Progress of a novel

I’m going to change course a little bit here and share about the novel I’ve been working on. Needless to say it’s a work in progress, but I’m intent on finishing it next year. The Q&A came from The Next Big Thing, an UK online publicity campaign for authors. However, the group of us here, ready and willing to participate in this blog-o-rama, had to back out because of lack of author interest. At least it got me revved up to work on my novel again, so that’s a good thing.

What is the working title of your book?

Papa’s Shoes. But this is really, really a working title. I worry this title will give the impression that this is a children’s book. The father in this story is a shoemaker, and in the end he agrees to make his daughter’s wedding shoes. Please tell me your thoughts.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

I got the idea while my husband was working on our family history. My aunt, my father’s sister, had written some stories about her early life, and some of these stories became part of the history. In one story she told about a young teacher at her high school who took a fancy to her. He took her to school plays and concerts. It was all on the up and up until her brother (my father) decided to put a stop to it. He didn’t want her to get involved with someone who wasn’t Jewish. As a result he got his family to move to Chicago from the small town where they lived so his sister would have a chance to meet a nice Jewish man. What peaked my interest the most was that she wrote about a page about this man and their dates and that she remembered his name. It made me think she really loved this man. So I thought, why not write her story and have her go back to the small town and marry him?

What genre does your book fall under?

Historical fiction. Though I’m not sure yet if this also fits into Young Adult

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

There would be four main characters:

Papa: A Dustin Hoffman type of character

Mama: Judy Dench – someone who could easily play a nasty and unhappy woman

Daughter: Ellen Page, Emily Blunt, or Maya Rudolph

Her love interest: Of course, my actor son, Ben Sharples

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Papa’s Shoes is the story of a family immigrating to America in the early 1900s and a daughter’s coming of age in the 1920s in downstate Illinois and Chicago.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

My preference would be to have it represented by an agency, but I haven’t begun the query process yet. I’m going to the Writer’s Digest West Conference at the end of this month and plan to pitch it in a Pitch Slam session. Wow, the idea of doing that really makes me nervous!

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I’ve worked on this book in fits and starts because of the writing and marking work required by my memoir. I started Papa’s Shoes at a workshop in early February 2010. It is on hold right now although I plan to get back to it after the first of the year. I’d say the first draft is nearly complete. I have over 91,000 words with something written for every scene. It just needs some fleshing out and a major edit.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I don’t have enough data to comment on this now. However, in looking up girls coming of age books on Amazon I came across this non-fiction book: Jewish Girls Coming of Age in America, 1860-1920 by Melissa Klapper (2005), that might be a useful resource as I put in the finishing touches to my book.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

I felt very encouraged after I tested this story out at my first novel workshop. I had little experience writing fiction, but I felt energized to stretch my writing capabilities after hearing great comments about the scenes I wrote in the class.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

There’s a lot going on in this book – life in a Polish stetl, early 19^th century Chicago and Illinois, a woman’s role in society at that time, religious prejudice, interfaith marriage, and a feisty mother-daughter relationship.

Early Mother's Day poems

My mother has been gone now for over eight years. But she lived a good long life. She was 94 when she died. I wrote the first two poems when she was in very ill health during her last year. I wrote the last poem after her death. Some mother-daughter relationships are tough. I know mine was. But even now, I few days early, she is on my mind. Rest in peace, Hilda. You deserve it.

Dream World

I look toward my mother's bed

in its sunny spot by the window.

The young nurse with her

is smiling. They both are.

She lies in bed, the light blue hospital gown

she’s wearing has a tiny geometric print

of triangles, squares and circles in shades

of gray, burgundy and a dark blue.

Her pinkish skin looks healthy,

and her thin, white hair is brushed off her face.

After the nurse leaves, she looks at me

with wide, bright eyes and asks,

“Do you want to play bridge? We need a fourth.”

“I haven’t played in years," I say

and she accepts that excuse,

pointing her long painted nails

to two or three other people

she imagines are in the room with her.

“They will play,” she says.

I stand by her bed stroking her damp forehead,

holding her bony hand still bruised from the needles

that had been stuck into it.

I brush my fingers down her white,

silky legs, now devoid of hair.

 “Do I look a mess?” she asks.

The setting sun casts a shadow across her bed.

“No, you look wonderful,” I say.

She smiles up at me, not minding

that her mouth is without her bottom dentures

and brags that her cousins, Virginia and Cal,

always tell her how good she looks

and how well-dressed she is.

Even in this hospital bed

with her gown hiked almost up to her diaper,

she cares how she looks.

I try to pull her gown down

but she keeps grabbing onto it.

I cover her with a sheet,

and sit down to watch her play cards

with her invisible partners.

She uses her night gown as her bridge hand.

“Six spades,” she proclaims

and tells me to play out. I play out.

She continues picking at her gown

trying to lift off each pattern section

one by one as if it were a card

and place it on the imaginary

table in front of her.

I want to know what happened to her,

and what can be done about it.

 “Hospitalitis,” the nurse says

like she has seen this kind of behavior

a million times before.

So, with nothing to be done

to fix her, I go back to the bed

and continue play acting with her.

I am thankful too. Her mind is taking her to

that other place where she is young and beautiful

and loved on the west side of Chicago

with her husband and relatives and friends.

I haven’t seen her so happy in years.

“I like this little room,” she tells me.

And I am glad.

Letting Go

She flexed her fists

on the cold bed railing

keeping in time

with the rhythm of her heartbeats.

Soon her hold relaxed,

and with fingers intertwined

she wrapped her hands around the bar.

Drugged from the morphine potion

placed under her tongue,

she lay in a ball like a sleeping skeleton,

her head tucked into her sunken chest.

I sat with her, stroked her arm

like a skinny rail itself

and soothed the damp hair off her forehead

until she pushed me away

and took hold the railing again.

Finally too weak to reach her metal friend,

she allowed her folder fingers

to rest on the bed.

And I, kissing her graying, fading face

said my last I love you and goodbye.

A woman strong until the end

took 94 years to finally let go.

Long Division

I gathered all the papers that had piled high

on my desk for weeks and put them

into nice neat stacks – Medicare receipts,

bank statements, insurance policy,

tax stuff, paid bills, unpaid bills, funeral records,

and a special pile called Memorabilia –

with her typed up life story in her own words,

her citizenship decree and

her husband’s death certificate.

I shoved the papers into file folders

and put them into the bottom left hand drawer

of my desk. Out of the way, out of sight and

out of mind. This division of papers was the last step.

We had already divided her things.

My brother got the breakfront,

my sister took home the Illadro figurine,

and I have her diamond watch.

Each piece of furniture, each piece of silver, china

and jewelry laid out and chosen one by one

by her three children

until there was nothing left.