Inspiration from the Past

Catherine Dilts

I never thought I’d write historical fiction, until a story dropped into my lap. A whole trunk full of stories. I had to start somewhere, so I picked one. And this story is a doozie.

Going through the piles of photos, newspaper clippings, letters, and journals my mother left me, I discovered an irresistible true tale. My great-aunt Mildred was in a bank robbery.

If you knew Aunt Millie the way we did, you might briefly suspect she’d participated. She was a sassy gal. A real firecracker. Not that I actually expected her to engage in criminal activity. But it wouldn’t have shocked me much if she’d been on the periphery of something sketchy.

She was, however, an innocent bystander. In 1932, at the tender age of twenty-five, Mildred Berry was working in a South Dakota bank when armed men entered to rob the place. Someone in the family had clipped newspaper articles and tucked them away, for me to find over 90 years later. My mother hadn’t been born yet. This seemed so ancient, and yet so immediate.

One article stopped abruptly. Someone either didn’t clip the rest of the article, or the other half had been lost over the decades.

I had this pile of very interesting material. Interesting to me, at least. What was I going to do with it? I couldn’t bear the thought of this stuff moldering away for another generation. Maybe becoming permanently lost to decay or indifference.

First, I verified the clippings by checking my great-grandfather’s journal entry for the date of the robbery. He wrote briefly about his daughter’s terrifying experience.

Second, I fortuitously ran across a Facebook page for the small town where the robbery took place. Oh, no! The bank was being torn down! I watched the progress of the demolition in horror. Not that well-built over a hundred years ago, I suspect, it was crumbling and unsalvageable. At least I had the before images, and found other photos of the bank when it was fully intact.

Third, I messaged the town’s Facebook page, and learned where to find archived newspapers for the more complete story about the robbery. I was amazed these prairie newspapers had been lovingly preserved digitally, and there are people who can look up specific info for you, for a modest fee. I soon had several articles, plus the just conclusion for the ruffians.

Fourth, now I was in knee deep, and wading further. I dove into research, learning about Model As and bank vaults, and reading great-grandfather’s memoir/history. I tried writing Millie’s story. Being a fiction writer, I struggled for a bit, until I decided I didn’t need to stick to the plain facts. So I embellished, adding a plotline that has no connection to reality. Millie’s story, but fictionalized.

I’m still working on the short story. My critique partner won’t see it for another month or two. And I’m not sure where to send it for potential publication when I’m finished. At this point, I don’t care much about the end result. This is a story I had to tell. For Aunt Millie.

The sounds of inspiration

 Rick's post got me thinking, so although I have nowhere near as storied a chair as he does, I decided to answer his question, but with a little twist. What is my favourite place for writing? Since I write longhand curled up in a comfortable chair, that place is usually the same comfy place that I read in. Even when I'm working on a computer, as I am now, I sit in my comfy chair and perch the computer on my lap. 

For me, writing is all about feeling cosy and relaxed so the muse will feel like visiting. In fact, there's more to that cosy, cocooned feeling than simply the chair. I need the sound of silence or the natural rhythms of nature. Some writers sit on a desk chair, hunched over their laptop at a table or desk. Still others write while standing up at the counter or balancing on a yoga ball. Some like the sound of the radio or TV in the background, and freeze up when there is nothing but silence. 

I can't imagine anything worse than standing up or having the radio chattering in the background. In fact, it would give me a headache in two minutes flat. Even something as soothing as Mozart would drive me to distraction. Those sudden chords and lilting runs would jolt me out of my writing zone.

I think all our brains are wired differently and need different types of stimulation to function optimally. And part of that may be what our brain has become adapted to. If you grew up with the TV or music on all the time in the background, that would be your brain's natural resting level of stimulation, and anything else would be uncomfortable. There are parts of the world that never know silence or stillness - large urban centres, for example, are always overloaded with the sounds of revving engines, construction, competing music, the flow of traffic and people, flashing signs, etc. People who grow up there may actually find silence and emptiness unnerving. Put them in the peace of a Canadian woods, and they want to turn on some music.

My sweet spot for writing and reading varies with the weather and my location. I have a lakeside cottage as well as a city house. The cottage is my favourite place because of the beauty of nature and lack of distractions and noise. In the summer, my perfect place is in my Muskoka chair on the dock, listening to the wind whispering through the trees, the loons calling, and the waves lapping against the dock. 

Yes, the dog is a distraction that has to be managed.

In the evening or in cooler weather, I migrate inside to my poang chair in the sunporch, which overlooks the lake. Even colder, and I curl up inside by the fire. I find peace and inspiration in water, fire, and the soothing green of trees. Primal stuff. In the city, my preferred place is outside on my patio  but it's hard to escape the lawnmowers, weed whackers, and screaming children nearby. In the winter, I have my love seat against the window, with one of my dogs curled up beside me. The love seat is so well-used, the cushion is almost destroyed. 

The quiet bliss of a good book
and a glass of wine.

So now I pick up Rick's question again, with this twist. What gives you inspiration? A comfy chair? Music? Silence? Nature? The chatter of a coffee shop? We all discover our own way to invite the muse.