So I wrote this whole post about the pull of the past but I lost it somehow.
Anyway, I was musing as usual about how I feel the pull of the past. I am nearly done with my first book project – the short stories – which I think are coming along nicely. I don’t think I am this great literary but I love to tell the stories… hopefully some people will agree with me. But as I near the end, I am feeling a little sad that the mad rush is over… next is the phase of other tedious tasks – editing, graphics and layout, and then at last publishing. I am proud of myself for getting this far but it’s got me thinking about my next project.
Lately, I have been fantasizing about writing a historical romance. There is something about being able to place myself in the time of two lovers who wished their story could be told that is quite appealing to me. And it sounds romantic doesn’t it, to write about 11th century Malindi and maybe two young lovers indulging in a forbidden affair. But of course, I worry about the authenticity of the writing – will I be true to how love was conducted in the time… how did they love? How did they woo? How did they express their longing for freedom to be who they are and to celebrate who they are?
My fantasy tells me that I would enjoy immersing myself in the time and the culture. Learning little known facts, revealing them slowly, and savoring the outcome. I can nearly see it. Sneaking love notes on a wall – tucked into some nook. Moving quickly past each other so that no one can fault them for familiarity and knowing. Solitude and longing. And maybe I could salvage a little of what’s lost about the Swahili coast and the living that was to be had there.
I wonder if it is bad luck to think this long about a story — but I will write it. And I am hoping some two lovers, across time, will reach me and tell me how to tell their story.