Victoria who?

Back in 1872, when Victoria Woodhull became the first woman to run for President of the United States, nobody would have asked that question. Considered a visionary by some, a “she-devil” by others, Victoria had acquired quite a reputation by the time she was nominated by the Equal Rights Party. She’d been born poor in rural Ohio, the daughter of a con artist and a fanatic spiritualist, and she lived exactly the sort of peripatetic life those beginnings imply. Social activist, stockbroker, newspaper editor, suffragette, spiritualist (many would add prostitute, con artist, and fraud), Victoria got around.

Victoria Woodhull

It would take more than one blog post to do justice to Victoria and her vivid existence. Her relevance to me, however, is more easily defined: my novel, Newport, was inspired by an incident in her life that took place during her spiritualist phase.

Victoria and her younger sister Tennessee had spent much of their childhoods traveling in the Claflin family medicine show, promoted by their father as fortune-tellers and psychic healers. Victoria grew into adulthood claiming an ability to communicate with the dead. This communication grew particularly lucrative in 1866 when, at the insistence of her “spirit guide (the Greek statesman Demosthenes),” Victoria relocated to New York City to join her sister, who was already there. It was in New York that Victoria and Tennessee caught the biggest fish of their spiritualist careers: Cornelius Vanderbilt, one of the richest men in the country.

Cornelius Vanderbilt

The sisters met Commodore Vanderbilt at just the right time. Still mourning the loss of his wife, Vanderbilt was between spiritualists. His old one had made so much money getting rid of the two spirits the old man feared were haunting him that she could retire to Vermont, leaving the path free and clear for a new medium. Victoria and Tennie began hosting seances to ease Vanderbilt’s pains, both psychic and physical. Victoria channeled not only messages from Vanderbilt’s other-world mother and children, but stock tips from the great beyond. (Never mind that “the great beyond” was probably her friend Josie Mansfield, who was the mistress of one of Vanderbilt’s business rivals.) The tips worked so well that when Vanderbilt was asked about his stock market success, he replied, “Do as I do, consult the spirits.”

In the long run, the arrangement proved fortuitous for all parties involved. The sisters got the financial backing they needed to open the first female-run brokerage on Wall Street; Cornelius’s broken heart (and many other ailments) were soothed not only by Victoria’s seances, but by Tennie, with whom he had an affair.

Reading about this a few years ago made me think. At what point do people who grieve become so desperate that they’ll believe anything? What besides greed motivates the medium? Or …what if the medium is legit, and the messages delivered from “beyond” are real? Once the questions began flowing, characters, setting, and plot fell into place, and Newport was up and running.

Of course, Newport has many other plot points. But those who have read the book will recognize how this chapter from Victoria’s life impacted the story.

Who’s to say what will trigger inspiration for a book? Almost any tidbit or event will do, and once ignited, the writing process takes on a life of its own. Sometimes, the flow of ideas can feel like a gift from another realm. So, maybe I should add “muse” to Victoria Woodhull’s long list of professions.

Rumor had it that after Cornelius Vanderbilt’s death, his heirs paid Victoria and Tennessee to go away. If so, the money came at a good time. Recently divorced and exhausted, Victoria left for England, where she became a lecturer and magazine publisher. She married again and lived fairly respectably until her death in 1927 at the age of 88.

Victoria Woodhull was inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame in 2001. You can read a little more about her here.

Woodhull for President

Madeleine Alena Hebert entered this world on August 22, 1915, in Montpelier, VT. She was number 10 of 13 children born to Alexandre and Alouisia Berube Hebert. She served in the WAC for three years during WWII before receiving an honorable discharge and the rank of sergeant. While stationed in Texas, she met Captain Andrew Melgard. They were married on April 25, 1946. They had no children. Andy died in 1995. Madeline lived alone until dementia made assistance necessary. She died on January 31, 2016.

But this, of course, isn’t really her story. None of us is a jumble of facts and dates. We come with colors and textures. We act and react. We leave an imprint on this world that can’t be measured by statistics alone.

Let’s add more:

Madeline’s parents were French-Canadian immigrants who became farmers in Vermont, but her father was also a granite sculptor with a wonderful singing voice. He died just after the war ended in 1945, which meant that he was gone before Madeline’s marriage in 1946. Madeline outlived all of her siblings except one, and saved death announcements and remembrances of the brothers and sisters who passed before her. Even when dementia robbed her of recent memories, she still could recall ice-skating in the cold Vermont winters of her youth.

While serving in the WAC, Madeline graduated from the army administration school located at the East Texas State Teacher’s College in Commerce, Texas. She saved her dog tags and military Medal of Good Conduct in a special box. She also saved Andy’s Bronze Star (received for meritorious service as an infantry tank destroyer in the European theater during the last eight months of WWII).

Madeline changed the spelling of her name at will. She was born Madeleine Alena, but in recording facts about her family years ago, she referred to herself as “Madlyn.” Her army dog tags list her as “Madeline.” She’s “Madeline” on her marriage license, “Madlyn” in newspaper accounts of her wedding, and “Madelyn” in the wedding announcement mailed to friends and family before she and Andy married in a what her saved documents proclaim a “mixed marriage” (she was Roman Catholic, he was Protestant). But in Andy’s loving letters to her, she is his “Madelyn.”

No statistic can reflect Madeline’s love and self-sacrifice in nursing Andy through his final illness and death. He died on her eightieth birthday.

Madeline worked as an administrative assistant after the war. She gardened. She baked. She was one heck of a sharp bridge player. She loved her godson, the child of her best friend down the street. She baked special cakes for him, always gave him a warm welcome when he knocked on her door, and included him in her prayers. The love and care she poured into the beginning of his life created a bond that allowed him to provide the same for her at the end of her life.

And even these additional facts allow only a glimpse of Madeline Alena Hebert Melgard, who lived for a little over a century on this earth.

In Hamilton, currently on Broadway, Lin-Manuel Miranda writes these lyrics:

You have no control/Who lives/Who dies/Who tells your story.

Madeline left no children to pass along those family tales that begin as quirks, funny events, and even annoyances, yet somehow become our dearest memories. I don’t have the intimate personal knowledge that can only come from a lifetime of living with someone. I am not the best one to tell this story, but because Madeline herself left behind a few newspaper clippings, greeting cards, and notes, I can see what was important to her and try to remember. It isn’t right for a hundred years upon this earth to vanish without a trace.

Tell your story. Tell it in family gatherings, with friends, in writing or recordings. Be proud of it (or make amends until you can be proud of it). Leave more than a trace. And, just as important, listen when others speak of their lives and memories as well. Our collective lives and stories are what keep us human and whole.

Madeline

I have a manuscript box like that. Stashed in a dark part of the basement, it’s filled with stories that, through no fault of their own, just … well … stink. Yeah, I wrote them. At one time, I even thought they were good.

Thank goodness we all get a chance to evolve.

Looking back, my writing has always been character-driven, especially if you consider a character sufficiently developed when he/she can be summed up in a word or two, as in “the sassy one”; “the troubled one”; “the one who surprises even herself.” (My earlier work is more accessible if you like stereotypes.)

You could always tell exactly how my characters were feeling, because the adverbs attached to the dialogue tags told you so. Readers were subjected to a lot of stuff like “she said questioningly,” and “he said evocatively.” If it still wasn’t obvious enough, there were many different ways to “say” things. Characters purred, chirped, and grunted. It was a regular zoo in each chapter. And, to make sure there was no doubt whatsoever, sometimes the dialogue tags were double-barreled, a fun reading experience for everyone: “she whimpered miserably,” “he snarled angrily,” “she commented pertly.” Dialogue tags, meant to be unobtrusive, were prominent enough to become their very own characters.

Plots were linear. Sure, there were stories to tell, but they lacked depth. Sometimes there was no hook, no compelling reason for anyone to want to turn the page to discover what happened next. Basically, I was writing for myself. Self-indulgent? You bet. Awful? Right again. And, yet, those stories still have a special place in my heart. Those characters and I were friends.

There are some manuscripts a writer puts away knowing that they’ll be back. The plot, although in need of editing, is compelling enough to revisit. The characters have something to say. When the time is right, that manuscript will be revisited and edited into something sharp and readable.

The manuscripts in the box downstairs are not those stories. There’s a reason they live deep in the basement, out of sight.

If I remember my Rudolph correctly, the inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys are eventually picked up by Santa and delivered to children who will appreciate them. While nothing quite as heartwarming happens on the Island of Misfit Manuscripts, those early drafts do serve a purpose. Every once in a while, almost by mistake, I wrote a description or phrase back then that was actually good. There was effective use of imagery. There was a character who does not inspire cringing and/or eye-rolls. Like old cars that have outlasted their use, these old manuscripts can be mined for “parts” to use in newer stories.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling frustrated with my current manuscript, I re-read one of my oldies-but-baddies. It never fails to make me feel better.