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.
Details the process of writing an historical novel set in Morehead, North Carolina during the latter Victorian era.
1885 map
source of frustration, or getting it right?
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About Me
- JacQueline Vaughn Roe
- As a great lover of literature, I have been writing poetry, sketches, plays, short stories, and novels for the majority of my life. I draw from my own experiences and research, hoping to create places and introduce readers to people they will want to visit again and again. The word inspired is used too frequently, but essence, I long to do what great writers have done for me, inspire.
Excerpt from Washed Ashore
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 Nora. 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 Nora no small amount of worry. She sent the children away quickly so that she might ascertain his health, but soon 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 his olive-toned skin. His lips were thick, but chapped and 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 Nora 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 too 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 his face with her hand, stating simply, "Sir, may I help you? You're on my shore."
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 Nora. 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 Nora no small amount of worry. She sent the children away quickly so that she might ascertain his health, but soon 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 his olive-toned skin. His lips were thick, but chapped and 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 Nora 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 too 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 his face with her hand, stating simply, "Sir, may I help you? You're on my shore."
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