Women’s fiction author Kristine Jensen is chatting with me today about her new historical novel, Wednesday Club: A Novel.
Bio:
Kristine Jensen is a lifelong writer whose work has spanned scripts, screenplays, documentaries, and storytelling for brands and organizations. She has written hundreds of marketing scripts across industries ranging from technology to healthcare and education. Her scripts have earned multiple honors, including three Telly Awards and honors from the Columbus Film/Video Festival, the Houston International Film Festival, and the New York Film Festival.
Raised on a farm in South Dakota, Kristine drew inspiration for her debut novel, Wednesday Club, from the handwritten minutes of her grandmother’s real-life women’s club, which met faithfully for over sixty years. She now lives in Oregon, where she writes fiction that celebrates women’s inner lives, unlikely friendships, and the quiet power of small towns. Learn more about the real Wednesday Club at www.wednesday-club.com.
Welcome Kristine. Please tell us about your current release.
A heartfelt coming-of-age novel set in 1963 South Dakota, Wednesday Club is a work of historical and women’s fiction that explores inter-generational friendship and the power of finding home where you least expect it.
Ivy Hanson is pretty sure her life is over. At sixteen, she’s been dumped at her grandparents’ South Dakota farm while her mother chases Hollywood dreams. Stuck with a critical grandfather and a rural life she doesn’t understand, Ivy is isolated, friendless, and desperate to escape.
Then, her grandmother ropes her into the Wednesday Club, a group of six women who gather once a month to swap gossip, tackle community projects, and make sense of the turbulent world of 1963. Each of these women carries her own struggles, including Tillie, the aspiring artist stretched thin by motherhood; quirky Etola, desperate to find a husband; and Hattie, whose past holds painful secrets.
Over the months, Ivy navigates harsh realities—romantic disappointment, small-town life, and a terrifying experience with a horse—and through it all, the Wednesday Club women offer her something unexpected: a sense of home she’s never known. But when Ivy stumbles upon a shocking family secret, it threatens everything.
Told with humor and heart, here is proof that every woman needs a Wednesday Club.
What inspired you to write this book?
After my grandmother passed away, we found a box of keepsakes from her Wednesday Club: photos, club minutes, and club programs from 1927 to 1995. They captured the story of a group of rural women who met once a month and conducted their meetings according to strict parliamentary procedure. The club was more than just a social club — it was a way to learn about current affairs and find opportunities to help their community. I was especially intrigued by the idea of women’s friendships spanning generations. The minutes from the real Wednesday Club sparked the idea for a novel about what might happen if city girl Ivy is dumped on a farm — and how her grandmother’s Wednesday Club might help her to find a sense of home.
Excerpt from Wednesday Club:
AUGUST 1963
Ivy
“My life is over, goddammit!”
There was power in saying that forbidden swear word. A way to poke at her mother, even if it was only in her head. You don’t have all the power over me. But the truth of the situation was, at that moment, her mother did.
Ivy leaned back and let the hot wind whip and tangle her hair, not caring if she ever got a comb through it again. Out the open window, the landscape blurred — row after row of corn in long rectangular fields, edged by sagging telephone wires. Ahead, the endless black ribbon of the highway melted into a watery blue. It was isolated here. Quiet. For a minute she closed her eyes and pretended she was hearing the dull roar of the city bus as it took her across town. But when she opened her eyes, there were none of her neighborhood’s crowded streets and brick buildings. Just the dull roar of her mother’s worn Chevy convertible. And more corn.
Ivy tested the word under her breath. “Goddammit.” Then, a little louder. “Goddammit.” She turned her head out the window and said the words in a normal voice. “Goddamn it, my life is over.” Her mother, Vonda Marie, didn’t respond; she just stared at the blacktop ahead and pressed the accelerator hard. Caught up in her own world, as usual. After a minute, Vonda Marie checked her reflection and smiled into the rearview mirror. The mirror reflected the things people always mentioned to Ivy when they described how beautiful her mother was: her freshly-Clairoled platinum curls held back by a red triangle scarf, those startlingly deep blue eyes, and perfectly straight teeth. Ivy looked at herself in the side mirror and stretched her lips to force a smile, exposing her slightly overlapping eye tooth. Crooked. No one ever told Ivy she looked like her mother.
She pulled a small blue notebook and pencil from the canvas book bag at her feet, making sure the envelope was still securely taped to the back cover. She began to write, crooking her left arm across the book to hide her words and keep the pages from flying.
At least in her diary she could write everything she couldn’t say out loud. Like what a stupid idea this was. How she couldn’t wait to have a good laugh with Val when they came back to Omaha, her mother’s tail between her legs. What terrible timing to be leaving Brad just when things…
Ivy’s mother snapped her fingers in front of Ivy’s face.
“Ivy! Did you hear me, sweetie? Can you find my cigarettes? They must have slipped off the seat.”
Her mother pushed in the dashboard lighter. Bad enough the way the smoke blew straight back into Ivy’s face, but how she hated being at her mother’s beck and call. Ivy retrieved the pack of Pall Malls from the floorboard and slapped it into her mother’s open hand. Her mother took her foot off the gas and leaned forward out of the convertible’s wind, veering into the oncoming lane. Ivy grabbed the wheel and steered while her mother lit the cigarette. After three-and-a-half long hours in the car, Ivy knew the routine.
Her mother glanced at her and said, “I don’t know why you’re pouting so much. I’ve told you that as soon I get settled with a studio contract, I’ll bring you right down to California. You’re gonna love it there. Sandy beaches, big pink grapefruit that grow right in your front yard. Parties with all sorts of movie stars.” She winked at Ivy. “Of course, you’ll have to pretend to be my sister.”
“Right, Mother.” Ivy stared off into the distance. More rows of green, sometimes dotted with a red barn, white two-story house, and a tall metal-topped bin her mother had said were silos for holding corn and grains. She considered opening the car door and jumping out at the next stop sign, but how long would she have to walk before another car came along?
“Besides, it’ll be good for you to be around your grandparents for a while. They haven’t seen you since you were just a little girl. Your grandma is so excited.”
“Well, that makes one of us.” That should get her mother’s attention.
Her mother squinted at Ivy through her heavily mascaraed and eye-shadowed eyes. “That’s no way to talk.”
“I wouldn’t mind so much if they lived somewhere fun. But a farm — in the middle of Nowheresville, South Dakota!”
“It’s not that bad.” Vonda Marie forcefully exhaled a stream of smoke.
“Well, you never wanted to go back there. I’ve heard you say it a million times.”
“That was different. I grew up there. Besides, you won’t be there that long. Just until I get settled, see where this Pearl Soap contest takes me. Maybe a month or two at the most.”
“That’s forever in a place like this.” Ivy stared out at the endless fields on either side of the blacktop road. The air smelled like dirt. “I don’t see why you didn’t let me stay with Val’s family.”
“We’ve been over this, Ivy. Val’s father might be perfectly nice, but I don’t trust that mother of hers. I can tell she doesn’t like me at all.” She glanced at herself in the mirror. “Besides, I’m never going back to Omaha. Too many bad memories of bad jobs and bad men.”
Yeah, lots of both, Ivy thought.
“Now be a good sport and let me have my big break. You’ll see. It’ll be good for both of us.” She turned on the radio and tuned the dial until she found a station with less static, then turned it up extra loud to hear Lesley Gore’s It’s My Party.
Ivy slunk down and leaned back against the hot vinyl seat, tipping her head to watch a lone hawk soar across the immense blue sky. She was right, her life was over. Goddammit.
What exciting project are you working on next?
I’m just starting to working on a sequel to Wednesday Club – set in 1969.
When did you first consider yourself a writer?
I began my career writing documentaries and marketing videos, so I suppose I felt like a real writer when I received my first paycheck. Of course, writing a novel is a whole different ball game! Perhaps I considered myself a fiction writer when I saw my first proof copy of this novel and saw the story in a book form for the first time. That was a very surreal experience.
Do you write full-time? If so, what’s your workday like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find time to write?
I currently work full-time as a copywriter for a high tech company in California. I wrote my novel in the early morning hours before my workday began and during occasional long weekend trips to the coast where I could really make progress by writing for 3 days straight. It still took me over 5 years.
What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?
I like to burn a candle while I’m writing. I’m not sure why – maybe because it’s comforting and I can track my progress by seeing how far the candle has burned down.
As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?
Because I loved animals so much, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian. Once I had a more realistic view of the actual work of vets, I realized I wasn’t cut out for that. Plus, I have no real aptitude for science or math. I probably never would have passed vet school!
Anything additional you want to share with the readers?
While I was writing the novel, I think I was oblivious to how much courage it would take to publish it. When it was time to click the “publish” button I was terrified. I had to close my eyes, click, and leave the room. I think it took me awhile to catch my breath.