A researcher's rest journal: Some writing done!
Hi there,
Thanks for stopping by! It just rained a bunch last night so the air smells fresher, cooler. Makes a person feel more awake, you know? Non-lethargic. My mom just finished prepping dinner, my granddad’s waiting for his barber (the neighbor) to show up, and my dad’s taking a much-needed nap. I hope wherever you are reading this, the day is relaxing and if it’s not, maybe it can wind its way there in time. Maybe a book or warm drink is in order. Welcome to my researcher’s rest journal.
For this past week, I tried getting some writing done. Just drafted a small scene. Here, have a snippet.
March 2nd, 1863
“Toleda,” Her father scooped up a fistful of snow, piled it onto a heap, and started patting the base gently. “Did I ever bring you to sea? Do you remember?”
She shook her head, pushing two small mounds of snow together. Her hands should be stiff and numb, her pretty brown skin cracking against the harsh white frost, but somehow they felt alright. Around them spread miles of powdered dunes and icy pines. Who knew where the sea was?
“It’s my fault,” Toleda’s father said gloomily. “Before your Mama passed, she told me not to take you, said you were too young. Now look at me,” He took off his sailor’s cap and shook snow off it. His handlebar mustache glinted silver in places, both from age and ice. “Too old to sail.”
“Papa, don’t blame yourself, now,” Toleda said wearily. She patted down their latest mound, feeling here and brushing there, sharpening out corners. “Mama told me the trip was rougher than a wagon going over rocks and roots.”
Papa laughed, a warm, rich sound. “Twelve years I was surgeon aboard the Bóveda del Mar, and believe me, no crewmate ever cussed with the fire your Mama had on choppy waters. Lord God,” He did the sign of the cross, a slim gold band barely visible on his jet black hand in the motion. “I thought I knew living before her.”
Mama’s coat felt heavier around Toleda’s shoulders. This kind of talk reminded her of Bright Jim, who moved next door when his cousins bought him and his Ma, then escaped up north from Georgia. Who loved books and forts and maps like her. Whose voice was made for song by God Himself, even his old masters said so. Who got himself absorbed amidst the Union rank and file before she got a chance to hold him, dance with him, kiss him.
She shook Bright Jim from her head and blinked at her work.
Story’s supposed to be about this young girl during the American Civil War whose father was a free black sailor who had met her mother on a voyage to Toledo, Spain, before the two sailed back to the United States. By the end of the story, here’s hoping I can send this character, Toleda, back there, away from the Civil War. As well as figure out the road in between beginning and ending.
How did she come about? Hmm, I’m not sure, really. She loves forts and books, as do I. She’s made to study the relationship between free black people and escaped slaves, as I have an interest in that. Maybe I just needed somewhere for that to go.
Meanwhile, I’m just glad to have written at all. God knows time to write is nothing to be taken advantage of. Let’s see if I can polish up this draft!
Journal question: What was the last thing you guys have written?
See you again next week,
Ian Tan, intern
History Through Fiction
