Frankie, here. Sorry I'm late. I'm snowbound today. The dog is home from daycare, and I'm working on my class material for next week, while taking breaks by thinking about my 1939 historical novel (that is a slow-boil thriller).
I can't decide where and with which character to begin. The problem is I have two POV characters. I started out thinking that Jacob, my sleeping car porter, would be the first character to appear "on stage" and that would be on Easter Sunday 1939 when he attends Marian Anderson's concert at the Lincoln Memorial. But then Ophelia, the other POV character, came into focus. Her story begins in December 1938 and continues in February 1939 when she arrives in NYC on the same evening that the Nazis were holding a rally at Madison Square Garden. Yes, the rally really happened:
https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2019/02/20/695941323/when-nazis-took-manhattan
One of the selling points for this book is all of the noteworthy events that happened in 1939. Logically, I should go through that year in chronological order, avoiding flashbacks. But although the events are told from the POV of both characters, Jacob is the character who will be engaged in the battle of wits with Cullen, the antagonist.
I'm trying to move forward and just get the first draft done so that I can go back and revise, but I keep circling back to think about how it begins. (I won't even get into the 2020 option involving the time capsule from 1939. If I used that it would be a prologue and I would still have to decide between the Ophelia and Jacob options). A second possibility for Jacob is the later action scene, when he encounters a woman in the hotel hallway after the bell boy he has come to see goes off the roof. But that isn't a legitimate prologue. It happens in May and he would have to have a flashback to the concert in April.
In the second Ophelia chapter, I've skipped ahead to February 1939, and she is leaving town on a train headed for NYC. Her husband is dead. I could call the two Ophelia chapters a prologue. Then pick up with Jacob on Easter Sunday 1939. That's where I introduce Cullen. .
If I begin with Jacob, Ophelia won't appear on stage until well into the book, in May or June. And I'll need to work in flashbacks to get in the Dec. 1938 and February 1939 scenes. That means I'll be looping back rather than move all of the characters forward but when she arrives in NYC, Ophelia accepts a ride with a woman she meets in the train station and her male friend.
Here is the first (really rough) page of each version. Thoughts?
Chapter 1
Gallagher,
Virginia
December
28, 1938
Ophelia
Scott
He shoved back his chair, scrapping it across the floor.
Ophelia came upright
leaving the broken plate where it was. She caught her breath at the pain from
her bruised ribs.
He lurched at her.
“Boo!”
She jumped back, and
he chortled.
“Scare you? Yeah, you’re better get back from me before I
give you a reason. All this time, and you still can’t even cook a pork chop.”
“I do my best,” she
said.
“Your best, Miss
Teacher? Your best ain’t worth dilly squat.” He rubbed his hand across his upper
lip where there was a trace of sweat. “How much wood did you put in that stove?
It’s hot in here.”
“You’re hot because
you were drinking,” she said.
“Have to drink to
eat your cooking,” he said. “I gonna go see a woman that knows how to take care
of her man.”
“Go then.” She glanced
at his left hand, at the fingers flexing to loosen the taut muscles under the
burn scars. When he had been courting her, she would hold his hand and rub it. “Go
on. She’s welcome to you.”
Or:
Chapter 1
Washington, D.C.
Sunday, April 9, 1939
Jacob Baldwin
Some lies are easy to believe, especially when people need to believe them. Jacob thought about that later. That Sunday afternoon all he had on his mind was getting his work done.
As soon as he had finished his count of the sheets and
blankets and his paperwork, he spoke to the conductor. Then he changed out of
his uniform and almost ran out of the station.
He was hoping to get there in time to get a place up front.
The best he could do was half-way. But it was close enough
to see.
He tugged up the collar of his coat against the brisk wind
coming off the river and looked around.
His daddy, a country preacher, was down home in Marietta,
Georgia. But he could hear his voice in his ear like he was standing there
beside him.
“Good day in the morning, Lord,” his daddy would be saying.
“Good day in the morning.”
The sun was peeping from behind the clouds. And all these
people had gathered to hear a Negro woman sing. Negro and white, rich and poor,
up there in the seats for the mayor and senators and other important people or
crowded together on either side of the Reflecting Pool and stretching back at
least another three quarters of a mile. Thousands of people.
