I haven't mentioned it here because I don't really blog much anymore, but I have started writing a historical novel based on a real person's life. It's going very well, and I'm loving the process. Last week something unusual happened that felt almost like permission from the cosmos to do this.
We took a research trip to Baltimore, which is where my subject was from.My first full day there, I visited the grave of the woman whose life story I'm fictionalizing. It has a high marble slab with carved columns at each corner. Misty rain was falling, and giant crows hopped from gravestone to gravestone cawing. I was weeping. Then I found a violet blooming near her tomb. Decades ago, I wrote a poem that used a violet as a symbol in a way that eerily fits her life.
Not only that, but I've never been able to smell violets. It always disappointed me bitterly as a little girl. The one I picked last week had a powerful scent. After leaving the cemetery, we visited a historic home that had a piece of her furniture on display--a basin for personal hygiene. Later in the gift shop, I found and bought a box of violet-scented powder. When we got back to the inn, I googled her name and the word violet, and I discovered that the flower was associated with her husband's family.
Strange, n'est-ce pas?