Well, I’ve joined an on-line historical fiction writers critique group- wow, is that a mouthful – and what a watershed moment for this old gal. Chapter One of “The Guardian” has been critiqued by 7 people! And what wonderful, insightful things they’ve had to say. It’s a slow process to re-write, but one I’ve been digging into with gusto.
Which brings me back to the odd name for this post.
I was in Burlington on Saturday, searching for my great-great grandmother’s marker and what a revelation I had.
I knew from recent research that the Irish and French did not mix in Burlington (a driving factor for the plot of my book). Even the Irish and French Catholics did not share the same church. This fact was driven home when I stood on a small road separating a very large cemetery.
On my left were the Irish… the Mulligans and Fitzpatricks, Nolans and O’Sullivans. We saw maybe two French names…
…and some very spectacular Celtic crosses.
On the right side, was the French. Pepins and Desotells, Beaupres and Boivin. I saw one Irish name, but didn’t find her, my Elizabeth. I know she’s there, buried alongside her husband, Peter and daughter, Hattie, so I’ll keep searching.
It’s poignant, I think, and very telling that even in death, these two cultures retained their separate identities.
A simple road separates them…
It might as well be an ocean.