GOOD GHOUL, BABYSITTER EXTRAORDINAIRE
(This also appeared in Chicago Literati, Oct. 31, 2016)
In more than thirty years of publishing fiction, I have written only one ghost story.
I don’t believe in ghosts. Also, I am afraid of them.
But many years ago when my four children were small, I was intrigued by the tale of a good ghoul as opposed to a scary one, with talents any harried mother might find irresistible.
The piece started not as fiction but as a feature for The Baltimore Sun Magazine, about a couple who had bought a spacious, pre-Civil War farmhouse to accommodate their growing family – two little boys and another on the way. Everyone loved the big rooms and large yard. What they didn’t love was the occasional chiming of a clock that didn’t exist, the sense they had of eyes watching them as they painted their family room, a rocking chair that rocked for no reason. They joked that the place must be haunted.
Then the baby was born. Almost at once, he slept through the night. His pacifier never fell out of his mouth. Once, a window that had been left open in his room was already secured against a summer storm when his mother came in to close it. Late one night, the parents returned from a party to see a long-haired girl – the babysitter, they assumed – visible in an upstairs window, comforting the baby. But inside the house, both the baby and the sitter were sound asleep.
A ghostly nanny? It seemed so. Research on the history of the house made them decide the ghost was a mother who, more than a century before, had lost her child. Maybe she was trying to protect this one.
But as time passed, the baby grew into a child who understood some of what was going on. When a local newspaper ran an article about the haunting, it spawned lots of gossip. Did the boy really see something? Or had he heard people talking about it, including his siblings? Either way, he was no longer comforted by the spectral being in his room. Night after night he woke up screaming. “The lady” was sitting in the empty rocking chair near his bed! He cried and fussed and became ever more agitated.
But what to do?
Soothing words didn’t work. Bribes (pancakes for breakfast!) were a joke. Appealing to reason produced louder temper tantrums. “You don’t believe me! I know you don’t!”
So the mother said the only thing she could. Of course she believed him! And like good mothers everywhere, she sat down with her son and had a talk with the offender. Speaking to the empty rocking chair where the ghost hung out, she spoke softly, with as much affection as she could muster. “I know you love him,” she told the chair. “I know you took good care of him. But now you’re making him frightened. If you really care for him, you’ll go away.”
And with a sudden sense of something leaving the room, the ghost did.
Did I believe it? Do you? Once, the family related, a guest had insisted she couldn’t sleep because a little blond-haired girl kept crawling into bed with her. Another had rushed from the bathroom claiming she’d been pushed from behind while she was washing her hair. Ghostly pranks? The good ghoul afraid of the menacing dark? Maybe. But how did that tie in with the mother’s description of a translucent scene she’d seen superimposed over the master bedroom, of slaves discussing the underground railroad? For me, it didn’t
All the same, I used almost everything I’d been told, and the story ran as planned in The Baltimore Sun Magazine.
Afterwards, I moved out of state and lost touch with the family. Sometimes I wished I could have talked to the young ward of the ghostly sitter to see what he remembered when he got older. But by then I was writing mostly fiction, and eventually my one-and-only ghost tale became a short story that was published in McCall’s in 1987. I didn’t think about it again until I began sorting through old stories for Kaleidoscope, a collection of my women’s magazine fiction from the 1980s and 1990s, due out next spring..
I suppose, like the ghosts themselves, old ghost stories never die.
As I said, I was the mother of four young children when I wrote mine. Now I’m the grandmother of fifteen. I still don’t believe in ghosts and I’m still afraid of them – but with a caveat. I figure that, if you are going to have a ghost in the house, it might as well babysit.
Like most writers with a string of books in print, I’m often asked about the covers.
Does the author get a say in them? Sometimes.
How important are they? Very.
And like most writers, I’ve seen my share of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Three truly wonderful covers. One disaster. Lots of in-between.
Depending on the publisher, and almost always with a big New York house, the author has little or no control over the cover. My 2011 novel, The Art of Saying Goodbye, was published by Harper Collins, which could have left me out of the design process entirely. But my editor, Carrie Feron, sent me each rendition, including the first one . . . an impressionistic painting of two women, one with her head on the other’s shoulder, being comforted as they sat on a park bench in floaty summer dresses, with a soft-focus white building in the background.
My daughter said it was pretty but looked like a lesbian love story in set World War II – not, as was actually the case, a contemporary novel about a group of 40-something women in an upscale suburban neighborhood, struggling with the illness of a longtime neighbor.
Even before I’d had time to object, Carrie rejected that first cover. She jettisoned several more. She ordered some fine-tuning. The final product was remarkable. A drawing of three women in jeans walking through a lovely but somber fall landscape, it captured perfectly the serious, powerful, graceful journey at the book’s center.
The novel got good reviews. It was chosen as an “Okra Pick” by the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance. It was nominated for SIBA’s annual book award.
How much did the cover influence that?
Hard to say. But experience tells me there was certainly some. Years before, my novel Festival in Fire Season had come out with a dust jacket featuring colorful azaleas, a hint of fire, and the word, “Sizzling” from the Publishers Weekly review – visuals so intriguing it was hard not to pick up the book. The novel became a Literary Guild and Doubleday Book Club Selection, important in those days. Later, my novel Riggs Park featured three girls holding hands, hair flying as they ran through a summer landscape that perfectly conveyed happy friendships long past. The novel was selected to help launch a new line of women’s fiction
The Activist’s Daughter is about a girl from DC who flees her mother’s embarrassing civil rights activism by going to college in North Carolina (The South! oh no!) in the fall of 1963. It was published originally by a small, well-respected feminist press. I had no say in the cover, but a warm, pleasant-looking version was sent to me while the book was in production. Imagine my horror when the final copies arrived, all black-and-white and drab tan, with an illustration of a woman with her hair in a bun (in the ‘60s?) and an outfit (floral blouse, straight skirt) from no discernible era, being dragged off by what look like storm troopers. Above that is my name and the title of the book, nothing else. On the back cover, in tiny type, there’s a long plot summary, an excerpt, and some reviews but no hint that this is a novel – much less by a fiction writer whose earlier work, Safe Passage, had been made into a movie starring Susan Sarandon – a film many potential readers would know.
When I started finding copies of the book in the social studies sections of bookstores, it dawned on me that people thought the novel was a memoir.
Happily, the print run soon sold out and the rights reverted to me. The reprint has a beautiful cover (in which, yes, I did have a say) featuring the Old Well in Chapel Hill where the book is set, placards to suggest the civil rights movement, and the words “A Novel” prominently displayed. Over the years, The Activist’s Daughter has become a perennial reading group selection for readers interested in the ‘60s. I’m convinced the new cover helped.
Most book covers are neither beautiful nor disastrous, even with glitches that can be maddening for the author. The protagonist of Over 50’s Singles Night is named BJ Fradkin – except on the cover, where she became BJ Franklin.The pastel pink cover of Raspberry Sherbet Kisses features lovers kissing while standing in an oversized fruit bowl – so sweet that one reviewer said the novel is light but not that light (about a woman trying to hide the fact that she sees music and tastes shapes – as some people really do). The sales impact? I’ll never know.
If a book is a big seller, the publisher will sometimes correct errors on the next printing. But if sales are low and the writer is unhappy? In today’s digital environment, most books are also e-books, which can stay “in print” indefinitely at little cost to the publisher, which generally opts to hold on to rights rather than reverting them.
Often, the best a writer can hope for is an editor sensitive to the visual journey readers take before deciding whether to open the book and embark on the literary one. It makes a huge difference.
My 1992 novel, Festival in Fire Season, has just come out as an e-book. So when the publisher asked me to look through it after the (very old) files were converted, I found myself reading it for the first time in twenty years.
Festival in Fire Season is about three people in a small beach town who get caught up in a raging wildfire that comes through during the annual Azalea Festival. A Literary Guild and Doubleday Book Club selection when it was first published, it was inspired by real fires that swept through coastal North Carolina in the mid-1980’s – and that scared me badly when the flames were burning at the end of the block and I was home without a car, with my four children and two nieces.
What critics liked most about the book were the fire scenes.
But oh! Even two decades later, I remember all too well what a project it was to write them.
One of the main characters in the book is a firefighter. He battles some house fires early on, and at the end has to deal with the swiftly-approaching forest fire. Making those scenes authentic and exciting was the key to the success of the book.
I knew nothing about firefighting – just that I was afraid of fires. This was before Internet research was an option. I read one book by a NY city firefighter but found few others. I interviewed several local firefighters, including one who had been in charge of operations during our terrible wildfires. They were all enormously helpful. They lent me training tapes to watch. Explained how heavy the hoses can be when they’re charged with water. Told me their secret – not sanctioned, but effective – for clearing their face masks when they fogged up. In time, I had enough technical information to work with.
But what I wanted was a sense of what it’s like, emotionally, to fight a fire. What it looks like, what it feels like, in a visceral way.
This, I discovered, would be much harder to come by.
My firefighter contacts, macho-men all, were knowledgeable, skillful, helpful in a myriad of ways – but emotional? No. It seemed a source of pride with them to describe even the most devastating fires in the flattest possible language.
What was it like?
Oh, we knocked it down in about ten minutes.
Oh, it was goin’ pretty good when we got there.
Oh, it was kind of nasty. But we got hold of it.
Were you ever scared?
Oh, yeah. Sure.
End of discussion.
At a loss, having exhausted the good will of the firefighters and the resources of the county library, I drove out to the university, expecting to find more of the same. But among the “more of the same” was an old book – very old – that contained various accounts of the devastating but nearly-forgotten Peshtigo Fire in Wisconsin, that consumed more than a million acres of land and killed more than a thousand people. The librarian presented me with a volume that shouldn’t have been in circulation at all – dusty, tattered, and certainly rare. But no one seemed concerned, so I carried it home and found . . . everything
Back in the 1870s, there was no telephone service, no email, no TV, nothing to ease the linguistic task of describing the direct experience of a devastating fire. And so there it was, in many renditions, in the rich, evocative language of the times, the horror and (to my surprise) the beauty, of a terrible wildfire.
From those accounts, I learned how sap could hiss as it turned to steam, how flames could hurl themselves into the night, “screeching and cackling, a Halloween beast sending out curling wisps of smoke,” how two walls of fire could become a “sudden last fountain of light” before the two fires canceled each other out.
I learned how to juxtapose those descriptions with modern ones, as when a boy watching a fire yells to his friend, “The ultimate fireworks, man!”
And so grew the novel.
It shouldn’t have taken me so long to find my sources. I had read Civil War letters and diaries; I must have known that the vibrant language I was seeking would be in accounts from a hundred years before. Today, you can read all about the Peshtigo Fire on Wikipedia – and no doubt many other places. But if you’re ever looking for the true language of something folks want to mute and subdue, along with their fears, I suspect you’ll find it right where it’s always been, burning in the flame-lit annals of the past.
“Is it autobiographical?”
It’s a question I’m asked about almost every book – and one other women’s fiction writers I know deal with just as often.
For me, the answer is always yes. And always no.
My newest novel, THE ART OF SAYING GOODBYE, is based on a real event. In the suburban neighborhood where I lived for many years, a beautiful, vivacious woman with two children was diagnosed with a terminal cancer that claimed her after only a few months. I didn’t know her well. Saddened as I was to hear about her family’s tragedy, I didn’t expect to be affected in any profound way.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Along with the rest of my neighbors, I went through an astonishing range of emotions, from shock and sorrow to a kind of guilty joy at being healthy – for which I felt deeply ashamed. Above all, I felt helpless. What good did our casseroles do? Or the white ribbons tied around trees in our front yards? Or the prayer meeting that felt a little like a neighborhood coffee klatch? It was a terrible time – and yet, as it turned out, a remarkable one.
The book I finally wrote deals at one level with the very different ways four longtime neighbors react in a similar situation. On another level, it is about the universal need to face our own mortality in the shadow of a friend’s illness – only to come away, finally, with a kind of transcendent thankfulness for our lives, and the realization that a person is never the illness that claims her, but always herself, someone capable of leaving us a legacy of strength and joy.
The four neighbors whose stories make up the novel are nothing like me. There’s a nurse with an eerie gift of diagnosis. A cynical widow. The owner of an upscale hot-tub store. A housewife whose marriage suffers because of a troublesome child. I am none of these people. Not even close.
But the emotions of these fictional characters are exactly the ones I felt in real life when my neighbor was sick. None of the women are “me.” And yet all of them are.
Does this make it autobiography? Not really.
Like many of us who write mainstream women’s fiction, mine is a blend of fact and feeling and imagination, set into prose, with hopes it will reach other hearts than mine.
Okay, this is why I’m doing this: I’ve always loved women’s writing but hated the way some people use “women’s fiction” as a slightly derogatory term for beach books (many with the word, “beach” in their titles) and light reading. There are plenty of those, sure, some quite marvelous . . . but if that’s “women’s fiction,” then why isn’t there something equivalent called “men’s fiction”?
For me, women’s fiction has always meant the whole, broad world of women’s concerns (which is not to say men aren’t concerned with many of these things as well).
What do I write? Women’s fiction, often about women’s friendships, sometimes serious, often on the edge of “literary,” always with real issues at its core. What do I read? Women’s literary fiction, women’s historical fiction, women’s mystery fiction, women’s political fiction – everything from the brainy novels of Louise Erdrich and Barbara Kingsolver and Anne Patchett, to Janet Evanovich’s laugh-out-loud thrillers and Alice Hoffman’s magical realism. For me, women’s fiction includes equally Anne Rivers Siddons’ lush depictions of the Carolina coast and Lionel Shriver’s biting attack on the American health-care system. I’m tickled by the way Elizabeth Berg’s lyrical novels have given a generation of career women permission to find beauty, as well, in the small rituals of domestic life. I admire Erica Jong for being brave enough to publish her funny and fearless, Fear of Flying nearly forty years ago, and I admire Allegra Goodman for taking on the difficulties of the fast-moving digital world we live in today. Women’s fiction is not inconsequential. It entertains us, teaches us, nourishes us. Sometimes it changes our lives.
That’s what these posts will be about. Why we read what we do. Why we write what we do . How the fiction impinges on our “real” lives (and vice versa). How it deepens our understanding, empowers us, makes us more whole. At its best, that’s what women’s fiction does.
Think of this as a celebration.