Rosa Sophia's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
"Help! I've fallen (into 1875) and I can't get up!"
It's a good thing I started doing the research for my NaNoWriMo project way ahead of time. I am writing a Historical Novel, which is something I have always wanted to do but never quite had the patience for. I spent the entire afternoon the other day in the library, researching this particular area in our Florida Room. I have a stack of books to go through on the history of Riviera Beach, Dade County and the Palm Beaches.
As I wade through all this history, I keep thinking of more things that I need to narrow down in order to increase believability and add depth to my characters. I need to know what they wore, what they ate, how they traveled, what life was like, and most of all.... What was a common reason for death in the year 1875 among Scotch-Irish immigrants?
My main character's father dies when she is sixteen, leaving her alone in the world. She is shuffled off to Florida to stay with a close friend of her father's, a very rich man. How does my character deal with the sexual and physical abuse that was inflicted upon her as a child, by her own father? How does she adjust to life in Dade County?
I know the plot lines, but in order to make it believable, I have to know the 1800s inside and out. Talk about a huge undertaking.
As I wade through all this history, I keep thinking of more things that I need to narrow down in order to increase believability and add depth to my characters. I need to know what they wore, what they ate, how they traveled, what life was like, and most of all.... What was a common reason for death in the year 1875 among Scotch-Irish immigrants?
My main character's father dies when she is sixteen, leaving her alone in the world. She is shuffled off to Florida to stay with a close friend of her father's, a very rich man. How does my character deal with the sexual and physical abuse that was inflicted upon her as a child, by her own father? How does she adjust to life in Dade County?
I know the plot lines, but in order to make it believable, I have to know the 1800s inside and out. Talk about a huge undertaking.
Novel Research: Long Hair and an Old Indian
My historical novel is taking shape, slowly but surely. The first I have ever written, a journey into the 1800s, the Florida frontier. I don't know the title yet, but I have much of the background information fleshed out.
The hard part is creating my Seminole character, a native of Florida during the years when American Indians were being forced from their homelands, tortured and killed.
I am very fortunate to have some very helpful resources. One of them is an old Indian whom I met through my library. He calls me Long Hair... American Indians are named according to their attributes. Although I am not an American Indian, the name fits. My hair falls just below my knees. Another friend of mine suggested that I use that to my advantage; apparently, people expect writers to be eccentric.
I felt as though I was going to cry in the old Indian's house; so much good energy, so many good spirits. I pick up on that kind of stuff right away. I felt like a little kid, asking all kinds of questions.
"Why can't you just use your Indian name? Why do you have to use a 'white name'?"
To which he replied: "If Running Elk or Sitting Bear were ordering pizza, don't you think someone would say 'come on, what's your REAL name?'"
I was raised with Native American beliefs, but having a resource like this has opened my eyes.
I have never celebrated Thanksgiving, but I don't think I will ever go to another Thanksgiving dinner ever again. I don't think I can.
"And while I stood there
I saw more than I can tell,
and I understood more than I saw;
for I was seeing in a sacred manner
the shapes of things in the spirit,
and the shape of all shapes as they must
live together like one being."
Black Elk, Black Elk Speaks
The hard part is creating my Seminole character, a native of Florida during the years when American Indians were being forced from their homelands, tortured and killed.
I am very fortunate to have some very helpful resources. One of them is an old Indian whom I met through my library. He calls me Long Hair... American Indians are named according to their attributes. Although I am not an American Indian, the name fits. My hair falls just below my knees. Another friend of mine suggested that I use that to my advantage; apparently, people expect writers to be eccentric.
I felt as though I was going to cry in the old Indian's house; so much good energy, so many good spirits. I pick up on that kind of stuff right away. I felt like a little kid, asking all kinds of questions.
"Why can't you just use your Indian name? Why do you have to use a 'white name'?"
To which he replied: "If Running Elk or Sitting Bear were ordering pizza, don't you think someone would say 'come on, what's your REAL name?'"
I was raised with Native American beliefs, but having a resource like this has opened my eyes.
I have never celebrated Thanksgiving, but I don't think I will ever go to another Thanksgiving dinner ever again. I don't think I can.
"And while I stood there
I saw more than I can tell,
and I understood more than I saw;
for I was seeing in a sacred manner
the shapes of things in the spirit,
and the shape of all shapes as they must
live together like one being."
Black Elk, Black Elk Speaks
Who's that near my bedside?
The hour is late. The scent of sage lingers on the air. After poring through books, getting to know these long-dead wise-men, I feel closer to the earth.
I open my eyes in the dark. Something is watching. Who's that near my bedside?
A hint of feathers, long hair. His hands are clasped. His face is leathery from the sun, many wrinkles on his skin reflect his many experiences. I am visited by a good spirit.
And the culmination of all my actions comes down to this--
I have journeyed to a foreign land and peeked backward in time, and I am meant to write these stories.
For him.
For the good spirit standing near my bedside. For all good spirits of the past.
"What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the winter time. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset... There is no death. Only change of worlds... The earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself." -- Native American Philosophers
(Cross-posted to my Xanga blog, lily-scarlet.xanga.com)
I open my eyes in the dark. Something is watching. Who's that near my bedside?
A hint of feathers, long hair. His hands are clasped. His face is leathery from the sun, many wrinkles on his skin reflect his many experiences. I am visited by a good spirit.
And the culmination of all my actions comes down to this--
I have journeyed to a foreign land and peeked backward in time, and I am meant to write these stories.
For him.
For the good spirit standing near my bedside. For all good spirits of the past.
"What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the winter time. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset... There is no death. Only change of worlds... The earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself." -- Native American Philosophers
(Cross-posted to my Xanga blog, lily-scarlet.xanga.com)
