I’ve been asked many times about where I came up with the idea for my novel, “The Cowgirl Chronicles.”
I’ve always been fascinated by the unknown women (and there are many) who thrived in the west. They lived happily, outside the societal norms placed upon them by “polite” society. We know about Annie Oakley, Big Nose Kate, Calamity Jane…but what about all the other women who were strong, capable, and lived unconventional lives?
According to Hollywood, women were helpless, hapless, creatures, not ever to be smarter than men. They were unable to survive without a good looking, testosterone driven Randolph Scott, Federal Marshall gun slinger John Wayne, or stoic George Montgomery, always arriving at the last minute to save his woman from bad situations.
I don’t believe Hollywood’s take on women for a second!
I remember all the westerns I have watched through the years, and almost every single woman is typecast as a side piece, an afterthought. She always waits for “her” man, or if she’s a “good” wife, she knows her husband is in the brothel, drinking and socializing with other women before coming home, and she meets him at the door, hot supper on the table.
This is absolute Hollywood drivel! I don’t know any woman stupid enough to put up with what the women in the movies I’ve seen endure. To be concise, I’d kick these men to the curb faster than a .45 bullet on its way to an intended target.
My mind lives in the “What If?”
What if cowgirls were just as capable as cowboys at working cows, being proficient with short and long guns, or standing their ground in the saloon on payday Friday after a hard week spent working cows and horses? Having a rough day in the saddle wasn’t just the onus of men, was it?
That’s the west I dream and write about.
Whatever gift I have comes when I sleep. My creativity tumbles forth, like the Colorado River, raging after a huge deluge of rain, throwing huge boulders of ideas downstream like tiny twigs on their path to becoming pieces of sand.
That sand ingrains itself in my mind.
Every character, every event that occurs in The Cowgirl Chronicles is my sand. I don’t question this. That sand needs to be helped on its journey to the ocean by placing it on paper. Only then does it continue its path.
Anyone who knows me should not be surprised that they end up in my writing. People are like colorful, insistent blue jays. They demand attention. They sit in the Douglas fir branches of my thoughts, waiting. Once I’ve acknowledged them on paper, they flit to the next tree, squawking their thanks for being remembered.
Writing about the wonderful people I know allows me to honor what they bring to my life. They are alive, vibrant on the written page, just like they present themselves to me in life.
Writing about the people I’ve witnessed hurting others also makes it to the written page. How could they not? It’s simple frontier justice that I serve, by calling them out and making them accountable for their actions.
This is important, because to me, every experience I have, every person I meet, has made some kind of impression on me. As a writer, the opportunities to create, using the vibrancy in my life, is a gift that I can’t turn a blind eye to.
As writers, we don’t have to reinvent the writing wheel to create characters and situations. The wheel is on the trail, waiting to be found if we open our minds.
Believe me, it’s there. You haven’t seen it? Look again. It’s over there! It’s in the thick, tall, dewy clumps of buffalo grass, waiting for us if we can open our minds to the prospect of finding it.
Once the spokes are oiled and the wood refurbished, it is as good as new and ready to be used.
The wagon wheel I find in the grass every morning, while drinking my coffee, has been refurbished and is ready for its journey.
It rolls along just fine.
