SPOILER ALERT: A LOVINGLY HONEST & LIGHTHEARTED SYNOPSIS of the DOWNTON ABBEY MOVIE

    In short, the movie was all we expected, fast-moving, fun, grand and beautiful. I loved it. But in the spirit of our beloved Carson's lighthearted refresher/tutorial at the start of the film, here is my own take on the events. Read it again: I loved it. These are semi-serious observations intended to entertain.  If you are game for a bit of fun, beware, there be spoilers here!

• We begin with reminiscent echoes of Series 1, Episode 1 as an Important Message is created and sent on its way, landing on the same train as a Mysterious Man, who this time did not turn out to be the new valet. Along the journey, the cinematography is gorgeous, making one long for a return trip to the beautiful English countryside—and back in time.

• At the Abbey, Man on Scooter returns and delivers Important Message to the Tall Mr. Bean Lookalike Footman Andy who, after a snarkily endearing barb to the Snarkily Endearing Cook, Mrs. Patmore, then hands it off to the Formerly Evil Butler Thomas Barrow. Barrow has it waiting for kindly Lord Grantham, who shows us that the more things change, the more they remain the same by descending the Grand Staircase followed by his loyal Not-as-Yellow-Labrador for his morning sausages. LG anti-climactically announces what we have heard on every trailer and ad for the film: The King and Queen are coming to Downton! Lady Mary, who is now married to Not Matthew, nearly spits her tea and even the Formerly Evil Butler’s face radiates surprise. To prove he is still in touch with his long-forgotten Irish Republican roots, Former Chauffeur Turned Son-in-Law Tom’s face radiates a disinterested meh. There is the obligatory, but now good-natured, brief philosophical repartee between LG and his Former Chauffeur Tom.

• Downstairs is in an Obligatory Tizzy over the impending royal visit. There will be food to cook, rooms for the extra maids with no dialogue to clean and a wonderful parade whose sole purpose will appear to be to remind viewers of an increased budget and to further illustrate that Princess Mary’s Distant Husband is a jerk, but more on that later.

• Mysterious Man registers at the local inn and peers even more mysteriously over the empty village green. Something Evil This Way Comes. Soon, Chauffeur Turned Son-in-Law Tom is approached by Mysterious Man. This is done in the village to remind us that Tom is A Businessman With Some Sort of Car Shop. Nothing much is said, but it seems Tom’s anti-monarchist views may be a Plot Point.

• Back at the Abbey, Lady Mary is at loose ends because Not-Matthew is away in America, so she drops down to pop in on the Room Full of Silver Stuff We Never Use. Formerly Evil Butler Barrow can’t seem to decide which silver treasure to polish for the King, so Lady Mary runs up to Charlie and Elsie Carson’s adorable cottage where the adorable Loyal Retired Butler is now bored and left to furrowing his bushy eyebrows at vegetables that don't keep up standards in his garden. For King and Country, come back and choose the silver! implores Lady Mary. Carson cannot deny his favorite Crawley anything, and so he confidently leaves his vegetable patch and strides up the long scenic walk back to the Abbey. In other Downstairs News, Lovable Doofus Footman Turned Schoolteacher Molesley is over the moon at the prospect of serving at table for his king and says he will get time off from teaching if he can please put on his livery again just this once.

• Carson awkwardly enters Robert’s library just as Lady Mary informs her father that Butler Barrow can’t manage and Carson must unretire to save Downton’s honor. Even more awkward is Barrow’s nearly simultaneous arrival to mention the water heater is acting up and to be told, in front of Carson, that he is now superfluous and free to have a mini-tantrum that really should get him sacked, and frees him up to go into York and have a Gay Adventure of some sort with the Handsome Is He or Isn’t He Royal Servant who is lurking about ahead of the King’s visit. (He is, BTW.)

• Wondering how Loyal Retired Butler Carson’s shaking hands will deal with pouring claret wine for the royals? Fear not, like Lord Grantham’s near-deadly ulcer, the ‘palsy’ has inexplicably vanished! And it doesn’t matter anyway because the King’s Arrogant Grand Poohbah of the Back Stairs (pretty close to his actual title) has arrived and told the Downtonites to sod off, the Londoners have got it covered. Mrs. Patmore, who’d rung up Amazon for some new cookbooks, will not get to make a pudding for the King after all, potentially disappointing a patriotic shopkeeper whose pop would’ve been proud to have his son provide the veg for the king’s salad. Thankfully, Daisy is on hand to tell Mrs. P that the family actually eats food with regularity and so they can use the grocer’s items and also save face!

• And in keeping with Julian Fellowes’ propensity for regurgitating storylines, on the eve of a most important house party, A Much-Needed Appliance goes on the fritz, likely because it shares Chauffer Turned Son-in-Law Tom’s political views, or because Formerly Evil Butler Barrow has broken it. Fear not, Carson reassures, Mrs. Patmore knows the recipe for hot water. In a surprising break from another Fellowes habit, Baby Bates appears for a few seconds and is named Johnny and not Charles. In addition, Lady Mary has had a girl who is also not named Charles, but is called Caroline. (Really, Julian? Couldn’t go for Charlotte for old time’s sake? Swing and a miss.)

• In other news, the Dowager has gone to visit Lady Rosamund to give viewers a mention of her absent daughter’s name, and a curious trip to London for The Granny Who Hates London. Hmmm. (Foreshadowing event: tick!)

• Former Skullery Maid Turned Snippy Assistant Cook Daisy seems to have another footman inexplicably smitten with her and she appears headed for yet another wedding she doesn’t really want. Remember, her first husband was Lovable Saintly Footman William, who adored her and professed his love as he went off to be critically injured in The Great War whilst saving Matthew, the Reluctant Heir to Lord Grantham. Mrs. Patmore pushed Daisy into a deathbed marriage with Saintly William because it would make the dying man less bummed about dying. When Tall Mr. Bean Lookalike Footman Andy sees Snippy Daisy getting flirty with Hunky Appliance Repair Bloke who has come to Fix the Boiler, he gets a visit from the green-eyed monster. This inspires the normally mild-mannered servant to undo Hunky Bloke’s handiwork with a shovel, again sending the Abbey into cold showers just before The Royal Visit. Never fear, Hunky Bloke instantly repairs it again, and Mr. Bean returns to the Land of the Mild Mannered Servants and the boiler is not mentioned again until the end, when a confession is made that somehow turns Daisy on and she agrees to become Mrs. Bean as soon as Mrs. Patmore can bake a cake.

• Lady Edith, who now lives at Hogwarts and is unhappy being a Lady Who Lunches, pops home for the Royal Visit, but doesn’t have her ball gown at hand. The Downton Next Generation look suitably adorable and hang out in the library with the grown-ups. Lord Grantham has apparently grown weary of Little Sybbie cheating at whatever the British call Chutes and Ladders in past years, so he has taken to playing with Little George. George’s board game integrity remains to be seen. Disappointingly, not a Donk is uttered.

• The Downton Ladies visit the Princess and her own Adorable Young Lads, who are inexplicably playing with Nanny in the same room as the women will lunch. Awful Husband returns home, is generally rude and shoos the children as it is before the six o’clock Children Visit Aristocratic Parents Hour. It is obvious that this will be an annoying minor Plot Point taking precious screen time away from our regulars to show that the beautiful Princess is unhappy and her hubby is a jerk.

• Meanwhile, Mysterious Man and Tom the Chauffer Turned Son-in-Law buddy up and share what appears to be evening revolutionary beers in a pub and make Plans, while the Upstairs Family realize not only that it is raining cats and Labradors, but that the newly arrived chairs for the royal parade dais must be set up by 9am. To further illustrate a) the importance of the Royal Visit, and b) how very much the Aristocratic residents of the house have Changed with the Times, Robert, Mary and Edith’s Mild Marquess of Hogwarts husband don their hats and raincoats and Pitch In, with a cheerful Robert happy to be in even a dark and rainy a scene in this movie, and uttering a good-natured reminder that a little rain doesn’t deter real Hunting Men in Hats. As the Upstairs and Downstairs toss wet chairs about, Robert, who historically notices very little, notices Tom leaving the pub, which in turn leaves Lady Mary to cast a Suspicious Glance in his direction, wondering whether he’s really all-in to his new life or whether he is Plotting Something during the King’s visit. (Did one mention he’s coming?) After all, Tom did almost chuck soup onto a visiting dignitary in his previous life.

• The King and Queen arrive to the usual outdoors line up of Upstairs and Downstairs. Molesley is so proud he could burst, and Tom tries not to roll his eyes and yawn. All bow or curtsy, but the Dowager has a bit of a comic turn as she cannot arise. Ever the gentleman, the King lends a royal hand. (Foreshadowing event: tick!)

• It’s Parade Day and grandly uniformed Men on Horses trot majestically about the green as local modern Bampton villagers dressed up as extras wave tiny flags and cheer. Lurking about is Mysterious Man, who now has a nicely polished Gun! A Mysterious Man with a Purpose, he walks mysteriously and quickly through the Bampton Extras and is put off when he sees Lady Mary following Tom, his partner-in-something nefarious. Off in an alley near the village green, the King waits mounted on his horse for his grand entrance. Lady Mary chases Tom through the streets, dodging costumed Bamptoners. This is Exciting as Tom is also hurriedly following Mysterious Man and there are horses about. Is Tom in on a Plot to Kill the King? Will Tom be blamed for Mysterious Man doing the deed? Will Mary save the King, but ruin Tom? You don’t have to tune in tomorrow because this is Downton and seconds later, Mysterious Man raises his pistol only to be foiled by Heroic Tom, having arrived from off-camera just in the nick of time. The blissfully unaware King trots off to ride in his parade while other Important Men commend the former revolutionary Tom on his Good Work. Mary is relieved when Tom fills in the missing What the Bloody Hell Just Happened? details in a few spoken sentences about Ireland. All is well. And since the Important Men complimented Tom, he may just be softening about his whole I Hate Anything Royal Because I’m Irish thing.

• Downstairs, the Downton crew visits the wine cellar to further show the enhanced budget and to hatch a plot to ditch the Annoying Royal Servants. Turns out the Grand Poohbah of the Back Stairs is much less fun than he was as hilariously officious Inspector Derek Grim on The Thin Blue Line with the real Mr. Bean, and the cartoonishly Arrogant French Chef with silly hair, really disses Mrs. Patmore, so they kind of deserve a Humorous, But Treasonous Plot against them. Anna slips a mickey into the French chef’s tea and the formerly funny Inspector Grim, who is now the decidedly unfunny Poohbah to the King, is locked in his dingy room by Tall Mr. Bean while changing his starched white shirt. This fearsome and powerful Hoity Toity but Namby Pamby man is stymied by a rickety skeleton key lock and spends the rest of the dinner Fannying About. Poohbah is not happy, because in Inspector Grim’s parlance, it’s his arse on the line with this dinner and he doesn’t want a cock-up.

• The Arrogant Royal Servants are dispatched, leaving the pudding safely in Mrs. Patmore’s capable hands, and the serving to Mr. Bean, the Doofy Schoolmaster and Hallboy Tall Enough to Fit into the Fancy Livery.

• Overly-Excited Molesley provides comic relief by (gasp!) Speaking to the King and Queen at their Downton dinner, telling them that the yummy eats were not prepared by the Stereotypically Arrogant Royal French Chef, but by our own Mrs. P. He pales with realization of his social faux pas before his beloved King. Cora looks properly aghast in her cakey makeup, while Robert ponders vomiting blood again to create a diversion and excuse himself from the scene. Fear not, the Queen says, we’re used to people acting like doofuses in front of us. The table titters. What Real Folks these royals are.

• Downton wins out, resourceful as ever, the dinner is aces, Bates has a few lines, but still has not Brushed His Lordship’s Shoulders, which leaves this viewer unsettled.

• You are undoubtedly wondering what is going on with The Dowager. She is busy trading witty one-liners with Isobel while Lord Dickie Merton looks mildly amused and out of focus in the background. Lady Bagshaw, the Queen’s Lady in Waiting happens to be a) Robert’s cousin who has wealth he should somehow inherit, and b) played by the very real and quite tiny Mrs. Carson, Imelda Staunton.  There has apparently been a past Crawley family rift that explains why we have never heard of her before, and cousin Bagshaw ain’t giving Lord G his due, not now, not ever. Why, we wonder? Robert is an affable sort. I’d give him my fortune if I had one, though I’d hire someone else to mind it for him. This obviously has something to do with the adoring eyes Lady Bagshaw is making at her attractive Lady’s Maid/Companion, who has also drawn the eye of our Heroic Tom Who Saved the King. Robert, to his credit, doesn’t seem to care about his inheritance anyway, and is generally in Very Good Humor as he plays checkers with George, kisses Cora in the library and even gets off a witty barb of his own at his Mama. She must be slowing down. (Foreshadowing event: tick!)

• Eventually, Isobel catches on to what the audience realized long before, and the Attractive Maid is really Lady Bagshaw’s version of Marigold (another plot regurgitation), a secret illegitimate child who deserves to inherit her mom’s grand house and money. There is a bit of backstory that lets revered Imelda have Important Lines and Act. The long-awaited Showdown between the Dowager and her arch-cousin lasts several tense milliseconds, and upon learning The Truth, Violet is instantly down with the whole Robert gets screwed out of the inheritance thing and gets in on Tom wooing the Lady’s Maid, who will eventually be Landed and Rich.

• Earlier, after a luncheon at the Abbey, Tom approaches the beautiful, but crying Princess, who is cleverly disguised as a Real Person and upset that she is married to a coldhearted jerk. Not knowing her true identity, Tom actually SITS beside her on The Bench outside Downton, and further illustrating the changing times, the world does not end. Tom dispenses sage life advice, and she appreciates him and his Charmingly Innocent Disrespect.

• King and Queen depart Downton to visit a grander neighbor. Sincere compliments are sent to the staff by Robert, mainly to pad Hugh’s lines as they walk inside the house. Surprisingly, he also noticed that his own staff served the king at dinner, though he doesn't really care as despite Molesely's efforts, Downton’s Honor and Standards have been Upheld. Cora’s maid Baxter realizes she hasn’t had a thing to do and has hardly spoken yet, so she flirts with Molesley, reminding us that we once wanted them to be a couple too, but leaving us wonder what's been stopping them in the 18 months we've been away.

• While waiting for Handsome Man, Displaced Butler Barrow is picked up by cheeky Man in Pub whose Gay-dar instantly identifies Thomas as One of Them from across the room. They go to a Gay Speakeasy in a warehouse and see men dancing and having a secret gay old time (sorry, couldn’t resist). Thomas has only just taken his coat off to signal he’s let his guard down and is ready to boogie when they are, of course, raided by the local bobbies and arrested as perverts. Thomas is released because the Handsome Man who took him to York flashed his Royal Business Card at a copper, and the two make meaningful eyes at each other and have a comfortable Gay Bloke Chat despite the fact that the other nice homosexuals are probably being beaten senseless and jailed on morals charges back at the station. Thomas is so happy to have found a kindred spirit that he forgets he is Evil and that he told off his boss just hours before. He returns to Downton and gets back to work like nothing has happened, and later shares a dramatic and passionate Secret Gay Kiss with departing Handsome Man.

• Lady Edith, the Marchioness of Hogwarts, has told Bertie she’s preggers and would rather he not go off on an African tour with the Prince of Wales as invited.  Apparently, the PoW needs a wholesome role model as companion and caddy. (Not a wholly bad idea even still.) Alas, traveling without a valet has its disadvantages and Bertie has misplaced his backbone and cannot bring himself to tell the king he’d like to pass on the trip and stay to meet his child. Poor Edith is Upset. Again. But she does get to walk around in her Aristocratic Underwear a bit to remind the audience that while she may still be Poor Edith, she is no ugly duckling anymore. Also, after a peek into Mary's boudoir we suspect Edith's underwear outranks her sister’s. There is another, minor Poor Edith drama when her new ball dress is late, and then arrives in a size that would fit the balky boiler. A Kleptomaniacal Royal Sewing Woman from the Palace has been nicking items from each room she visits, also regurgitating a previous theme of servants mooning over nice things they can't have back when Bates first arrived at Downton, and Lord G's snuff box going missing. Anna proves she is still Clever by putting the pieces together and blackmailing Klepto Sewing Woman into fixing Edith’s gown just in time. Robert gets his regimental letter opener back and no one is any the wiser. One wonders what really happened to the glass thing in Edith's room though.

• There is a ball at a nearby Grand Movie Location. Robert and Cora remember they are in the movie and dance a bit at the Other Fancy House. Not-Matthew has returned and run up the stairs, and after a passionate Not-Gay Kiss, is Mary’s escort at the ball. All is well, except for Edith still pouting about Bertie missing The Baby’s first months. The King not only suddenly turns into a mensch again and tells Tom he appreciates him talking the Princess He Didn’t Recognize out of leaving her Awful Husband, but implies he knows about The Other Thing too. A Moment of Mutual Respect follows. One wonders if a royal golf date is in their future, until the Princess tries to melt her hubby’s warm heart and we realize that a light goes on when he opens his mouth to object. Because he’s cold. Like a fridge.

• Tom and Imelda’s Daughter dutifully kiss, and later, Tom the Former Irish Revolutionary Turned Gentleman finally appears to not only be pleased to be the obvious male star of this film, but has found true After-Sybil happiness and is set up to have his own estate should this movie earn enough worldwide to warrant another movie, or at least an ITV Christmas Special if they can round up this increasingly expensive and busy cast again.

• As things wind down and all returns to what passes for Downton normal, one also wonders where are the tears promised in early press for the film? Will Not-Matthew be the one to end up beneath his Roadster in the closing seconds? Will Poor Edith tear her dress or lose her baby? Will Hugh finally get a meaty storyline in the film and have his ulcer return to barf up bacon wrapped shrimp onto The Queen's gown? Will Carson remember that he has Parkinson’s? None of the above. Mary suddenly remembers that Granny went off to London in the first act and asks about it. As there are only a few precious minutes left before Maggie Smith asks out of her Dowager’s wig for good, she blurts out the awful truth: she is sick of the hours in the makeup chair and dying from a Mysterious Unnamed Illness and hasn’t long to live. We understand that our dear Dowager was indeed showing vulnerability to visit London, lose a war of words with Robert and become stuck in a royal curtsy. One is not sure what illness goes with those symptoms, but it must be a doozy. But, she asks, don’t tell anyone just yet. They all know she was reluctant to do this film anyway, so why waste precious screen time on it.

• Just when it seems it will get emotional, Julian Fellowes remembers he is British and changes the subject. Violet says she’s had a Good Life and Downton is in Good Hands, not Robert’s of course, but Mary’s. And she will have to carry the Sharp Tongue sword into battle from now on.  They simply return to the ball for a few across-the-room medium shots. Isis the Dog Not the Terrorist Organization had a longer and more poignant farewell. Oh well, one supposes that the fanfiction writers will handle The Final Moments.

• Not-Matthew and Mary agree to live happily ever after at Downton as she has a scary old lady destiny to fulfill, and because there might be another movie. The King lets Bertie off the hook about the trip abroad because Cora needs to quickly contribute to a Plot Point before the film ends and has talked to the Queen off-screen and fixed it. Tom dances in knee socks on the veranda with his new love interest, Lady Bagshaw’s illegitimate daughter/maid/companion/heir. Everyone else pairs off for a twirl as the Dowager proudly watches.

• Back at home, as they walk triumphantly away from the front door of a gorgeously lit Downton, Elsie endearingly calls Carson ‘Charlie’ one more time and all is right with the world.

        So, to sum it up…This was a wonderful and familiar romp through the beloved Downton gardens played out beautifully on a Big Screen. We'll miss Maggie, but perhaps Imelda was brought on as a Big Name replacement contingency should the franchise continue.

        Please, Sir Julian, can we have some more?

Today I am a Writer

I love writing. I hate writing. It’s a fickle relationship. Writers love to read. We love great books and great writers…unless we are struggling ourselves. Then we resent them, their books and the awards they rode in on. (Or is that just me?)

But still, on we plod. We always envision a double chocolate pudding mousse cake as we begin, but once complete, we sometimes feel as if we have produced yet another holiday fruitcake. Heavy, dry and nobody wants it.

I've been a writer all my life. I wrote in secret as a child, and only shared what teachers assigned. It felt...invasive. Writing, really, was just for me. Once I found the courage to share my work with a broader audience, I also found a voice and purpose that came as a welcome surprise. Historically anxious and shy, I discovered I actually enjoyed connecting with other people through my writing. Much of my work has been for students. I have five plays written, published and being performed at schools and community theatres around the world. I’ve had the honor to see my work staged. I’ve seen my words touch people. I’ve made them laugh. It’s a powerful experience to know you’ve somehow connected with total strangers.


When someone asks me what I do—what I AM, my first instinct is to say, “I am a writer.” I have to remember that I am employed as a teacher. It’s funny because while I don’t always love being a teacher, I do love teaching, and I’m confident that I’m good at it. My experiences with writing have made me a better teacher of literature and writing. But in modern parlance, I don’t identify as a teacher. I don’t make enough money as a writer to claim it as a career. Sure, I’ve bought a few computers and other toys and taken a few nice vacations, but my five year plan from ten years ago to be out of teaching and writing full time, well, that hasn’t happened. I’m still waiting to become what I want to be when I grow up.

Reaching for Respect
Epic fail? I can’t help but think so, sometimes. I have already achieved more than I ever thought I could in so many aspects of my life, but have fallen short of several writing goals. And the life clock seems to be ticking more quickly every year. When you tell people you write for young people, you can feel the respect sucked right out of the conversation. Like when you tell people you’re an elementary certified teacher. Nearly every grandma, parent and teacher I meet says they have a great idea for a book they’ll write someday too, when they get a minute. I mean, who wouldn't want something published? Like teaching, writing for kids is something everyone thinks they can do. And I’ve grown tired of working so hard at jobs that people, at times even my own friends, family--and even superiors and colleagues--don’t respect. I aspire to more. I’m ashamed to admit that I crave validation before my clock stops.

One annoyance with being a playwright is that when you tell people you are a writer, they expect you to hand them a book. Or mention a movie they've seen. Something more tangible than hearing that you have had a play staged in a school somewhere in Zimbabwe. I often hear: ‘But what books have you written?’ and ‘Can I be in that movie you’re writing?’ Well, my agent has been trying to sell one of my books, but that can take years. A second was rejected. Two others sit nearly done in my laptop, but I'm paralyzed with self-doubt right now, so I’m eating a lot of cookies lately. And that movie thing is a long shot for a woman, especially at my age. That answer is only comprehensible to other writers.

Success, Dreams and Happy Talk 
But is the idea of having goals a victory in itself? My first goal was simply to be published. Anywhere. First thing I ever submitted was accepted. More followed. I’ve freelanced for print media, been in newspapers, magazines and websites. I’d never have envisioned a shiny new book on a store shelf, or a movie on a big screen if I hadn’t first written a play for my middle school. Success breeds success, and others followed. Each one published. But I have to admit I want to play in the big leagues. It’s okay to dream, right? South Pacific’s mysterious native Bloody Mary sings a song called "Happy Talk": You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?

I’m struggling with my dream lately, feeling more quit than grit, mostly because the writing world is a lonely one; a solitary waiting game that moves at a snail’s pace. And I’m not a very spiritual person, but life--or Bloody Mary, sometimes send exactly the message we need to hear. One needs only to be willing to listen.

Message Received
In the midst of my latest writing crisis of faith, my laptop dinged with a Google alert linked to the title of one of my school plays—that very first one from years ago, an award-winner, but now the source of some occasional feelings of inferiority because I’m still ‘just’ a school playwright. The alert contained an article from a newspaper in Humboldt, Saskatchewan, Canada. Humboldt sounded familiar, so I absently wondered if I’d already heard this school was staging the show. I opened it, as I usually do, mildly happy and satisfied to see a headline about someone staging one of my shows. My inner Sally Field mumbled a perfunctory ‘They like me.’

Validation. I thought that was the message. 

It wasn’t.

As a school theatre director, I’ve seen the excitement in young actors’ eyes when they get cast, the nervous energy that precedes a performance, and the euphoric high that arrives as the curtain falls and they realize that it’s gone off without a major hitch. I’ve seen parents take photos of their young stars, award them bouquets of flowers, and bring grandma to the matinee. I know photos of my shows end up in family scrapbooks. I’ve even signed autographs and posed for pictures myself with student casts that I have visited. Those are the good days. Proud days. Days that make you remember that writing isn't really about us, the writers; it's about the people who receive our work and make it their own. 

So when that alert signaled that my play was going up someplace in Canada, I was proud that they had chosen my work. But there was still that deep-rooted dissatisfaction bubbling alongside. I clicked the link and began to read.

The article said the school, Humboldt Collegiate Institute, had been due to stage my play last April, but the show was canceled due to the ‘events of April 6th.'  No further explanation was given. It was said the way we say ‘the events of 9/11.’ Like you should just know. I shifted in my chair and thought harder, going from playwright mode to citizen of the world. A nagging feeling crept into my consciousness and I did a quick search to confirm it.

Fickle, this writing life. That dissatisfaction bubble? Burst. Gone with it were any selfish thoughts of inadequacy, of insecurity because I had ‘just’ written a few school plays that would never see the lights on Broadway. You see, this article wasn't about me, or my goals or my successes or failures. Not at all.

Events of April 6th
On April 6, 2018, Humboldt lost fifteen members of a junior hockey team in a bus wreck. A lost hockey team in a Canadian town. An incredible loss of life, and more than a dozen young dreams that would never come true. My son is a broadcaster for college and junior hockey teams here in the northeast. Of course, he dreams of bigger arenas. We had talked about that crash and felt awful for that small community. 

And now, months later and beginning a new school year, kids in that same small community were determined to finish what they had started. They were intent on staging my play, The Ransom of Miss Elverna Dower, a comedy about kidnapping a teacher only to find the principal doesn’t want her back. There’s a deeper message, of course, of someone having more faith in you than you have in yourself. Humboldt still wanted those words, my words, on their stage as they heal from the unthinkable. Many in the original cast returned. Graduates were replaced. The show went on.

I didn’t get to see it, but I would have liked to. I’d have liked to shake hands or offer hugs or just applaud the performance and the resilience of the community. I'd have liked to simply say 'I'm sorry.' And thank you. As with hockey, there is a certain kinship among all theatre folk, but I don’t know any of Humboldt’s students, teachers, or the families that sat in the audience for those shows. And they don’t know me, a sometimes frustrated middle aged teacher/writer in upstate New York. But we are forever connected through those words and their stage. I don’t think I could be prouder if I had suddenly achieved each and every one of my dreams.

So, for today at least, being ‘just’ a playwright for a few school plays is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine. It’s happy talk, a dream come true. 

I'll still waffle my way along the writing journey for a while longer, loving it and hating it, because I know it isn't really about me. Writing is about the people who might, perchance, connect with it, experience it, and make it their own. 

Break a leg, #Humboldtstrong. And thank you for the message. I am honored and humbled that my words have become a tiny part of your story.

The cast & crew of the Humboldt Collegiate Institute production of The Ransom of Miss Elverna Dower (DiscoverHumboldt.com)

Link to original article here
The Ransom of Miss Elverna Dower is available from Pioneer Drama Services, Ltd. 

Pink Bats and Army Men: On Toys, Girlhood and the Making of a Writer

She spins. That's it. Just spins.

   I’ve been taking in all the gender conversations lately. Identity. Names. Toys. Dress. These are important conversations with much-deserved pleas for acceptance of individuality and nonconformity. I never once questioned my own gender identity or my sexuality, yet I often think back to my own childhood and wonder. I was a tomboy, more comfortable in grass-stained jeans and Pro Keds, but I was a girl and have never imagined being anything else. Yet I never owned anything, well, pink. I hated girls’ toys. Barbie? Please. I got a Dawn doll fashion show once for Christmas (god knows why; I had asked Santa for a football helmet.) Eager to please, I pushed the little pegs on the base of the runway into holes in the dolls’ high-heeled feet and sent them twirling around once or twice. And…nothing. I didn’t get it. At all. 

I spent most days pitching baseballs, or in heated Wiffle or kickball games with my group of adventurous mixed gender friends. I had a jump rope. I guess that’s girly, but it’s also almost sports. I desperately wanted to try that double-Dutch thing I saw on TV, but we always had trouble scraping up two long ropes at the same time. Hopscotch was cool only in that you got to draw on the sidewalk with a rock. And I occasionally colored with crayons, but my art never seemed to match the image in my head. Jacks came with a nifty pouch, a bouncy little ball and a moderate challenge. I’m pretty sure my middle aged foot problems are traced to stepping on a diabolically shaped jack or two, but once you conquered foursies with pre-adolescent hands, it all felt kind of same-y.  

I remember being invited to a new neighbor’s house to play when I was quite small. She had olive skin, a mysteriously ethnic name and accent, a plastic kitchen set and baby dolls. As it was the only option, we played house. I vacuumed and was mildly, briefly, intrigued with the colored balls popping around in the Fisher-Price canister. We made tea and took turns feeding the kid. I remember being bummed that the baby doll didn’t pee. Or do anything. Quite honestly, neither did my new friend. So, bored stiff, I went home, grabbed my F Troop replica cavalry hat, cap pistol and holster and jumped onto my rocking horse and played all day as Sgt. O’Rourke. There were schemes to plan, guard towers to fell with comically errant cannon balls, and politically incorrect skirmishes to have with invading wild Indians. I suppose I could have been Wrangler Jane, but though she dressed like a tomboy, all she did was moon over clumsy Ken Berry. (I didn’t get that either. I mean Forrest Tucker’s O’Rourke was tall, ruggedly handsome, brave, clever and could safely dismount his horse without need for a medic.) 

Anyway, so playing house was out. What else did girls do? I honestly have no idea. Music maybe? I listened to records if I could find that weird little yellow plastic thing that went in the middle of 45s, but even my choice of music was a head-scratcher. Growing up, I wondered why I was drawn to the only NYC country station. I memorized the songs of John Denver and James Taylor while my friends were fighting over rock vs. disco. And why was I so enamored with old movie musicals? Not one friend was as excited to see My Fair Lady on TV as I was. I was different, that was for sure. My sitcom preferences never included the mellow blended family antics of The Brady Bunch and I never once mooned over Teen Beat pinup David Cassidy on The Partridge Family. I owned exactly one Teen Beat magazine, but only because it had an article on Kevin Tighe, the other fireman on Emergency. (I had an underdog thing.) My TV passions ran more toward the impossible love affair of The Ghost & Mrs. Muir and wartime adventures of Hogan’s Heroes or McHale’s Navy.

My friends and I would raid my director dad’s theatre costume trunks and play pretend scenarios of all kinds, and few, if any, of us girls selected female characters. Why? What was my problem? One pal later realized she was in fact gay, but were we all ‘questioning’? No. The simple fact was that in the early 1970s most female characters on TV and traditional girl toys and games were too passive. Worse, they were boring as hell. 

Traditionally male sports, on the other hand, are are full of stories. Wins. Losses. Heartbreak and heroics. I loved that. I won countless World Series games with my golden arm and Rico Carty wooden bat. I gave lengthy head starts and chased down slow-footed Bobby Holmes from behind in the nick of time to save touchdowns, occasionally tugging desperately at the fur-trimmed hood of his green parka so that the front zipper left a jagged imprint on his neck. 

One friend had a couple of toy soldiers with parachutes that we spent hours throwing out the kitchen window of my grandmother’s upstairs apartment. Would the chute open? Would the soldier waft slowly and safely down to the yard, or crash in a heap of plastic and string? Life or death. I liked that. 

Who would choose a pink dream car
over THIS? This guy has
 places to go & things to do.

Sure, Barbie had a Dream House and a sports car, but she and Ken never got up to anything more interesting than driving around in tennis togs or taking a plastic elevator. GI Joe (before he shrunk to pocket size, thank you) had a mission. Tools. Enemies. Obstacles. In short, he had a storyline! I guess that was it all along. I needed a story.

I liked shows with a good inherent conflict, one not easily solved by having Davy Jones come to your high school prom. Heroic bands of Allied soldiers giving the Axis the what for. Loved that. And I loved that both Hogan and McHale had friends on the enemy sides. Conflict and complications, proving there are victims of evildoers on both sides. Hours of pretend scenarios abound, and with the added plus of an occasional morality play.  Same with those little green army men that made a comeback after being featured in Toy Story. There were trenches to dig, battles to fight, sneak attacks to plan, gruesome injuries to imagine and journeys to take along the dirt paths I made under a tree in the yard. I didn’t even care that none of the inflexible little men were posed to actually sit in the way-cool open jeeps. We made it work.The crouching radio guy could pass for sitting and drive. (Though he certainly flaunted opposition to the whole hands-free driving thing.)

I had a hundred Matchbox cars and a room of model trains. They went places. Those cars drove miles on the cement lanes surrounding our sidewalk flagstones. They occasionally crashed. Trains derailed. Barbie never derailed. Never got dirty. She had outfits, but she never had adventures. Maybe if there was a Coal Miner Barbie and I could imagine a daring cave-in rescue…but there wasn’t. 

I guess my female role model was my dear Mrs. Muir. She wasn’t just in love with a charming ghost, she was strong, smart, independent and she was a writer. My first pangs of wanting to write came from watching her. She had Martha to help bake cookies and tend the kids. Mrs. Muir was busy. She interviewed people, and wrote fiction and nonfiction. She stirred things up, but always made time to flirt with the spirit of a handsome sea captain. It seemed like the coolest life ever. 

Best toy ever

When I wasn’t playing sports or watching television, I built stuff. Plastic kit models of anything they had at the little store up the street; warplanes, battleships and Star Trek’s Enterprise and the Galileo shuttlecraft. I had a stash of balsa wood and model paint. I got sick on that orange-scented safety model glue that never seemed to dry—or hold anything together. I needed the good stuff. Real Duco Rubber Cement. I even built and painted a model of Spock fighting a three headed creature that I’m pretty sure wasn’t even in the show. (That model inexplicably ended up on a doily in Grandma’s bathroom where it sat for years beside the crocheted extra toilet paper roll cover. Grandma had eclectic tastes.) I never owned a Lego or Erector set, but I had a way-cool Girder and Panel Building Set and made skyscrapers and cityscapes that my King Kong action figure would terrorize. Stories. Like Carolyn Muir, I made stories. And I cared not whether there was a girl on the box. (There wasn't.)

God bless my parents for letting me explore the world my own way. With a beautiful cheerleader older sister and an artistic gay older brother, I was the rough and tumble wild card. We were as different from each other as you can get, but we were all allowed to be what we were. Dawn Fashion Show oddity aside, they never pushed toys on me, nor forbade me from others. (Though my dear grandmother did occasionally voice concern that if I continued to play sports I would never have children. I think she hung on until age 97 just to make sure I could actually reproduce. Nailed it. Twice.) 

The problem with Barbie isn’t her impossible to achieve body dimensions or that she’s in the pink aisle. (Though they don’t exactly help her cause.) It’s that her multitude of gender-bending professional outfits are just clothes; they still don’t inspire action. We need a personality, a backstory and a mission. It's fine if you are, but not all girls who play sports or with Lego building sets or Marvel action figures are questioning gender roles or identity. Maybe they are forming values, leadership skills or simply having imaginative fun. 

Wiffle ball, 1973

You don’t need to buy your daughter a pink softball bat just to make sure she knows she’s a girl. That won’t help anyway if she’s really feeling something else, just as I’m sure giving a boy a Tonka truck doesn’t necessarily guarantee you a future teamster. Also, I am fairly certain pink bats send the wrong message. Sport success is not pink or blue. It’s the color of sweat and mud and sometimes even blood and tears and broken bones. Children of both genders need permission to play hard and win at any activity they choose. Pink bats aren’t for the player. They’re for insecure parents who want to send a reassuring gender-conforming hug to a society that wants the world to color within the lines. I am all for equal rights and equal pay and equal everything. I still think I look like Fred Flintstone whenever I wear a dress. But I do also like a door opened for me once in a while. I'm complicated. I am also the most apolitical person I have ever met, ascribing to my dad's political philosophy of 'A pox on all their houses.' But I know that whether a child is a sports-crazy girl or a boy ballet dancer or someone who is figuring out where they fit in the world, we’d do best to trust them and let their stories develop naturally. I know that's much more important in the long run than worrying about what we call our bathrooms. I'm proud that my own sons are both athletic and creative.

Same swing, college 1983

I played with boys and girls. I pretended, climbed, fell, got up, learned how to win and how to lose. I problem solved. I knew and befriended straight people and gay people as long as they were cool with me. I created worlds to escape to when my real world frightened me or didn’t make sense, which was often. And though I got ignored or labelled because my interests or my hair or my clothes didn’t always fit other people’s expectations, I didn’t turn gay because, you know, that’s not how it works. Instead I developed a sense of humor and a hard shell to protect myself, but I never stopped being me. And I parlayed that young baseball obsession into a full college scholarship, and I met my wonderful future husband through softball, even though I never once had a pink glove or wore a ribbon in my hair. My being an athlete didn’t scare him then any more than my out-driving him on a golf course does now. It’s just part of our story, though I’m sure he’d want me to mention he has the better short game. 

Oh and the weird taste in music thing? I took a long time to figure it out, but I did. It's not the good ole boy wisdom, pickup trucks, bar fights, fishing, cheating, mommas or getting drunk that connect with me. (Trains are excepted, they do connect. In a big way.) It's that country music uses these topics to tell stories. Musical soundtracks are filled with stories told through song. 

It all makes sense now. I was not weird or challenging society’s gender roles. I was simply training to become the adult me. My sense of self didn’t really come from TV or magazines aimed at teen girls, or from fitting or not fitting into the clothing at the hottest new store. It didn’t even come from my friends, because I was more of a leader than follower. I didn’t need Barbie to tell me I could be a nurse or an astronaut. With a balance of solid parental guidance and the freedom to develop, I figured it all out. By creating, pretending, and manipulating controlled fictional situations and characters, I learned how to be in charge of my own mind, body and values. I learned what I thought about right and wrong, good guys and bad guys, life and death and fair play. I put myself into the bodies, hearts and minds of others, both fictional and real, and felt what they felt. I learned empathy. And I learned what I was interested in. I found the types of characters and stories I would be drawn to throughout my life as a consumer of literary, cinematic, musical and theatrical arts. 

And I learned to be a writer. I’m proud to say that unlike my crayon drawings, my stories do match the images in my head. So thank you to my parents, to Mrs. Muir, the Mets and Colonel Hogan, to the crew of Star Trek and the zipper-bruised neck of Bobby Holmes. Thank you to my husband for loving all of me. And thank you to whomever and whatever inspires the stories of the next generation.

Still climbing mountains

Writers work out personal issues on the keyboard. I have written a successful play called Tomboys, and four others that each challenge some of society's important questions and expectations. I teach my sixth graders a unit on Fa Mulan, Babe Didrikson and Avi's incredible book The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle. These are strong women who shopped outside the pink aisle of life to be true to themselves. Maybe I teach them for validation. I like to think I do it because I want students of both genders not to worry about where their interests take them or who they offend. The rest of life is like water, you can hold it back but it takes care of itself and eventually ends up where it belongs, whether people like it or not. 

Do your thing. Be brave. Go out and play. Your story is waiting.

The Martians are Coming! Taking the Invasion From Stoop to Stage

Where do our publishable ideas come from? 

Writers know that ideas are everywhere; productive writers know how to turn observation, speculation and inspiration into something publishable--preferably in multiple forms.

A Martian Invasion?

In 2000, my son read a Junior Classic version of The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells for a third grade book project. Being a broadcasting nerd, I filled him in on the infamous radio drama by Orson (no-relation) Welles in 1938 that caused a bit of national panic among listeners who believed Martians had actually begun their invasion of planet Earth by landing in a field in New Jersey. Even at nine, my son was dubious. How could anyone believe such a silly thing? He called up his grandfather, who relayed his own boyhood memory of sitting on his Brooklyn stoop that late October Sunday evening and watching as his frightened (and gullible) neighbors exited their house in a rush, loaded grandma into the old Ford and announced they were heading for the hills before the Martians got to Brooklyn. (Whether my practical dad doubted the invasion talk, or simply believed that his beloved Greenpoint could hold its own against any aggressor, isn't clear.)

The exchange of questions and explanations with my curious son evolved into an article for Cricket Magazine called "War of the Worlds; A Halloween Trick or Treat?" After all, if my young man wondered what life was like with no TV, no Internet and only a few stations on the radio, other kids might find that interesting, too. In my research for the article, I came across a photograph of an old-timer named William Dock holding an ancient long-barreled rifle, and the piece claimed he was recreating how he had protected his land and loved ones from the Martians before word broke that the 'news' of the invasion had been a misinterpreted radio drama. I stashed the photo away in a file with all my papers and clippings, cashed the check from Cricket, but never completely forgot the image of that old man.

This 1938 NY Daily News photo of William Dock inspired Martians Over Brooklyn

Dexter HS, 2013. Directed by Tomi Dres.
Pop (James Fischer) warns his fellow residents of the coming invasion 

That article made a few more dollars for me when a test prep publisher came calling, and having seen it in Cricket, asked to include it as a reading comprehension selection for their state test material. An added bonus for inclusion in state test material is that the authors are paid each time the article appears, meaning that each state's booklet each year is considered a stand-alone publication worthy of payment.

Evolution: the gradual development of something from a simple to more complex form

Years later, as director of my middle school's plays, I had produced a few original shows and was looking for another idea to develop. I knew I wanted to return to Orson Welles' radio drama, but needed a comic hook for school theatre groups. Another problem was that reproducing the very wordy and complex radio drama from 1938 was not only too challenging for my young actors, but wasn't at all funny. The humor would have to come only from those who reacted to it. In short, I had an idea, but no play.

It hit me like a cartoon anvil on the head while I was watching an old rerun of the Kelsey Grammer sitcom Frasier.  In it, radio host Frasier was celebrating his station's roots by recreating an old drama, using his inept friends, family and colleagues as his cast. It was, of course, a disaster of epic proportions. I was so taken with the tools and tricks of radio drama, I knew they'd make for a good visual for a stage play. Having kept my 'War of the Worlds' idea tucked away for a decade, details and connections now rushed into mind faster than I could write them down. I grabbed my file, rewound the Frasier and watched it again. And again.

Reviewing my old materials, I knew my central characters would of course be led by my eccentric old friend, now willing to go to great comic lengths to protect his loved ones. I just needed a way to unify the 'listeners' so that they could interact with each other; seeing individual families in their own homes listening to the radio is hard to stage and limiting. So, I simply returned to the story my father had told to my son. I set the show on the stoop of an apartment building in my dad's Brooklyn neighborhood. People could run in, run out, run by--it made for easy interactions with a variety of people and no need to change set pieces. The show would open with children on a stoop, in homage to my father. With no set changes for the exterior of the stoop, and only one set for the radio studio, I could have the continuous action I needed and seamlessly blend the broadcast with listener reaction.

Excerpt from Martians Over Brooklyn:  Pop is the first to announce the Martian invasion to a skeptical group of residents that includes his granddaughter Jo. Unfortunately for him, they are all too familiar with his flights of fancy.

MIKE:   What's with Pop?
JO:  (Shrugs, embarrassed.) Gas.
MIKE:   I'm not surprised. I've had your mother's cooking.
MARYBETH:   No, he says it's from Martians.
MIKE:  Martians? Is that the new restaurant over on Metropolitan Avenue?
CATHY:   No, you idiot! Martians! Like from outer space!
MIKE:   So he got gas from Martians. I get mine from your mother's corned beef. It happens. 
CATHY:  I'm serious. Pop says we're being invaded by Martians from outer space with poison gas. He says he heard it on the radio!
MIKE:  You going to start believing him now? At least three times a week he says General Stonewall Jackson is marching up Lorimer Street. And today he says that both Greta Garbo and ZaSu Pitts are crazy in love with him!
 CATHY:   I don't know. It didn't seem like one of his jokes. He seemed awful spooked.

My next brainstorm came with about my fifth viewing of that Frasier episode, and watching his pals destroy his program through their own incompetence, disinterest, and selfishness.  I needed a way to tie in the Brooklyn set with the radio folks anyway, so I rolled all those destructive Frasier-esque qualities into one and invented a high-maintenance, low-talent B-movie actress who would arrive with her agent to stay (cheaply) in his aunt's Brooklyn boarding house while working on the Mercury Theatre program in NYC. Her arrival could wreak havoc on two sets and do more damage than the Martians ever dreamed.

Excerpt from Martians Over Brooklyn: Residents anticipate the arrival of actress Evelyne Alforde, and it is evident that conflict exists long before the Martians arrive.

PATTY:  Evelyne Alforde. Gee! A real Hollywood actress…(Shy admission) I never heard of her.
MAX:  Nobody ever heard of her. Her agent is Mona's nephew. I'm just glad to hear he's booking something other than animal acts or we'd have that chimp who rides a bike staying here. 
CATHY:  Judging by the smell in the bathroom on my floor, I'd say he is staying here. 
MONA:   (To Pop, accusingly) Have you been boiling garlic and lemons in the tub again?
POP:   It helps my voice when I sing in the bath!
MONA:   Do it again and we'll see how well you can sing with an electric toaster in the tub!
POP:    So what's the big crime? I dried the garlic on the windowsill and put it back in the kitchen where I found it.
JO:  Oh, gross.
PATTY: Shhh, Josephine. There wasn't much garlic in the lamb tonight…Hey, maybe that Miss Alforde is doing research for a new acting part or something. I read in Photoplay that they do that! Maybe she's playing a down on her luck Brooklyn housewife and wants to see how working class people live. (Carried away with a dramatic retelling) Just like that movie Housewife! Remember? The one where Bette Davis steals George Brent away from his poor devoted wife, I forget her name, and then George Brent tragically runs over his own son with the car, but the boy's injury reunites his parents! (Suddenly stops and checks watch. Brightens up) Oh, look at the time. My program's on (Happily exits into house.)
MIKE:  Poor kid. She lives for all that Hollywood fantasy mumbo jumbo.
CATHY: You would, too, if your life was a bad B movie. I mean, her husband goes out for Yoo-Hoo and never comes back, leaving her with no income, two kids and a father-in-law who is still fighting the Civil War and dates movie stars he's never met.

Now, for the radio drama recreation, I was still stuck with unmanageable dialogue. I contacted the estate of Howard Koch, who wrote the original radio play for Orson Welles' Mercury Theatre group and asked for permission to use excerpts and paraphrases of his work. (The internet is an amazing resource.) It took six months of emails back and forth and turning over the script for approval (and a one-time payment of a small tributary fee), but I got an official release and good wishes. My actress character could play a few minor parts, try to highjack the live broadcast to pad her role, while leaving the other actors to not only play their live radio drama for real, but also interact comically with her off-air.

Excerpt from Martians Over Brooklyn: (Agent Sam and Evelyne discuss her career)

 SAM: Just listen to your director. And whatever you do, don't improvise. He's a bit temperamental. And, honey, if this doesn't work out, maybe acting isn't your bag.
EVELYNE:  Sam Grafton!
 SAM: How many times have I told you to stick to modeling? Unlike your last gig, it's perfectly acceptable for a model to be stiff and lifeless.
EVELYNE:  I assume you are referring to my last stage play? I'll have you know I received great notices from the reviewers. They said they absolutely loved my big death scene.
SAM:  No, they said they were happy when you died. There is a difference!
EVELYNE:  Well, forget the critics. They hate everything. I worry only about Mr. and Mrs. Front Porch, and the audience seemed to be having a wonderful time. 
SAM:  Are you kidding? The Lincolns had a better time at the theatre after John Wilkes Booth showed up!

Zachary Britton as Pop Bonacelli is ready to do battle in the Hudson River in
Lagrange Middle School's premiere production of Martians Over Brooklyn

Michigan's Dexter High School recreates Orson Welles' 'War of the Worlds' broadcast
 in Laurie Bryant's Martians Over Brooklyn

The old man from the photograph that started it all became Pop Bonacelli, a kindly, but deluded Civil War vet who isn't nearly as crazy as he'd like everyone to believe. All I had to do was surround him with a cast of characters who either believed or disbelieved the whole Martian invasion premise to create conflicts within the conflict. Toss in some Depression era sub-threads to create drama, comedy and emotion and the script worked. The audiences learned, as my young son did, that in 1938 people lived in fear of Hitler, invasions and super-weapons as the drumbeats of war in Europe sounded ever closer, families turned to the radio or movies for fantasy getaways as their own lives and economies crumbled, and emerging science fiction and fact were both capturing the imagination and breeding terror. In short, the world, if not New Jersey, was ripe for Orson Welles to stage his mock-invasion on the night before Halloween.

Cashing in

A third grader's book report led to a published article, royalties from standardized test preparation kits and continued royalties as the play is now being performed all around the country.

I wonder if it would work as a screenplay...

Martians Over Brooklyn is available from Heuer Publishing.

Weaving Truth into Fiction: Sidestepping Pitfalls & Mining Valuable Nuggets of Research

Research: Your Dream Deferred

Social media. E-mails. Reading blog posts. Writing blog posts. Trips to the fridge. There are many attractive distractors for creative types trying to craft original work. The easy answer is to shut down the Internet, turn off the cellphone and padlock the fridge (Tried it. Epic fail. Remembered I am still working through an old two-pound bag of mini Tootsie Rolls from an adoring student that I have stashed in my desk drawer. I spent an hour building a Tootsie Jenga tower with the stale ones.)

Possibly the worst writing time-suck of all is the easy accessibility of information in the electronic age—crack for the research junkie. If you aspire to authenticity in your story, you know you must do your homework. And everyone else’s. Even a simple modern tale must have a setting that rings true, whether you are world-building in a city or town of your own creation, or setting your characters off on a stroll down the Queen’s Walk along the Thames in London. (Been there. Done that. Lovely. I should write a story. If I did, could I deduct my trip? I should turn my Internet back on and look that up.)  

There's the Rub

Writing historical fiction certainly requires accuracy and detail. So, you research. You turn the Internet back on. What choice do you have? You visit encyclopedias, make a book wish list, devour every online reference and link that might even vaguely relate to your thing, you pore over travel sites for location tidbits, check maps, drift through Google Images, and even read menus from setting-connected restaurants. (You know, just in case you decide to visit on a tax-deductible research tour. Oh, and you’ll need a hotel. And flights. Maybe there’s even a travel article in it for you. So, you’re off to see what the submission guidelines are for a few travel mags and to whom to address your query.)

Many, many months later you have gained a bit of candy weight, purchased a large bottle of Senekot (damn Tootsie Rolls), but also have a hefty file of printed research from the Internet, stacks of books scored from libraries, Amazon and eBay, legal pads filled with copious notes and a general idea of what you want your main character to accomplish on her journey.

Now what? What bits of history do you include? How do you marry the truth and the fiction? How do you do it so that you are not awkwardly pushing in the historical detail? (While walking in Braintree, home of our future second President of the United States, John Adams, a self-professed ‘obnoxious and disliked’ little fellow who has also already sired a future president and has a famously respectful relationship with his ahead-of-her-time wife, Abigail, young Corky noticed a sheep in the meadow.)

The Question, Jerk. The Question. (John McEnroe, anyone?)

Good story ideas can begin with a question, and historical fiction is no exception. My own inspiration was simple. I love sports. My sports heroine is the great multisport legend Babe Didrikson Zaharias, who came to fame in the 1930s and spent twenty years making shots and headlines as the world’s first female media darling of sport.

The great Babe in 1932

Babe Didrikson Zaharias,
champion golfer and showman

My mom was an athletic Depression era Minnesota farm girl.

The question: What if my mother met Babe Didrikson?

I’d researched the great athlete Babe Didrikson for years. I learned in Russell Freedman’s Babe Didrikson: The Making of a Legend that Babe, having single-handedly won a team qualifying meet for track and field in Evanston in 1932, immediately traveled with her new team via train from Chicago to Los Angeles for the summer Olympic Games. One detail hit me hard: an attention-hound, Babe would regularly run the length of the train in her workout gear, staying fit and enjoying her newfound celebrity. Setting chosen. Mom would become a feisty twelve-year old tomboy in the company of our stern and proper Aunt Cora off to visit family in California on the same train. (And so began a whole new round of research on Union Pacific, trains, Pullman cars, Pullman porters and the cross-country route from Chicago to LA. Thank god for Tootsie Rolls. And Senekot.) 

Babe would be a special guest star in Tomboys, larger-than-life, brash and an All-American braggart. She represented the changing times and emergence of empowered sportswomen in the thirties. She was easy to insert into young Elsie’s story because she quite literally took over any scene she was in. Getting her to talk wasn’t difficult. Getting her to shut up--well, that was another story, and one her Olympic teammates could identify with. Her quotes and antics jumped off the pages of my research as dialogue and deeds as effortlessly as Babe herself took hurdles. All I had to do was to take dictation and create an audience. Elsie would be there, eagerly lapping up Babe’s tall feats and taller tales, and at the same time allowing the reader to listen in and meet a famous historical figure. Establishing a conflict premise was even easier: Two 1930s gals challenging gender stereotypes and roles while the disapproving public cluck their collective tongues at the boyish athlete and her protégé. Story idea launched.

Adopt, Adapt, Improve

A small problem arose. I lack expertise in track and field. You can learn history. You can learn rules. You can’t learn how something feels unless you do it. To connect with readers and audiences you can't fake the essential truths of your story. Despite running the anchor leg on the world's slowest mile-relay team one misspent season in high school, I could not effectively convey the truth of life as a track star. I do know what it’s like to flip a curveball off your fingertips, and how it feels when you’re pitching a no-hitter. I’ve lovingly fingered the raised red stitches on a new glistening white baseball, and I’ve heard the taunts for being better than the boys. So, I simply had Elsie’s dreams focus on baseball, a subject I am more capable of writing about in great and expressive detail.

Location, Location, Location

As the story developed (and the research pile grew) I realized I needed more plot. What did Elsie really want, and how could she go about getting it? What was in the way? Babe provided the inspiration, society provided the obstacles, but Babe slowly gave way to a fictional female baseball barnstormer pitcher named Libby, who boarded the train with her fast-talking husband/coach and an offer Elsie couldn’t refuse. They would escort Elsie the rest of the way on her journey and into the climax. But what would that climax be? And how could I get my passengers off that train for a change of pace? If baseball was a backdrop, a train setting was a bit limiting.

My research led me to the final scene where all major elements would come together: I learned from a book that the Olympians were taken off the train and feted at the grand Brown Palace hotel in Denver. (Well, the white athletes, anyway. The two black American track stars, Louise Stokes and Tidye Pickett, were made to eat in their dingy room on the maids’ floor. Hmmm, file that away.) I contacted a wonderful hotel historian who, grateful that I had tipped her off on the forgotten Olympic connection, forwarded me clippings of the city’s celebration for them. She knew there was a mural of Babe in the hotel, and the later link to her Colorado husband, wrestler George Zaharias, but never knew of her celebrated visit in the summer of ‘32. One Denver Post article she sent contained a tiny reference that had me standing on my chair in excitement. The day of the Brown Palace banquet, Babe Didrikson also made a public appearance at a local baseball tournament to demonstrate her world record in the baseball throw, then a women’s track and field event. Jackpot. It was easy to contrive a climatic scenario that would bring all those characters together at the hotel and ball field while still honoring the historical playbook.

End of the Line

So while research can drift into the realm of the unfocused, and chew up more time than a stale Tootsie Roll, there are gems to be found in the crevices of the past. You might meander, but you must never lose sight of the finish line (note track and field metaphor). Precious nuggets of dialogue, characterization and setting can be mined and seamlessly interwoven into your fiction, but like any prospector, you must be able to recognize the possible treasures and not be sucked in by Fool’s Gold (Pyrite. I looked it up.) Sometimes the greatest historical finds are quite small; little moments that shed light and context on a person or time period, and become part of the fabric of your original story without overwhelming your character's journey.

Oh, and Elsie witnessed the racism while at the opulent Brown Palace, again allowing the reader to see a moment in history unfold through the story. It also triggered my revisitation of Elsie’s relationship with the Pullman porter aboard the train and led me to recognize obvious parallels in their stories and quests for acceptance from a (mostly white male dominated) society so deeply rooted in stereotype and tradition that it retarded progress for both women and people of color.

After a very successful stage performance by a school theatre group, the novelization of Tomboys is finished and the search for an agent has begun. My journey, like Elsie’s, was full of stops and starts. No matter what becomes of my Tomboys manuscript, I enjoyed the ride.

(Though I’d still really like to visit that hotel in Denver. Oh, and the Pullman museum and Union Station in Chicago. Anyone know a good restaurant? Never mind, I'll look it up.)