On reviewing my novel Not on Fifth Street, one reviewer felt it was not realistic for the mother character to allow her 14-year-old son to take charge of the house. My point in writing this post is not to complain about a review, but to explain the reasons my character did what she did.

Family Life in 1937

In 1937, a 14-year-old boy was considered by many to be nearly a man. And if his father put him in charge, the mother would likely acquiesce.

I am not saying it was her best choice, but my books are meant to show, as accurately as I can, the way things were in a different time period.

Many things have changed! Thank heaven! But I want my readers to realize the change by seeing what was.

The character of Ruth Brinkmeyer in my book was inspired by my grandmother, who was one of the strongest women I knew. She raised eight children during the Great Depression and helped feed them by keeping an abundant garden, canning her produce, and even making her own ketchup. She baked her own bread and got through the struggles of everyday life with her strong faith.

I loved and admired Grandma, but she was a woman of the time period in which she lived. She believed her sons should go to college, but not her daughters. Girls were expected to grow up to become wives and mothers, and she considered higher education for them a waste of money.

Much Has Changed

Women have shed those beliefs in gradual phases, beginning with women who disagreed with the norm. Women got the right to vote a mere hundred years ago, and now they hold office and run companies. Equal pay has still not been achieved, but we are attempting to change that now. Gradual phases.  

My own mother was college educated when she married my father. She earned her Masters degree when she had seven children at home. Yet, my parents hung onto many traditional differences between what girls did and what boys did. My sisters and I washed dishes and dusted. My brothers mowed the lawn and washed the car.

By the time I had my own children, the girls also mowed the lawn. Their father taught them to change a tire before they were allowed to learn to drive. Differences began to blur.

Today’s world is vastly different from 1937, and it continues to change. We can help to change it for the better, but we need to see how far we’ve come and realize how change occurs.

My books continue to show a world from the past, but I live very much in the present, and I look forward to a new and better future.

I recently read a quote saying something about always looking forward because looking backward is for time travelers. I get the point: Don’t dwell in the past. However, I think looking back is important, so count me among the would-be time travelers.

We learn so much about moving forward by what has happened in our past. “Once burned, twice shy” loses all meaning if we don’t recall the pain of the first burn.

In science and medicine, we make new discoveries by trying and failing and trying again. It usually takes many, many tries. But every try needs to be documented and revisited before the next try or we suffer the same failures.

We can hope to avoid future mistakes, but we can make educated decisions by studying what our predecessors did. From their choices, we can learn what to do—and what not to do.

Obviously, I strongly believe in learning history and learning from history.

Celebrating a History of Unity

The July 4^th holiday is celebrated with fireworks, games, and barbecues, but it needs to be more than that. We need to remember what and why we are celebrating.

The only reason we are a country is because the US gained its independence from Great Britain in the Revolutionary War. After years of war, we had to fight again to keep it a country in the War of 1812. We will have more respect for our forefathers if we know what they went through to create this nation.

Did they make mistakes? Certainly. Everyone does. Is it a perfect nation? Of course not. Can we make it better? Absolutely. But we can’t do that if we forget all that came before. 

Less than 50 years after the War of 1812, our country fought again. This time, it was a Civil War, where we fought against ourselves. If the Confederacy had won, we’d have split into two countries. I believe if we had split, we would have ended up fighting more civil wars afterward. Being one is good.

We Can Learn from History

People in our country have always had differences of opinion. Those differences led to that Revolutionary War which created our nation and led again to that Civil War where we had to decide which direction we wanted to go. Other wars have followed. What did we learn from them? The only way we can avoid future wars is by studying the past and taking lessons from it. Can we move forward peacefully? I hope so with all my heart.

More than 200 hundred years ago, author and orator Edmund Burke said, “Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.” Wise words, which are a part of—you guessed it—history.

Bringing History to Life

That phrase, bringing history to life, is why I write. It was the combination of story and character that hooked me on American history and I hope that my stories can do the same. I firmly believe that historical fiction is the best way to interest students in history. If readers get invested emotionally in characters and their stories, history becomes more than dry facts. If history is more than dry facts, we just might be able to learn from it.

As I often post here, I have always loved to write. And I have been interested in history since I was in elementary school. I wasn’t a huge fan of history class, but I loved reading stories about people who lived long before I was born, the people who lived history.

Those interests are what led me to writing historical fiction. Now I write stories about people from the past. The people in my stories are fiction, but the events they lived through were real.

History from the Eyes of Everyday People

My goal is to get into the minds of everyday people, not the generals and presidents and famous folk. I work hard to research the times and places I write about. I travel to those places and learn as much as I can about the experiences of people who trod that ground long ago, so I can figure out what those everyday lives were like. I want to know what their struggles were, what challenged them the most. I want to make their stories come alive, to feel real.

It was my lifelong goal to be a published author, but I never dreamed beyond that published book. I never imagined what could happen when readers read my words and were touched by my stories. Would the stories feel real to them?

As I write this, I have just returned from a school visit and a book festival. These are a part of writing I hadn’t thought much about, but it fills my heart to see students and other readers tell me how my books have touched them. While I still crave to develop stories and find the right words to tell them, meeting readers is a special part of being a published author.

Making History Come Alive for Others

My goal is to tell an entertaining story, but if I can help to increase someone’s interest in reading by the words I write, I have made a difference. If I also make history come to life for a reader, I have truly accomplished something.

In my April blog post, I said writing is my joy. It is, and it always will be, but now reaching readers is my ultimate goal.

In the back of each of my novels is an Author’s Note to separate the fiction in my text from the historical facts that drive the story. I do a tremendous amount of research to get those facts straight.

After the Author’s Note, I write Acknowledgments to thank experts who helped me obtain the historical facts. I thank those who inspired me to write that particular story. I also thank people who have critiqued the book when it was still a work in progress. I thank my wonderful editor, Carolyn Yoder. And I always acknowledge Kent Brown and the Highlights Foundation, who helped me to become the writer I am. 

More Than Acknowledgments

Those who don’t get thanked or acknowledged on those pages are the ones who play a huge part after the book is published. I owe them a great deal for each book’s success.

Last year, I wrote a blog post about my family members who have helped me in so many ways. I also wrote a post about the many friends who also played a part in supporting me and spreading the word. But there are other people, many whom I don’t even know, who have been vital in my venture as an author. And that leads me to the thanks I offer today.

Thank you to bloggers who wrote about my books in their posts. Thank you to booksellers, who matched my books to the right customers. Thank you to librarians, who recommended my books to their patrons. 

For The Students and Teachers

Thank you to teachers who put my books into the hands of students. I hear from students and other readers who tell me how they first came upon one of my books. A recommendation from a teacher or even a school assignment is often cited as the introduction. These people perform a valuable service that both authors and readers rely on.

Thank you to teachers and school librarians who have read one or more of my books and contacted me to come and speak to their students. I love to meet students and faculty.

For The Writing Community

Thank you to the book clubs, who invited me to sit in on meetings where they discussed one of my books. It has always been a true pleasure.

I am grateful for every member of every committee, who suggested one of my titles for consideration for a book festival or award. Thank you for throwing my book into the running, no matter the outcome.

Thank you to David Bruce Smith and the Grateful American Book Prize folks who not only honored Like a River with its inaugural award, but who continue to recommend it to readers.  

For The Readers

Most importantly, I thank everyone who has read one (or more) of my novels. I work hard to tell a story with accuracy and heart, and you gave me the gift of your time and trusted me to entertain you. I hope I did not let you down.

Without readers, I would have no reason to write. And writing is my joy. Thank you all!

Every career begins somewhere. Some people change career paths after a time, and some change them drastically. I have held various jobs over the years: sales, market research, teaching. But my passion was always writing. I write mostly historical fiction novels these days, but I began by writing poetry.

My mother was a published poet. When she saw I liked to play with words (at age 5), she taught me about rhyme and meter. In third grade I wrote her a poem for Mother’s Day. I still remember a few lines of it. As a child I wrote lots of poems, but I didn’t save them. A few were published in my elementary school newspaper, but I didn’t save those papers either. Mom wrote a Christmas poem every year, and when I was 12 or so, she’d ask my opinion. What a confidence boost that was! One year, she asked me to write one of the verses. I do still have copies of all her poems to this day.

From Poems to Novels

I first tried writing a novel when I was 12. It was very short (not even long enough to count as a novella), but it was the first time I had thought about plot, character, and setting – I was hooked.

When I was a junior in high school, we had an assignment that lasted a full quarter of the school year. We had to write a sonnet, an essay, a research paper, a lyrical poem, a one-act play, a descriptive paragraph, a short story, a free verse poem, and several other forms of literature we had learned.

“You have the full quarter,” the teacher said. “Use it. I will know it if you try to write them all at the last minute.” I got the research paper out of the way first. I was accustomed to writing poetry and wrote many of them in one sitting, though I confess to saving a lot of it for the final weekend. Yet, I received an “A”. Poetry was my comfort zone, but I discovered how much I enjoyed writing stories.

My First Novels

As an adult, I finally wrote an actual novel and sent it to a publisher. It was quickly rejected, which was a jolt to my confidence. My writing zone became less comfortable.

However, I kept writing, I wrote a second novel, a third, a fourth, and so on. Nobody was interested in publishing any of them, but I wrote for my own enjoyment, and I kept trying. Giving up was not in my comfort zone. Eventually, I went to conferences and workshops to learn from those who had been published and from those who published them. Those experiences showed me how much I still needed to learn. A touch of talent and a heart filled with passion were not enough.

Though Rejected by Publishers, I Kept Writing

I joined critique groups and had others look at my work before I sent it to editors. A couple of my novels caught editors’ interest enough to ask for revisions, but in the end, more rejection came. Meanwhile, a few of my short stories won awards. Those helped me get past the rejection. 

It wasn’t until I was working on my eleventh novel that an editor took a significant interest, and Like a River became my first published novel. I signed the contract for that book 39 years after I had first submitted a novel to a publisher. It had been a long wait, but well worth it. That novel won the 2015 Grateful American Book Prize. I was certainly glad I never gave up.

I have had three novels published, as well as several poems and a couple short stories. I still love to write. It’s that passion that keeps me going.

Looking Back

Recently, my friend Vicki sent me a copy of a poem I’d written when I was 11. Her husband went to the same elementary school I did, and he had saved some of those school newspapers that I hadn’t. Here is that poem:

As we come from the school doors daily,

All the birdies sing so gaily.

But soon to school we will not go,

For it’s almost June as we all know.

Instead of in school, we’ll be under the skies,

Slapping mosquitoes and hitting the flies.

So until next September, this I say,

“Have a happy vacation. May fun come your way.”

Definitely not a great poem, but I was 11. I had a long way to go, but everybody needs to begin somewhere.

As I write today’s blog post, rain pours outside my window and, though it is miles away, I know the Ohio River is rising. The rising river always brings memories of my dad.

When I was 14, Dad picked me up from school on a March Monday because we’d been released early and I had missed my bus. Dad was on his way downtown and took me with him.

I don’t remember why he went into downtown Cincinnati that day. I do remember we had dissected fish in biology class that day, and I had the lens from the fish’s eye in my purse. I’m not sure why I kept it, but it fascinated me. I told Dad about it.

After Dad had done whatever errand he had gone into the city to do, he drove down by the river. I had seen the Ohio River many times. Dad used to drive us occasionally to the public landing to watch it meander past.

We couldn’t see the public landing that March day because it was underwater, and there was no meandering. The river was in flood and rushed by, muddy and brown and carrying debris. Dad drove as close as he could get and said that as bad as this flood was, he had been through worse.

The Historic Flooding

Dad had experienced the record-breaking flood of 1937 in his hometown of Ironton, Ohio. I don’t remember all he told me about it that day. Right then, a fish lens was more interesting.

Three years later, the TV news talked about the devastating flood of 1937 on its 30-year anniversary. That day Dad told me he was listed as missing during the flood. I asked him a ton of questions and listened attentively, but didn’t think to write down his answers.

By the time I decided to write a book about the ’37 flood, Dad had been gone two decades from a heart attack. I wrote down what I could remember of what he’d told me, but there were so many pieces missing. Living in Cincinnati, I read a lot about how the ’37 flood affected folks here, but I wanted to tell Ironton’s story—Dad’s story.

Flooding My Mind with History

I went to Ironton to the library’s archives. I read accounts of the flood, one written day by day as the water rose. Another was written as a way to inform residents of Ironton what was happening in their town because newspaper offices were underwater and papers weren’t being printed. How I wished Dad were still around to fill in the gaps!

I talked to his sister, who had been 14 at the time of the flood, and whose memories were still clear and vivid.

My aunt, Margaret Ann (called Mac by much of the family, but whom Dad had affectionately called MarAnn), and I talked for hours. She answered questions and gave me tidbits of information I hadn’t even thought to ask. Every time we talked on the phone, I came away with some new nugget.

A few days after our conversations, I often received a manila envelope filled with pages of Mac’s beautiful handwriting, detailing things she had forgotten to tell me. She even sent photos.

I could not have written the novel Not on Fifth Street (Calkins Creek, 2017) without Margaret Ann’s help, but she gave me even more. In those letters filled with stories of the flood, she often went off on tangents that brought a lot of family history to life for me.

On November 2, 2018, Margaret Ann passed away at the age of 96. She had been the last surviving of my Dad’s eight siblings, and my family lost a true treasure.

Not on Fifth Street is a personal connection to the flood, to my father, to my aunt, and to my Ironton roots.

I went back to Ironton last week to visit a school and talk about the book. I love meeting students, and they enjoy hearing about a book set in their own town. A couple family members were there to hear me speak and a few adults who had their own family connections to the flood came out as well.

Writing has always been my passion, but connecting with readers is my new joy!