Writing a Novel As a 1941 Ford

When I was eleven years old, my mother piled my little sister and I in the back seat of her ancient 1942 Ford sedan, she and my 18-year old sister Colleen got in the front seat, and we set off on a 200 mile road trip. Colleen was headed to college, and Mom couldn't afford the bus fare to send her.  It was a miserable trip - winding mountain roads kicked up hot geysers of gritty dust, and the sun beat down on the thick metal roof.  We arrived at the small Catholic college in Helena, Montana a sorry sight - sweating, dusty, and road weary.  Unloading Colleen's boxes and suitcases added to the the sweat and general grumpiness, and it was far past dinner time at the college cafeteria when we were finished. Eating dinner out wasn't a possibility, and the snacks we'd packed for the road were long gone.  After hugging Mom good-bye, Colleen retired to her new room hungry, and Mom, my little sister and I piled back in the car for the long trip back.  I remember Mom commenting that the car didn't sound quite right, and thought aloud (she didn't really think we were listening) that she'd check with the gas station attendant when she gassed up.  The only gas station left open at that hour was at the fringes of town, and a single greasy and over-worked mechanic was in attendance.

Mom got out of the car to talk to him, and I hung out the back window, gulping in the rapidly cooling evening air.  He listened tiredly to what Mom said of the car's behavior and opened the hood, prodding here, poking there.   He lay down on his back and scooted under the bottom of the car, banging metal on metal, muttering.  He emerged from under the car minutes later, shaking his head.  Continuously wiping his hands on the grimy rag that he held, he looked askance at my mother.  "Where do you think you're going in this car?"

Mom turned.  She'd been gazing off toward the high mountains we needed to cross.  "Kalispell."
His jaw nearly dropped.  "Kalispell?!?  Kalispell! ....lady, that's two hundred miles from here."

Mom nodded.  "I know."

The shaking of his head grew more vigorous.  "Naw.  Huh-uh.  Lady, the only place you should be driving this thing is to the dump.  There's nothing I can do for it."

I hung out the back window, listening.  The mechanic kept on shaking his head gazing under the hood of the car, as though amazed by what he saw there.  Mom looked off towards the mountains, over at me, and back at the mechanic.  She drew a deep, solid breath.  "Well."

The mechanic looked up at her, met her eyes.  "Sorry, lady."

Mom smiled.   "Well," she said again, "If I can start out for the dump, I can start out for Kalispell."

This time his jaw did drop.  "Lady, you're crazy.  You'll never make it, you just can't - not in this thing."

Mom climbed into the car, closed the door.  "Thanks for trying to help."  And drove away.

Hours later, deep into the high mountain night, the old grey Ford pulled up in front of our little house in Kalispell.  I woke to the sound of  Mom's delighted laughter.  She turned off the car, and turned to wake my sister and I.  That car never started again, and, when repeated attempts to repair it failed, Mom laughed again when she arranged to have it towed to the dump.  "I guess that mechanic was right, after all."

When I think of the things have have shaped who and what I am, it is this kind of thing that dominates my mind - the determination, the power of will, the sheer faith with which my mother, my father, and my larger family met life, and met its challenges.  No task was insurmountable, no challenge unbeatable.  You just started out, and you kept going till you got there.

I think this attitude, this inspiration has helped me as a writer.  In my early days, I wrote essays, short stories, and volumes of poetry, never even considering anything longer.  Until I was in graduate school, and was required to write a book-length, publishable manuscript as part of the curriculum.  Two Mothers Speak was published less than two years after I received my degree, and, since, I have completed and published eight other books, both fiction and non-fiction, had five of them published "traditionally," and the others self-published.

Writing a book is  daunting.  It takes years of focus and work - research, writing, checking, proofing, editing, cutting, and starting over.  And like that old Ford, when you reach the end, it is gone, done for good. The notion of ending up with hundreds of pages, all on one topic, can seem overwhelming.  But, if we can write words on page one, we, like my mother in that long-ago Ford, can start out.