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.”