What an odd stocking stuffer, I thought—a five-inch Gumby-esque Wonder Woman, her limbs capable of metahuman positions. I tossed my husband a baffled look. No fan of the superhero, superpower stuff, I’ve always found my power in the ordinary, the everyday, the quiet people and deeds.
“But you have been a Wonder Woman, writing this book,” he said, referring to my decade-long work on my novel The River by Starlight, a historical tale based on true events. “Your tenacity, your curiosity, your patience, your ingenuity.”
Wonder Woman.
When our autistic son was young, his speech therapist taught me to help him develop social-emotional thinking by reading books together and pausing before turning the pages to say “I wonder?” I wonder what’s going to happen next? I wonder what she’s going to say? I wonder what he’s feeling? I wonder why they did that? Instead of reading the words, we’d try to figure out what was going on and what was going to happen only by “I wonder”-ing about the pictures.
I found myself doing the same thing with period photos from the settings of my novel. I wonder how he got that scar? I wonder how much that thresher cost and how hard they had to scrimp to get it? I wonder how her feet feel after walking two miles in those shoes? I wonder how little of that moonshine it took to render him knee-walking drunk?
When I could find no pictures, I wondered about that too. My protagonist, Annie, endured perinatal and postpartum psychosis at a time when stigma and injustice about maternal mental health prevailed. I wonder what happened to family photos from her childhood, from three marriages, from a lifetime? I wonder who might have had them, might still have them, or who might have destroyed them? My wondering shaped the way I drew Annie’s character as she navigated the challenges of her life in the face of her taboo illness.
In the writing of a historical novel, curiosity is a necessary as air, and the long-ago lesson of “I wonder” became my one of the sharpest tools in my writer’s kit.
In a grueling scene midway through the book, Annie’s husband Adam tussles with the many definitions of “wonder” following a confrontation with law enforcement and social services officials that ends with a deputy’s feeble remark, “You must wonder why.” He replies, “I never wonder why,” but later reflects:
. . . a schoolmistress had taught him, never forget how the same word can have many, many different meanings.
Wonder. A sensation of astonishment.
Wonder. A feeling of curiosity.
Wonder. A desire to know.
Wonder. An event not explained by the laws of nature.
Wonder. A sense of doubt.
Adam and Annie both would have been far less compelling characters if I hadn’t constantly asked myself “I wonder” questions about them and listened for the answers with my third ear.
Often the story flowed freely from pencil to paper. When my writer’s mojo got stuck, I would change the scenery—get out of my office, go for a walk—and let my head wander into “I wonder?” I wonder how what the character is doing now going to affect what happens to him/her later. I wonder if there’s an angle I’m not seeing. I wonder how Annie herself would write about this from a distance of thirty years.
Like any potent alchemy, titration is critical and overdose is possible. Sometimes my I-wondering slid into “I wonder if I’m up to this job after all.” Then it was time for Wonder Woman to turn off the wonder-spigot and, as that ultimate comfort song advises, let it be. Let the well of wonder refill, as it always does.
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Originally published on Women Writers, Women’s Books 5/8/2018
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