Stories All Around Us.

 by Thomas Kies

I was coming up blank for this week’s Type M for Murder blog, so I did what I usually do when I’m mentally blocked, I went for a walk.  We live on an island here on the coast of North Carolina and no matter which direction I take, it’s beautiful.

Fate took me in the direction of the marina, just a few minutes away where there are picnic tables and benches that overlook the boats in their berths, the canal, and the entrance to Bogue Banks Sound.  But before I got there, I was hailed by one of our neighbors who was sitting outside her house enjoying the perfect weather.

We chatted, as neighbors will do, and she told me about her role in creating a “History Trail” throughout our little municipality.  One of the stories she told me was about a place up the beach that used to be the location of the Iron Steamer Pier. “Do you know that story?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

I did not.

The Iron Steamer Pier was named for the SS Pevensey, an iron hulled, sidewheel steamer with a single deck and two masts and was schooner rigged.  It was built for speed and was used as a blockade runner for the Confederates during the Civil War.  The Pevensey had successfully run through the Union blockade near Wilmington and Cape Fear four times before their fateful last journey.

On June 9, 1864, they were carrying cargo for the Confederate army that consisted of arms, blankets, shoes, cloth, clothing, lead, and bacon. As before, they had left Bermuda with their cargo and were headed for Fort Caswell that guarded the port of Wilmington.  However, on this voyage, they found themselves too far north, off course and, unbeknownst to them, heading into Union waters.  

They stumbled across the path of the Union supply ship, the New Berne that began firing cannon shots at the Pevensey.  Still thinking they were close to Wilmington and Confederate territory; they aimed their bow directly for land…our little island. They ran aground about a hundred yards offshore, and immediately took to their lifeboats, leaving one sailor aboard their ship.

While his shipmates rowed for shore, and what they thought was safety, the last man aboard was given the task to blow up the ship and its cargo to keep it out of Union hands.  He rigged the boiler to explode, and it rendered the ship unrepairable.  He managed to survive and was placed under arrest by the Union sailors. 

The thirty-five-member crew who had escaped landed on Bogue Banks Island and thought they were safe. The crew was approached by a group on horseback who asked them why they’d blown up their ship.  “To keep it away from the damned Yankees!” they replied.  “How far are we from Fort Caswell?”

“Well, we ARE the damned Yankees.” And then they were promptly arrested and taken to the Union outpost at Fort Macon.

Is the dialogue accurate? I kind of made it up, but I write fiction, so sue me.

The Iron Steamer Pier, which was known for its fishing, was swept away by a hurricane some time ago and the wreckage of the Pevensey is still out there, still about a hundred yards offshore.  Sometimes, at low tide, you can still see some of what’s left of the paddlewheels.  

This part of the East Coast where we live has been called the Graveyard of the Atlantic.  The waters here are treacherous, the currents are strong, and sandbars seem to move at will rendering charts useless.  And of course, we’re a hurricane speedbump here so the weather adds another bit of spice.  Throw in pirates, scoundrels, and warfare and you have enough for a whole slew of historical novels  

My advice as a writer--keep your eyes and ears at the ready.  There are stories all around us. 

Knowing When to Stop

I love this week's topic. I'd like to share my thoughts about my muse. Unfortunately, I have a looming deadline. I'm trying to write a short story, and my muse is being a pain in the whatever. Not because she is ignoring my plea for inspiration. I have the opposite problem. She has been and is being entirely too helpful.

It started a few weeks ago. I woke up with the title of the story in my head. No idea where it came from. No idea what it meant. I had to go to the Internet to make sure I understood it. That was where the trouble began. My quick search turned up something that made me go "Wow! This is great!" The only problem was I knew nothing about the "this". Muse said, "No problem. Just do a little research."

I did, and then Muse handed me another idea.  A setting that would work. A closed circle of suspects. The sleuth? "Would I let you down?" Muse asked. "Here she is." Except I knew nothing about my sleuth's occupation. Nothing. Nada. I pointed that out to Muse. She said, "No problem. It's a short story. Do a little research."

Okay. I know how to do research. Off to the university library. Books -- even a couple requested from storage. A couple of dissertations. Some articles. Good. This was working. Good to go.

That was when Muse said, "But you know your problem with descriptions. I always work better when you've actually seen what you're trying to describe." That made sense. A road trip on a lovely summer day. Invite friend to come along. Grab camera and go. Come back with photos -- and a couple of more books.

Open small book and make big discovery.

Days passing. Clock ticking. I point this out to Muse. She says, "Just read this. It might be useful. You know I'm always more helpful when you have lots of information." I say, "I have enough information to write a book." Muse says, "Yes, you do. But we'll get to that after we're done with your story. Keep reading."

Last night, I'd had enough. I said, "This is ridiculous. I've got to get some words down on paper." Muse said, "You've been writing the whole thing in your head. You have all the scenes. You have motives and killer." I said, "But I still need to write. Have you looked at the calendar?" Muse said, "Go to bed. We'll talk about it in the morning."

This morning Muse said, "You have to eat lunch anyway. And I know exactly where we should go. Then you'll have all afternoon to write."

Muse and I are getting ready to go out to lunch. Lunch in a diner that I didn't even know existed before I started all that research Muse insisted I do. There are some pictures on the wall that Muse thinks I should see.

After that, I'm going to write because I am running out of time. No more hanging out with Muse. Sit down. Put hands on keyboard and write.