I had a very happy, happy childhood, not an easy one because we had to work hard. My father was a teacher and a farmer and there were 10 children and we all had a lot of work to do. In those days your parents made you work, yet we were still very happy, mostly because we were from a wonderful family. We were a story-telling family and we sort of had our own little community. Imagine-with 10 children we had built-in playmates. We also had a lot of relatives and they were always visiting. They often sat beneath our Chinaberry tree, sharing stories with one another. I developed a good ear for listening. I had a strong father. He had a sense of humor, but was very strict. So we had a very strong male presence in our house. I think the reason for that is because my mother went to my father`s school; he was a teacher and principal. She was one of his students, so my mother was like one of the gang. She had such a hearty laugh. She called my father Mr. Sanders and he called her little endearing pet names. My mother had the huge job keeping us all fed- imagine with 10 of us.
I was No. 8 of 10. As a child on the farm I had my cows to mind, which means I took them out for grazing and fed them honeysuckle so they wouldn`t eat up all the pasture grass. So in the mornings in the summers-if you were too little to work on the farm itself-you grazed the cows and brought them in at 11 o`clock, just before the trains run. During school months my regular duties were to bring the cows a bundle of fodder, hay or corn.
My father was a very innovative man, particularly with sweet potatoes. He started off farming sweet potato plants and we sold the nursery plants. However, we did not have any way to water them, but we did have tanks, so we rigged up an irrigation system. That old irrigation tank still stands today. We not only sold those sweet potato plants, we raised a tremendous amount for ourselves.
We were the largest sweet potato planters in South Carolina. It was around that time that my father went to the principals of the surrounding schools to encourage them to let students work on the farm to earn credit. The students loved it. They would come in by the truckloads.
One of my brothers or sisters always had to rotate for so many hours with a group of students; that way my father got the best from all of us. We were trained to be salespeople. At the end, my father would let his children loose on the fields and whatever we gleaned, it was ours to take home. If we plowed all the fields, we were paid a wage.
I never dreamed of being a writer. All I knew with being the eighth child was that I had to be a talker and a fast talker in order to get a word in edgewise. I compensated by over-talking. I think I over-talked my father because sometimes he would say to me, ”Honey, just write it down.”
If it were just a little complaint, like someone wouldn`t bring in the wood or somebody wouldn`t take out the cows, he could listen to that. If it was too much, he`d say, ”Write it down.”
I remember whenever I wrote a sentence incorrectly, he immediately spotted it. My father authored a book and even wrote several plays for his school. There were always books around our house. Though we lived in a totally segregated society, my father was held in high esteem as a teacher and a farmer.
In the South, farmers have what is called ”common ground.” They come to the aid of one another. For instance, if there was a storm brewing and the farmer next door didn`t have his crops in and was trying to work against the storm, if we were finished, we had to go help him. It didn`t matter if he was white. Our entire lives (were) addressed from a rural farming aspect.
I don`t think anyone thought I could be a writer, but then I didn`t need their acceptance. With all that said I still didn`t get published until this year, which is why in my dedication of ”Clover” I thank my family for their patience and humor.
As a child I never won any writing contest, but I did enter an oratorical competition. I don`t know how that ever happened, because I`ve always spoken with a lisp.
The night of the contest my
The farming aspect of my life is brother went with me. I was on a wellspring for my writing. South stage and when I looked up at my Carolina is so rich. The South is brother I forgot my speech. I was so colorful. It`s just wonderful for petrified, so I just held my head writing. It sort of sets you up for down for a moment and in that creativity. The land is so good and instant I remembered the words quiet. There isn`t a radio around and slowly began to lift my head. or anyone to talk to. You`re so Everyone thought it was a planned close to everything that crawls; moment of drama. Tha audience you can spend many pleasant broke into applause and I won hours studying the ants. It`s first prize.usually during those quiet times that my characters spring to life. I constantly find myself scrambling in the tractor for a piece of paper to write on. Pretty soon I`ll have a bundle of little pieces of paper with bits of a story.
During the winter when we can`t do any farming, I`ll go to Maryland to visit my sister and write. I wasn`t trained for anything other than farming, but I also wanted to work, so I found a part-time job at a hotel, assisting with banquet parties.
While at work I would have little pieces of paper with me and if a thought crossed my mind that interested me I wrote it down. One day by accident I left my pieces of paper on a desk in order to sort it out and write it over on the hotel`s stationery. Someone saw it, read it and came running to me saying, ”Dori, you can write!” I remember saying something like ”Oh, no, it`s just a little story.”
In writing ”Clover” the situation came first, then the 10-year-old girl character. I chose age 10 because 10 was a very happy time for me. I let my imagination soar and ”Clover” was developed. The concept of interracial marriage in the novel is not contrived. Even today it is very common in the South. With a little fiction and imagination, I knew the end of my novel even before I had the middle.
I wish my writing was more disciplined and structured as (is) my farming. My farming life is laid out in sentences. I know what to do if it rains and what to do when it doesn`t. With my writing, when it happens I`m happy. For my second novel I intend to work on being more organized and set aside certain hours to just write.
I was fortunate that I simply didn`t know anything about the publishing world. This gave me the naive confidence in 1986 to call an editor at Algonquin Books and ask many questions. Even though they have a policy of not accepting unsolicited work, I believe my farming piqued their interest, so they invited me to submit my material. I did and it was turned down. This was the piece written before ”Clover.” Anyway they replied with a lovely letter encouraging me to continuing writing.
Just as I had gathered enough courage to begin writing again, I learned that Algonquin was not some little publishing company, but a very prestigious and selective publishing house. I panicked and wrote them a letter telling them that I couldn`t possibly write another book because I was too
intimidated. Would you believe they answered me back and said that they would discount my letter as total nonsense and for me to get on with my writing. That was the moment I learned that editors are indeed human.
I regained my composure, continued with ”Clover” and submitted it in the fall of 1988. Last year I survived an author`s conference in Washington by play-acting. At the time I didn`t consider myself an author since my book had`t been published yet. I wrote a little short story about myself, beginning with ”There was this woman who came from the South . . .” and all evening I pretended that I was she. I walked around smiling and extending my hand.
I met other authors, but all I remember is one section swarming with Nancy Reagan`s security. Her book had just been published.
Now that I`m a published writer, my family and friends are all very proud of me. When I returned to York recently for a book-signing and reading, the community welcomed me in full force. All of my customers were there, each bringing me little fancy jars of pickled watermelon rinds and peach preserves from my farm. We sold out of ”Clover.” The customer`s response (exceeded)
our expectation.
My brother reminds me not to forget that I know how to drive a tractor and that when I get back the corn has to be planted. (Their parents now are deceased.) Overall, the entire reception of ”Clover” has been more than I could ever hoped for. I am just so overwhelmed, I still find myself saying,
”I can`t believe this is happening to me.”
Even so, I`m sure I`ll always be a farmer.
Maybe one day I won`t have to run away from the farm to write during the winter months. I would like to stay and enjoy the bleakness of the winter. For fun and relaxation, I`ll just talk.
