Maynooth for the HNS Conference

With the bronze in my digital pocket, I couldn’t resist going to Maynooth, Ireland for the Aug. 2026 Historical Novel Society conference. It was less than an hour from Dublin on the bus, and I was tucked into my room in a dormitory suite before I knew it.

The first day I was there, I spent time getting some groceries and a steamer—why did I buy three pairs of linen pants without an iron? I had realized I had only brought continental plug adapters with me, and needed the Irish/UK three-pronger, so had to hunt for one of those as well. No hot water, so day 2 so me (clean but cold) on an excursion to Castletown and an Anglo-Irish stately home. Great conversations on the bus with several people, including a wonderful woman who knew all about the New England African American sculptor Nancy Prophet, as well as the Bennisters of Providence—I hope she’ll write about either or both of them. Another woman with a fantastic hat, and a tour that really brought the 17th-, 18th-, and 19th-century lives of a family into sharp focus.

The conference itself was two days with some great panels—I missed some due to an email that informed me that (after reporting the cold-only water), our suite had a water leak and we had to move. But hot water was our reward.

I particularly loved several speakers. One of the opening addresses, by Prof. Terence Dooley of Maynooth University, examined the life of Hermione, 5th Duchess of Leinster—a truly great opportunity to see how revealing archival papers can be. Laurence O’Bryan provided great tips regarding marketing, and Prof. Laura Morelli, another art historian, had us participate in pairs coming up with stories that potentially might emanate from images. My partner and I pored over one of the Egyptian/Roman encaustic mummy portraits, and if I hadn’t had several novels in the works and plans for others, this would have sent me on my way. Very productive exercise when you have nothing in particular in mind, or just want to stir the creative juices. On the second day, I had the great surprise and delight (ah, when you don’t read the program in advance….) of hearing Margaret George and exchanging a few words with her afterward. She is one of my top three historical novelists—the others being Dorothy Dunnett and James Clavell (not the execrable Whirlwind nor the somewhat better Gai-Jin). She told me that the Autobiography of Henry VIII (a masterpiece) was about to be 40 years old, which I found unbelievable. Do read it if you haven’t! I’m going to snatch up her two books about Nero, which somehow I didn’t know about.

Another highlight was meeting publisher and cover artist Jessica Bell. I took advantage of the open bookings offered by the conference, and met with her for ten minutes, just so I could speak to a cover artist and ask some questions. In order to do that, you had to submit a cover (I suppose for self-published novelists), so I created one with Nano Banana that I was quite happy with. She not only provided a verbal critique, but three pages of notes, which I was particularly surprised and pleased with. She liked it! Her major and justified criticisms were that the font I’d chosen was bland, the type didn’t have a successful hierarchy, and, rather than being white, it could have picked up one of the colors in the image. Still—she liked it! A very nice woman. I also met with two puclishers who also gave notes on the first six pages. They were highly complimentary of my voice and writing, but one initial comment seemed so alien to me, it threw me off—that if readers see a woman’s name on the cover, and first person is the chosen voice, the writer should immediately establish if her narrator is male, because otherwise the reader will assume that from the writer’s sex. I don’t agree with that at all, and will have to pick up some favorites in first-person (such as the jester in Margaret George’s Autobiography. What do you think, readers? Do you make assumptions like that?

All in all, the friendliest, most generous conference I’ve ever attended. Next summer, it will be in Pittsburgh!

Left: My erstwhile cover, which inspires me as I write volume two. Right: Historical novelists Leslie Carroll, Anne Easter Smith, and the fabulous Margaret George!

Futbol and characters

Unlike my Mom, who was a great sports lover, with a basement shrine to then-Phillie Chase Utley and a former one to Bobby Clark, I’ve never been much for team sports. I liked basketball and soccer (mostly because you could see the players and there was such grace in their movements), but was not a faithful fan.

Living in Nigeria, football/soccer was often a topic. Sometimes it was personal—once I stopped at the Bukuru police station to pick up my car, which had been in an accident, and was hustled inside to be grilled about a completely different matter. What did I know about pools betting? Well, nothing. I would see betting boards set up in various places, but they were out of my ken. Apparently it was technically illegal under federal law then (but seen everywhere). The police had decided I was Lebanese (they had apparently created the betting business back in the 1950s and still controlled it). Finally, I suggested he talk to my boss and he released me—but inadvertantly created a great story!

I was an active watcher of the 2010 World Cup—I loved Akon’s creative music video and Shakira’s song and the fact that it was in Africa. The Coke commercial that showed Messi (very young!), Didier Drogba, and (mmm) Thierry Henry was as fun to watch as the matches themselves. But the thrill subsided, and my fandom membership slipped away.

This summer’s World Cup not only reawakened me, but enflamed me. I started asking YouTube so many questions about players that my algorithm began favoring futbol over comedians, K-Pop singers, and other staples of my watching. Now I’m following La Liga and interestedly checking which players were still remaining bachelors despite having multiple children to a single woman (yes, futbol gossip more than stats).

They have such high-profile coverage that one gets a sense of their personalities and how they express their heartbreaks on the world stage. I fell for several, but one emerged as a frontrunner to be transformed into a character in Chronicle of the Palm Vol. III—he’s going to be a charismatic con man who cheats but also befriends my main characters. A trickster, which seems in keeping with his mischievous character—I wonder if you’ll figure out who he is. I’m going to name him Nuno.

One of the many exciting matches that marked World Cup 2026

The Bronze!

I spent much of 2025/26 working with three other historical novelists from the Columbus, OH area. We’d send each other a section of our novels, read, comment, and meet on Zoom to clarify and discuss. I was sharing the first volume of my Chronicle of the Palm trilogy, and they helped me so much with their questions and confusions, helping the polishing process immensely. Many thanks to Marty, David, and Matt, all of whom have written terrific historical novels.

During the process, I decided to submit the beginning of Vol. I, The World Inverted, to the Historical Novel Society’s First Chapters competition for the 11th-16th century category. I was astounded when I was shortlisted, then thrilled to receive not only the bronze award for my era, but thoughtful, lengthy comments from the judges—not at all common!

It has proved to be a real impetus, an encouragement to recontact my agent (whom I suspect may think I didn’t survive COVID [I never got it], since it’s been so long she’s heard from me). Soon!

The Great Western & Northwestern Railway 2016 Railway Adventure

I take Amtrak frequently, chugging to see my sister and brother in the Philadelphia suburbs, and they send me emails from time to time that I usually glide past—but something made me open one I received in Jan. 2026. It advertised their Railpass, usually $500 ($400 for seniors), but for the nation’s birthday they were offering ten legs in 30 days for the celebratory price of $250. I immediately bought it. When mid-March rolled around, I packed a bag, skipped through Chicago, and was on my way West.

Despite a residency in Garden City, ID and two conferences (one in Long Beach, CA, the other in Seattle), I’d never really been West. Texas, yes, and a corner of New Mexico when I was a kid, but no Grand Canyon, glorious Rockies, or mesas with precarious arches and rocks. I took the Zephyr out of Chicago, first stop Denver. My few days there were terrific. I loved the Garden of the Gods and Pike’s Peak, missed the art museum (not closed on Monday like most museums, but sadly on Thursday), but my highlight was Meow Wolf, the biggest of a handful of immersive spaces created by artists. It’s hard to explain. It’s like walking through a computer game with a nominal sci-fi narrative, but it’s the sights that bowl you over. I went back the next day, and when I hit Santa Fe, visited the first of the Meow Wolfs, this one funded and supported by George Martin.

The next break was Glenwood Springs, where I stayed in the hotel Teddy Roosevelt had been (deliciously kept, not ruined by modernization) and luxuriated in the newer of its two hot spring spots. Then off to Salt Lake City. The fascinating Bee Hive State replaced their zebra crossings with honeycomb prints, had a mall right by the temple with an actual creek running through it, and an exceptionally kind group of knowledgeable volunteers at the FamilySearch Library. Reno next (the best kung pao chicken ever, surprisingly in the casino cafe), and to Emeryville with a San Francisco stop. It IS a great city, and if “Grant Avenue” from the movie Flower Drum Song kept running through my head in Chinatown, so be it. Day trip to Muir Woods—packed with visitors but with a pure and wonderful scent, and delicious sourdough bread for breakfast after another exquisite order of kung pao chicken at Z&Y restaurant on 655 Jackson St. Wow! It’s had a Michelin star, but the staff couldn’t have been kinder and more accommodating.

Up the coast on the Starlight Express with stops in Portland (oh, the deliciousness of Powell’s Books in person), where I wanted to move into their replica of a 16th-century Chinese scholar’s home and garden—how serene, right in the city. On to Seattle, then the Cascades train to Vancouver, a new favorite. Did I see orcas, a gray whale, a bald eagle, and sea lions? I certainly did, along with a Catholic Mass whose Chinese congregants bow after the Lord’s Prayer, a flight back to Emeryville, the Starlight Express to Los Angeles. I stayed in Venice Beach, which I thought would be more far more Bohemian than it was, saw Arnold Schwarzenegger ride past on his bicycle, enjoyed the jokes of old movie stars at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and soaked in the fabulous Art Deco train station.

Final legs took me to Albuquerque and Santa Fe (must go back to the latter for a week or more), and, in a tribute to my Dad’s and grandfather’s love of cowboy movies, stopped at Dodge City, KS, and on to Chicago and Cleveland.

Inspiration hourly, from the train passengers to sights in the station and the various city. Be on the lookout for future offers—well worth it.

Charleston Badges

What if an enslaved character in a book had a need to move through their city and earn money while avoiding challenges? What if the means to do so was a concrete object found in a doorway, stolen from a stranger, or counterfeited? In Charleston, SC, a unique system that could have allowed such plans was in place from at least the 1780s (when the Black population dominated the city) until the close of the Civil War in 1865.

Since a large chunk of my novel Tired is set in Charleston, SC, an understanding of how urban slavery worked there is vital. Wealthy and middle-class homes often included enslaved persons who performed domestic tasks—cooking, cleaning, stable services, etc, while plantations harbored a much larger workforce for farming and specialized skills. Movement between townhouses and plantations was frequent. If a new home required skilled masons and carpenters, what were they to do once the home was completed? In the city, many owners hired out those who were not constantly working—a common practice in many US slave-holding states. Sometimes owners pocketed the entire fee, sometimes it was shared with the worker, and occasionally wage earners kept the sum paid. Money secured this way could be saved to purchase freedom.

Hirimg-out badge for a servant, charleston, sc. Photo by Adam jones of a work in the American civil war museum, richmond, va. Creative Commons 2.o

While hiring out was not a rare urban practice, only in Charleston did a system arise whereby temporarily assigned laborers had their freedom of movement marked by a visible copper badge, rather than by papers. These small numbered badges were usually sewn to clothing, and bore an engraved word indicating the task to be undertaken. “Laborer” and “servant” were common designations, but “carpenter,” “mechanic,” “fisher,” “porter,” and “huckster” (later “fruiterer”) constituted more specific categories.

These were moneymakers for the city. New badge editions were issued annually, created by multiple contractors created them. They never bore the bearers’ or owners’ names, just a registered number, and the shape of the badge—rectangular, diamond orientation, circular, octagonal, straight or lunette-clipped corners—regularly shifted in order to ensure payment compliance. Charges not only created city revenue, they responded to white laborers’ complaints that they were being edged out of jobs. If owners had to pay for badges, perhaps the practice of hiring out would decline and more jobs would become available.

Badge from the Smithsonian’s National museum of african american history and culture. public domain. more examples from the charleston museum can be found here.

Fees for the badges varied over time and according to advertised skill. In 1800, a fisherman’s badge cost $1/yr., while a huckster of fruit, vegetables, bread or other goods wore badges with a $6 fee. In 1806, huckster badges cost $15, but by 1813 they were reduced to $5. White counterfeiting of badges for the purpose of evading fees resulted in a fine of $50, while an enslaved person who did so was put in the public stocks, whipped, and placed in the workhouse for up to 20 days. Those who borrowed another’s badge were whipped publically unless their owners paid a $2 exemption. By 1837, some badge prices rose again—fisherman’s badges doubled to $2. By 1848, two badges were required if the bearer worked both north and south of Boundary Street. By 1865, just before slavery and the badge system ended, prices had climbed considerably: mechanic badges cost $35, porter badges were $20, and fruiterers’ markers cost $25.

charleston required free persons of color to produce badges from 1783-89. The Charleston Museum.

For six years in the 18th century, those who were free also had to wear badges “suspended by a string or ribband, and exposed to view on his breast.” Not wearing the badge meant a fine, which—if not paid within 10 days—could mean up to a month’s hard labor at the workhouse. Far fewer of these “free” badges survive, and not all were pierced to allow suspension. While badges worn by the hired-out provided the wearer with a measure of urban freedom and income, for free persons of color they were forcible reminders of the boundary separating them from white citizens, with legal apparatus in place for punishment. Like Jewish badges, belts, or other legislated public markers worn under various caliphates, medieval Christian states, or the Nazis, these were badges of Otherness. Why did the practice of requiring them for free persons cease? That is unclear, but those concerned were still required to pay a capitation tax—a practice that began in 1756, was suspended during the Revolution, and was reinstituted in 1783. By 1789 or 1790, those free persons living in Charleston had an additional city capitation tax to pay, although their “jewelry” was now of their own choice.

For further information on the badges, see Slave Badges and the Slave-Hire System in Charleston, South Carolina, 1783-1865 2004) by Harlan Greene, Harry S. Hutchins, Jr. and Brian E. Hutchins.

Fingerprints

Fingerprints. We leave them everywhere, on almost every surface we touch. Our imprint. “I was here”—conscious or oblivious. They were a cornerstone of modern forensics, long before DNA provided more specific clues. But here they are poignant—evidence not of a criminal, but of a builder, a builder in a hurry to turn out molded forms as quickly as possibly, probably for the task style of slavery well-known in the Carolina Lowlands, whereby a set number of bricks, or baskets of rice, or containers of cabbage, had to be completed per day—with subsequent hours left for an exhausted worker’s toil on his own house or in her own garden. These may have been bricks for a plantation’s jewel of a main house, for the smaller, plain houses of house servants (field workers had wooden homes), or prepped for shipment from a rural brickworks for Charleston homes. Bricks allowed house servants tended to be rejects from grander projects, irregular in size or shape, but long-lasting nonetheless. The museum displays several fingerprinted bricks, as well as two touchable casts. Pressing your fingers into their imprints is surprisingly intimate, even more than a photograph. One of the characters from my novel Tired will be a brickmaker and mason, leaving his fingerprints at the end of a bone-weary day.

Fingerprints

On a cast of a brick at the Charleston Museum

Two of nine surviving

South Carolina’s Boone Hall has nine surviving original brick buildings that stood before the plantation house, abutting its gardens and once housed enslaved house servants. The bulk of the workers lived out of visitors’ sight in wooden cabins screened by trees.