Ocracoke Island
After I published my first novel as an indie author, I couldn’t wait to get the next one out. It was such a joy to finally share the characters (who feel very real to me) with others. I had four other complete novels written and ready to move into the publishing process. But still, I had the itch to write something new. I couldn’t shake it—as if someone was whispering, “Now’s the time. Write the next one.” The previous year, I had begun outlining a locked-room mystery, but that process had taken a backseat while I focused on publishing Fate Falls Hard. There is a lot to learn about self-publishing, and at first, it felt daunting. Now that I’ve published two novels, I can say with confidence: publishing is not my favorite part of the process. I’d much rather be writing—or planning to write, or editing, or even rewriting. As soon as the publishing tasks for Fate Falls Hard were wrapped up, I pulled out my outline and dove back into planning Perishing Hill. While I was publishing, plotting, and planning, my husband was doing a bit of planning himself—our road trip up the East Coast, on the way to our youngest son’s wedding. We had several stops between West Palm Beach and Knoxville, each one a new place we’d never been. But it was Ocracoke Island that held the real adventure. Talk about a trek—Ocracoke isn’t along any well-worn path. But it’s absolutely worth the journey.
We took the ferry from the Cedar Island terminal to the Swan Quarter terminal, and later left the island from the Hatteras Ferry Terminal to return to the mainland. The ferry ride from Cedar Island to Ocracoke is about two hours and fifteen minutes. We arrived mid-morning to find the island bustling with activity. Locals were prepping for an incoming storm—boarding up windows, securing property, and bracing for what was coming. The Swan Quarter terminal drops you right at the visitor center, which also serves as a small museum featuring exhibits on the island’s history and some of its more notorious guests, including Blackbeard. Tourists were going about their vacation business while the locals worked through the chaos of storm prep in the middle of the tourist season. Golf carts zipped along the main road, making stops at the marina, the kite shop, the ice cream stand, and the local bookstore. We had lunch at a charming spot called Dajio. (Not the Red Lion Pub—that one lives only in my imagination.) The food was wonderful, and our waiter shared all kinds of interesting tidbits about island life.
Fully nourished, we made our way to the lighthouse and later took a short hike along a trail just off NC 12. From there, we headed to the Hatteras Ferry Terminal to catch the seventy-minute ride back.
Before we left, though, we took one final drive through the residential neighborhoods. It was here, among the weathered porches and coastal cottages, that Dune Dweller came to life. Inspiration struck me in those quiet streets, and I knew I had found the heart of the story.
The moment Perishing Hill truly began to take shape.