cuisine

This week has proved rather interesting and humbling. I have made discoveries about Old South cuisine, drawing conclusions about what recipes would have been popular during the time period and in the region I am writing about. Seafood would supercede any other wild game as it was readily available. Not that the possum recipes didn't look appetizing, but I'll save that for another book ... I have collected several recipes which I am not as familiar with and will be trying them out to make sure I know what my characters enjoy on a daily basis. However, I did have to look up suet to get an idea about that "delicacy" - funny how that is just not around anymore, hmmmm.
Unfortunately, several of my characters are ready to go crabbing. I know next to nothing of crabbing and live no where near where crabs like to hang out. I am hoping to locate a blog or short story about the experience (thinking of re-reading parts of Jacob Have I Loved), and then edit the story more fully when I get a chance to go myself. I am pretty sure I will be ridiculous in this endeavor, but it will add depth, realism, and most likely a great deal of humor to my writing.
Of course, if anyone has any ideas on better places for me to find some more helpful research (or opportunities to go crabbing) please contact me at
jacquelineroe@embarqmail.com
Any other comments are welcome, of course.

The Atlantic Hotel

I have found some images that might be interesting to those following this blog, it certainly helps me visualize as I write. As the hotel burned down in the 30's I could not go visit it, but I still look forward to one day walking around Morehead Ciry and getting a feel for its layout and imagine while there what it was like in before the turn of the twentieth century.

Promise-landers

In my research I have come across an interesting group of people who literally moved their houses by boat to the more prosperous Morehead City during the era I am writing about. They called it the Promiseland and became known as the Promise-landers. As one of my characters goes back to what he loves, the sea, I am anxious to see how he connects to this unique group of people. They seemed to set aside prejudice of North versus South, skin color, and gender in favor of "working the water" - if you could "work the water" you had value and worth. This is quite unique in this time period and I can't wait to see how it affects the other characters in the story.

historian interview #1

I just had a fascinating interview with Morehead City historian, Rodney Kemp. Most of what we discussed has challenged my story, and I believe it will make it stronger.
I am trying to keep an open mind while writing, leaving room for flexibilty so that as I discover new things about the events, social status, eating habits, whatever, I can adjust things without desroying the plot. Of course, there might be wonderful veteran writers who would advise me to put aside my creative writing until after I complete my research. But the story is what drives me to continue research. As I write, I want to know more and I think about details I never considered before ... I have written mostly fantasy-based stories until now where I was able to set up my own setting and manipulate events around them. The plot and character development reigned supremely. Here, the character development and plot are more dependent on the setting than I first realized, and it is a challenge that I am, to this point, enjoying. Of course, I haven't hit the - "NO! that can't happen then cause that changes what so-and-so does" moment. I pray I won't unless it makes the story stronger.
I wish I could go spend hours in the historical library, but for now I will do what I can, write as much as possible, and learn as I go. I am so blessed to have been able to contact Mr. Kemp and am deeply indebted to his help!

I began my story a couple of years ago while working on other literary projects. The scene of a man washed ashore discovered by children and a solitary woman haunted me. I felt I had to follow it and so occasionally I would return and write a bit more, but as I was still completing other projects, I did not devote my entire energy to it. After sending off Sunflower for hopeful publication, I knew I needed something to preoccupy my mind and I returned to the shore to find out more. The characters were set and spoke from their own experiences. I was overwhelmed as I found myself often turning out 1,000 words a day. But where were these people from? What time period did they live in? I studied a bit of the Spanish American War, discovering quickly that did not fit. The War of 1812 was not right either, though my research was interesting. Finally, I realized that these people were on the Atlantic East Coast, an established city that somehow was surviving in the South post-Civil War (or post-War Between the States as my southern relatives and church members would say). Up and down the Atlantic Coast I searched and discovered Morehead City, NC which was established just prior to the War. Due to the railroad and opening of the Atlantic Hotel, the economy of the city and its history seemed to fit perfectly in the 1880’s. Then, to my delight, I discovered their very active Historic Society which has already aided my research with contacts.
As this is my first historical fiction novel, I am attempting above all else to let the story tell itself, so that the setting never overwhelms it. I look forward to contacting local historians and interviewing them about the specifics of the city and the time period. Money is tight, of course, but I hope to soon find a way to go myself to the city and see for myself the beautiful location, walk along the shore myself so that I can see and feel many of the things my characters are telling me about. As I journey through this process, I will blog once a week to tell of discoveries, vent about challenges, and so forth. I hope you will journey with me and enjoy yourself.

Here is a piece of what began the whole adventure for me:
Washed Ashore
By JacQueline Vaughn Roe
“Deep calls to deep at the sound of Your waterfalls;
All Your breakers and Your waves have rolled over me.” Psalm 42:7 (NASB)

The tide pulled in and out, washing over his body, but edging out further each time it returned. It seemed like a jealous lover, trying to let go, but returning compulsively, unable to release its prey. Could he feel the cold sweeping over his body, the salt stinging his skin? Could he hear her whispering goodbyes as her foam receded over him?
He lay in a small pool, made by the indention of his body, his clothing soaked, but drying where the sun and wind could touch it. The brown sugar sand cradled him as he slept on, dreaming dreams the sea had given; dreams the sea had taken. He slept as the sun rose, casting a shadow across half of him, as a large boulder sat at his right. Children played nearby; unaware of his existence until a bird found him and they found the bird.
Peter stared silently, which was unusual. His pink mouth, in which a few teeth were missing, lay slightly open. He typically had a great deal to say, and more to do, and so stillness and silence was quite foreign to him. He stood motionless, his dark blonde hair ruffled by the breeze. His sister, Prudence, had less composure and shrieked appropriately, calling the poor man to the attention of their guardian and protector, Aunt Nadine. She had much experience with Prudence’s fancies, but she also knew to come quickly and evaluate for herself before dismissing any particular incident as exaggeration. The dark man lying on their beach was no exaggeration, and certainly caused Nadine no small amount of worry. She sent the children home quickly so that she might ascertain his health, but quickly discovered to her relief that he was well, only in need of reviving, something she knew not how to do, despite her late mother’s many fainting fits.
Once assured that he was breathing properly, she found herself staring at his dark lashes curling against his olive-toned skin. His lips were thick, but nearly blended in with the color of his face. He might look boyish with his dark hair thick and curling, but for his weathered skin and the bristle that covered the lower half of his face.
He lay on his back, his dirty shirt ripped over his chest, but Nadine took comfort in watching his chest rise and fall. She knew she could not simply leave him here, as a good Christian woman, she must help him to safety, but she did not want to get so close, did not wish to get entangled in the mystery she felt instinctively envelop him. This was not just a stray seaman; he was not from these parts. One hundred or more questions attempted to break through her reverie as she allowed herself one more moment to stare, but then she stopped herself and knelt down to brush her face with her hand, stating simply, “Sir, may I help you? You’re on my shore.”