writing, on-line groups were in their infancy. An established writer suggested I try (are you ready for me to date myself?) the CompuServe Writer’s Forum. I was young. I was unsure of my own skills. In other words, vulnerable to having my creativity squashed or inflated beyond reality. Some of the feedback I received was, well, frankly, it was crap. But I tried not to label it as such before I gave it a rest and then examined it for validity. I do recall one very, very clear and true criticism that has stuck with me to this day. One writer asked if I had a period on my keyboard. Run on sentences? Me? Um, yeah. Perhaps not the most delicate way to state his criticism, and yet, oh so valid.
We’ve all been there, or at least watched uncomfortably as we saw one unfold in a movie, that awkward first date. The eternity after the doorbell is answered before one of you figures out what to do or say—or worse the rush of inane comments that bump into one another like strangers on a subway. So many questions swimming in our heads: Was my last comment as utterly stupid to his/her ears as it was to mine? I’m (or She’s) a modern woman, so who’s going to pick up the tab? Is there spinach in my teeth? Of course, prior to those dilemmas you must first find someone to ask out.
It isn’t easy to hear criticism, no matter how gently stated or constructive, of your work, your creative baby. But if you’re to grow as a writer, you must learn not to let it cripple your creativity—or light your fuse. You have to devise a way to step beyond the emotion and appreciate the opportunity to view your work through another set of eyes, skills and values. If you can’t, critiquing with another writer is definitely not for you. If you want nothing but praise, ask your mother for feedback. A good rule: never show your work unless you’re ready to hear what is wrong with it. Perfection is an ideal; you’re not going to find it in your own writing, nor will you find it in a critique partner or a spouse. The only way to achieve a happily-ever-after is to strive toward that goal and learn to live within human limitations.