Out of the box
The boxes where the Wednesday Club story patiently waited
More than 10 years ago, when I claimed the box of memorabilia from my grandmother’s Wednesday Club I wasn’t even sure why it felt important to hang onto it. My mom and I were going through the mountains of her belongings after she passed away — there was so much to sort through! I come from a long line of savers, especially if there is a whiff of sentimental value attached. We found my great-grandmother’s souvenir napkin collection, a treasure trove of handmade aprons and embroidered pillowcases, thimbles, an impressive collection of high heels with matching purses, and tons and tons of correspondence: every Valentines and birthday card my grandmother ever received, postcards from people we didn’t know, old paid bills, and newspaper clippings of recipes and obituaries.
Boxes and boxes of things
Among the boxes were a few humble-looking notebooks labeled “Wednesday Club minutes.” They spanned the years between 1927 and 1965. They weren’t very auspicious or official looking; most were just cheap spiral notebooks with cardboard covers. And there were manila envelopes with dozens of Wednesday Club programs, small yearly meeting guides with hand-decorated construction paper covers. Simple and unassuming. Still, they sparked something for me and I asked for them. Certainly, they represented the long history of a club I knew was important to my grandmother and to all the farm women in her neighborhood. But I wasn’t sure why I really wanted them.
I stuck them in my suitcase and took them home with me to California. And then I stuffed them away in a closet; I was busy raising a young son and working full-time. Sometimes I would run across them when I was digging for something and I’d think: that might make a cool story, something I’ll do later. At one point, I bought three floral cloth-covered boxes and turned them into my Wednesday Club boxes. They sat stacked in a corner of my office, pretty but still untouched. Yet they haunted me.
Timing is everything
After my son was grown and I moved to Oregon, I realized this was the time I could finally tackle some of those projects I promised myself I would. So I lifted the lid on the Wednesday Club collection and pored over everything. It didn’t quite hold the promising creative potential I had dreamed of. The minutes were interesting in the way they spanned the decades and how they reflected the concerns of the time, and how they documented all those meetings run by strict parliamentary procedure. But like all meeting minutes, they felt devoid of the feelings and emotions of the members. It wasn’t very compelling reading, and these weren’t my words so it didn’t seem right for me to publish them. I put them away and let the idea percolate.
Then it occurred to me — the story wasn’t about these minutes. But it could be about a fictional group of farm women who belonged to a Wednesday Club. It couldn’t be about a group of 25-30 women, but I could create six or seven compelling characters, each with their own hopes and disappointments, secrets and friendships. And what if these characters were of different ages? And what if the protagonist wasn’t even one of the members, but was instead a teenage city girl who was suddenly plopped into the middle of rural life. How would these Wednesday Club women embrace her — or not?
Five years later
And so began my novel. Still working full-time, I plotted out a timeline and story arc for each of the women, a complicated spreadsheet that spanned 13 months and 13 Wednesday Club meetings. I read everything I could about writing a novel, I went to women’s writing retreats, I became an active member of two writing groups, I attended workshops on writing and the publishing industry. And I chipped away, chapter by chapter, writing in the early morning hours before work and during a few weekend getaways to the coast. And this writing brought me great joy.
The day I finished my first draft was one of the most satisfying days of my life. My heart swelled with my accomplishment. For a day or two. And then I got back to work, rewriting and revising. Over and over. Along the way, I shared my drafts with willing readers — fellow writers and friends — all of whom offered valuable suggestions and even more valuable encouragement. Validation that my story is touching and has something to say, worthy of a reader’s time.
So here I am, with a finished novel and a dream to find an agent. Wish me luck, and please join my Facebook group. I’ll keep telling you why I think you’ll love these Wednesday Club characters as much as I do. And why they refuse to be put back into a floral-covered box.