1

Looking Glass

It was dusk in Roatàn. The final songs of birds were quieted by the hum of insects, who
eagerly began their mating calls. As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, the tropical waters of West
Bay acquired an almost glowing quality. Stars began to glimmer at the deepest points of the sky, their
reflections dancing in the waves gently lapping at the shore. Bridget Lurie anxiously made her way to
the tavern that overlooked the sea, eager to be punctual as to not upset her father. It was the second
Friday of the month, the busiest day for the Drunken Lady, as many of the sailors were allowed to
explore the town. She took a hasty breath of the fresh, summer air and adjusted her lace apron over
her cotton gown, still a stark white despite her toiling away nearly five days every week at the tavern.
Although she cameshe came from a laboring family, Bridget’s mother was the epitome of class and
grace, only allowing Bridget to work in her father’s tavern out of absolute necessity. Her mother
would far rather be busying their daughter with courtships, after all.
Bridget dreaded the tavern. It was filled with drunken sailors that would incessantly shower
her in unwelcome compliments and requests. Make no mistake, Bridget was one of the most beautiful
girls in the British outpost. She had bronzed skin and long, golden hair that she kept in a loose bun at
the nape of her neck. Her eyes were as mesmerizing as the greenish-blue water that surrounded the
harbor. While the young sailors of the town found her quite enticing, the older generation looked at
her with disdain.
“She has the eyes of a siren!” They would murmur. It was true, there was an almost ethereal
quality about them. In fact, if you looked long enough, you would almost be able to convince yourself
that you could see a current in the turquoise pools of her eyes. Working in a tavern didn’t ease their
perception of her either, designating her as unweddable, for ladies weren’t meant to work in such a
masculine environment. Bridget was indifferent to their remarks, she would far prefer the life of a
spinster to one imprisoned by marriage. She knew, too, that her father wouldn’t be able to keep the
tavern afloat without her aid.
And so, she made her way up the creaky wooden steps that smelled of tar and sea spray. It was
in the entryway that a new odor greeted her, the stench of tired men and alcohol. Grimacing, she
masterfully evaded the toppled barstools and various spillages to her post, behind the counter where
her most persistent suitors sat eagerly for her shift to begin.
“What a fine girl you are, Brandy.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Bridget sighed,sighed; it was rare for someone to call her by her given
name. Her father being the tavern keeper, Brandy seemed like quite the clever nickname to give to his
daughter, at least to inebriated sailors.
“What a good wife you would be.” added one of the young officers, bewitched by her
appearance.
“Why, you’re nothing but a shaver, boy. Bother yourself with the brothels, you are far too
young for such talk!” the Admiral exclaimed. The men laughed and the boy blushed, downing his
shot of whiskey.
Bridget busied herself with wiping down the countertops, which were riddled with glass stains
and burn marks. She scanned the room, taking into account the potential tasks that would
accumulate over the night. In the far corner, she noticed one of the regulars, Olde Man O’Leary, who
stared longingly out to sea. The people of RoatànRoatán knew very little of his life. He, like many
others in this land, was an outcast from a faraway place. Few dared give him a second look, though
Bridget wasn’t quite sure why. Her interactions with him had been pleasant, albeit sporadic. One may
point to his appearance as the cause for aversion, a ghastly scar traveled from the corner of his mouth
to the temple of his wrinkled face, but Bridget had always assumed it was a result of his days as a
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blacksmith. Her father had grown close to O’Leary, as he, too, felt like an outsider in the military
town. To the vocal dismay of the men at the bar, Bridget made her way over to O’Leary.
“Hello Sir, may I offer you a pint?” Bridget inquired.
“That would be much obliged, Miss Lurie. Though I would prefer wine.” Olde Man O’Leary
replied. “I’m always taken aback at how much you Brits drink. You may have the Irish beat after all.”
Bridget smiled and hurried back to pour the drink, triggering an onslaught of drunken slurs
from the sailors she passed by.
“That will be twopencetwo pence, Sir.” Bridget said, gingerly setting the beverage down on
the table.
“Here are three, young lady.” O’Leary dug around in his pockets for the coins and stacked
them gently ingently in the palm of Bridget’s hand. She curtsied and continued her rounds through
the tavern, wiping up whateverup whatever mess she could manage while keeping distance from the
ever-rowdier crowd.
“Brandy! Fetch another round!” yelled Commodore Wrigley .Wrigley. “A treat for my motley
crew of Englishmen, who’ve made excellent strides in securing the harbor from blasted pirates.” The
tavern roared in celebration.
Bridget hurried to the keg, unleashing the bubbly fountain of hearty liquor. One by one, she
served the crowd. At the end of the line was the young officer, who to Bridget’s discomfort, was still
transfixed on her.
“Brandy-” said the man, his words slurring. “I would like to formally… introduce myself-” he
hiccupedhiccupped.
Clearly this boy got his hands on another man’s whiskey. Bridget thought to herself, smiling
coyly.
“I am Lieutenant Hawthorn, though I do hope you’ll address me as Henry…” At this point the
boy’s cheeks had become inflamed in a deep crimson red, yet he was unrelenting. “I hope this isn’t too
forward… but your eyes… your eyes could steal- could steal- a sailor from the sea.” He finished,
sheepishly.
“That is very kind of you to say, Lieutenant.” Bridget was eager to preserve any remaining
formality between them. He frowned, perplexed by the avoidance of his advances.
Bridget fidgeted, finding the Lieutenant’s fervent starefervent stare excruciating.
“Leave the poor girl alone, boy.” O’Leary barked. “We are all but lonely sailors, castaways.
Keep ‘yer misery to ‘yerself.” The tavern came to a lull, curious eyes wandering over to what was
unfolding. The young officer’s face contorted into embarrassment, resulting in his fellow sailors
howling in amusement.
Bridget took this occasion as a chance to recollect herself, stepping out onto the deck
overlooking the sea, where night had become fully realized. By now, she had found herself in the wee
hours of the night. The candlelightscandle lights that had illuminated Roatàn’sRoatán’s dwellings
before had now been extinguished. The tavern acted as a sort of beacon in the pitch blackness that
engulfed the harbor.
It was only now that Bridget realized her hands had balled into fists, knucklesfists, knuckles
turning white under the tension. Releasing them, she allowed herself to feel the calmness of the
breeze. She began mulling over the events that had just transpired, quietly laughing to herself at the
sheer ridiculousness. She meandered down to the privy a pace away.
Once inside, Bridget struck a match, and was suddenly startled by her reflection in the
looking glass. She studied its ornate shape and the intricate carvings of vines and lilies that bordered
the mirror, still dumbfounded at how her family ever acquired such a beautifully expensive gift, and
why it now was exiled to the tavern’s outhouse. Her thoughts drifted from its design to the girl that
 3

looked back at her. Gazing into her eyes, she pondered the comment that the Lieutenant had made
before.
How wrong he was. Bridget mused. Instinctively, her focus switched to the two pieces of
jewelry she possessed, a braided silver chain and a locket. She timidly brought her hand to her neck,
curling the necklaces around her finger. It had been nearly a year since she received the pieces, but
Bridget still could not bring herself to unlatch the trinket. Memories began to cloud her vision…

It was a typical Monday morning for the Lurie’s. As the only day Madame Lurie allowed
herself to step foot on the premises of the Drunken Lady, one would come to expect that today was
the day of reckoning. Bridget’s father, Elliot, stood in the doorway. Although he was a very short
man, he had a presence that commanded a room- however, Madame Lurie was not one to succumb to
such bolstering.
“Elliot, I do hope the place isn’t as ransacked as was last week.” Madame Lurie said, huffing up
the hill to the tavern.
“Let me help you, Mary.” Elliot stressed, jogging down to his wifewife, and offering an arm.
Reluctantly, Mary accepted his aid.
“Time has not been kind to me, dear husband. You are growing older, too. How much longer
can we keep this tavern in operation?”
“I fear I might have a solution for you…” Pausing, Mister Lurie chose his next few words
carefully, “What if… what if Bridget came to aid me?”
“Nonsense! Pure and utter nonsense!” Mary exclaimed, stopping at the entryway.
Just as they were bickering, a shadowy figure approached them from a distance. Too engaged
in their debate, they were unaware of their visitor, who now loomed over them.
“I would hate to interrupt, but,but does this happen to be the ahm- Drunken Lady?” the man
said, his thick Spanish accent enveloping his speech. Mortified, Madame Lurie excused herself from
the gentleman and her husband, opting to get started onstarted on cleaning the tavern from last
week’s festivities.
“It ‘tis indeed, I sincerely apologize for the nature of the conversation you overheard.
Children are quite a difficult thing to manage.” Elliot said, feebly attempting to weave comedy into
his words. “May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“You can call me Espejo.”
Elliot found it increasingly difficult to contain his judgmenthis judgment, especially after
taking in the appearance of the stranger, dressed not in the traditional attire of an Englishman, but
of a frumpish nomad. “Well… Espejo, the Drunken Lady is closed for cleaning on Monday mornings.
You’ll have to continue your travels onward, boy.”
Espejo cocked an eyebrow, finding Elliot’s subtle attempts at insulting him amusing.
Unphased, Espejo continued. “Perhaps I will have to extend my stay here in RoatànRoatán. I would
hate to miss out on the finest tavern in West Bay.”
Elliot Lurie didn’t pay his comment any mind, figuring the vagrant was passing by on his way
to Tortuga or Nassau. SurelySurely, he had better things to do than meddle around in RoatànRoatán.
Elliot thought.
The morning turned to midday, and midday became late afternoon. The time was getting
dangerously close to opening hourshours, but Madame Lurie was nowhere near finished, exhaustedly
chasing out the anoles and geckos that meandered into the tavern. “Send word for Bridget, dear. We
may need her help after all.”
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Upon hearing her father’s request, Bridget excitedly dressed for the evening. While she
enjoyed her time tending to their family’s home, she found it quite lonely. As an only child,
socialization consisted of accompanying her mother to the occasional market, which were growing
fewer and farther between as her mother got older and the tavern struggled to stay in business. Tying
her blonde hair into a long braid, she donned her leather calamanco shoes and hurried to the tavern.
Practically bursting through the doors of the Drunken Lady, Bridget looked around in awe.
Having never been allowed to set foot in her father’s business, she was thrilled to see where he spent
his time. It was rather quaint, but that was expected. Mismatched tables and stools were scattered
throughout the room, chipped glasses riddled the cabinets, and the window paneswindowpanes were
cracked from the storm season the previous year. Bridget got straight to work, facing the kegs and
bottles in an orderly fashion. She was nervous, of course, but she was not one to shy away from a new
experience.
It was not long after Bridget’s mother left that the first customers began to wander in.
Murmurs passed between the men, curious as to why the tavern keeper’s daughter was working the
bar, and not Elliot. The curiosity turned to enthusiasm, and quickly the night was becoming one of
the busiest in recent months. At first, Bridget was receptive to the interest frominterest from the
men. For the majority of her life, Bridget had only been met with fear and avoidance from the
superstitious women in her mother’s circle, which was the extent of Bridget’s social interaction. Now,
it was as if people were competing for her attention.
“What do I have the pleasure of calling you, ravishing young lady?” warbled one of the sailors,
who looked older than her father, prompting Bridget to grow rather uncomfortable.
“Bridget, sir. Bridget Lurie.”
“Bridget? Hardly appropriate for this setting, no?” the sailor continued. “Lads, what shall we
call the girl?” He shouted.
“Brandy has a nice ring to it… I’d love me a tall glass of Brandy.” Another man said eerily.
“Cheers to Brandy!” Another sailor yelled.
“To Brandy!” erupted the tavern, queuing a feeling of foreboding in the recesses of Bridget’s
mind.
As the night went on, a new face approached the bar. A face that didn’t seem to belong in the
sea of British soldiers that occupied the tables. Dressed unconventionally, even to the standards of a
sleazy tavern, the man seemed out of place and yet completely at ease. His chestnut brown hair was
swept up into a topknot, showcasing constellations of freckles that dotted his face. The man towered
over most, his sharp features and thick brows accentuating his intimidating stature. Following in the
steps of her mother, who refused to show cowardice, Bridget stood taller, setting down the glass she
had been wiping clean. Rolling her shoulders back, she shoved aside the various emotions that had
been running through her mind since the shift had begun.
“Are you the Brandy that I have been hearing about all evening?” the stranger inquired, his
voice hypnotically low.
“It would appear so.” Bridget responded dryly, hiding how flustered his voice had made her.
The man pursed his lips, studying her. Bridget felt like he was looking into her soul, like he
could see the very essence of her being.
After a pause, the man continued. “What a pleasure it is to put a face to a name.”
“And you? What do they call you?” Bridget blurted, curiosity gnawing at her.
“Me?” the man smirked. “Call me Espejo.”
In the days that followed, Espejo became a regular at the tavern, at least on the days that
Bridget worked. When the shifts were slow, Espejo would converse with Bridget for hours, often long
after the last sailor began his trek back home. However aloof or uninterested Bridget might have
 5

acted, she had longed for a friend. She was careful to remain inconspicuous, as Bridget couldn’t afford
her social standing to lower any further; rumors of the tavern keeper’s daughter growing close with a
foreigner would absolutely destroy any reputation that remained.
Bridget found Espejo’s wild tales of faraway lands fascinating. Like many others her age,
RoatànRoatán was all that she had known. She was mesmerized by his descriptions of Europe and of
England, her parent’s birthplace. Whenever she asked how he had managed to go on so many
fantastical adventures at such a young age, Espejo’s story would always change. One day he was a
merchant, the next day a castaway… but Bridget didn’t care, she just wanted to hear more of his
stories.
Bridget found it harder and harder to contain her excitement when she saw Espejo enter the
tavern. Espejo found it endearing theendearing the way her eyes would light up when she noticed
him. He began bringing gifts from these distant places, giving her a tamburitza from Croatia, an
ornate mirror from Ireland, and a braided silver chain made by an artist from Lastres, Spain;Spain,
which Espejo revealed was where he was from. As they grew in closeness, Espejo made less and less of
an effort to hide his attraction to Bridget.
“Brandy, your virtues have so strangely taken up my thoughts, that therein they increase and
multiply in abundant felicity.”
“Where on earth did you come up with that ridiculousness?” said Bridget, blushing. “And you
know, my name isn’t really Brandy… it’s Bridget, Bridget Lurie.”
“Bridget,” Espejo savored the name. “How lovely.”
Over time, Bridget had begun to realize the feelings that had developed for Espejo, prompting
her to make a very uncharacteristic proposition, “Would you perhaps… like to meet outside of the
bounds of the tavern?”
“Bridget, what everwhatever did you have in mind?” said Espejo, grinning widely.
It was just before dawn in RoatànRoatán and the Drunken Lady approached closing hours. As
the only two left in the tavern, Bridget figured that now would be the most advantageous time for
their outing. Thoughts of her father crept into her subconscious, but she pushed those thoughts aside,
figuring he’d still be fast asleep at this hour. Dawning a shawl, she took Espejo’s arm in hers and
headed out into the night.
They passed under palm fronds that gently danced in the wind. They heard frogs croaking in
a distant pond. Their hearts raced at the physical touch of her arm in his. They made their way down
to shore and sat on the cool, silk sand, digging their hands into the granules.
Bridget and Espejo were deeply lost in conversation when the first ray of sunlight peeked out
from behind them, lulling their words as they watched the world take color.
“I’m not ever so forward, but there is something about you.” started Bridget, “I think I… I
know I’ve never felt such a sensation… I have feelings for you, Espejo.” her gaze darted away from
him, blushing madly. Still, she was sure that he had felt the same way.
Espejo’s expression darkened, deep in thought. When what felt like an eternity passed, he
began, “Brandyidget… you’re a fine girl. What a good wife you would be…” He exhaled, “But, my life,
my love, my lady, is the sea.” he said, staring out to the ocean in front of them. “I cannot bring
myself to give up those tales that you love to listen to… I cannot ask you to leave your family behind,
nor can I begin a family under such circumstances. Most of all, I cannot subject you to such a life of
uncertainty and danger. I love you too much, Bridgetandy Lurie.”
He reached behind his neck and unclasped a locket that hid beneath his tunic. He gently
grasped Bridget’s chin, turning her face that was damp with tears toward him.
“My name really isn’t Espejo… My given name is Tomas, Tomas Moreno.” He fastened the
necklace onto Bridget and swiftly placed a delicate kiss on her lips.
 6

Staring back to her reflection in the looking glass, whose eyes were now brimming with tears,
Bridget contemplated. How foolish I was. She recalled that it was not long after that her father caught
word of their forbidden romance, if you could call it that. By that point, however, Espejo was long
gone. Bridget was since kept under close supervision, unbeknownst to her, under the watchful eye of
Olde Man O’Leary.
After closing the Drunken Lady down for the night, Bridget walked home through a silent
town. She did her best to understand, remembering how animated he was when he told his sailor
stories. She was transported by his honest enthusiasm, she could feel the oceans fall and rise, she could
see the water’s rage and glory. I wouldn’t want to give up such a life, either. She supposed. With
newfound resolve, Bridget opened the locket for the first time. It was rusted shut, likely from the years
thatyears that Espejo had worn it out at sea, but she was easily able to free its hinges. After wiping it
clean between her thumb and forefinger, Bridget froze in shock. Chiseled into the metal was the
namethe name “Tomas Moreno”, just below it, a crude insignia… the mark of a pirate.

Original Song Lyrics

“Brandy (You’re A Fine Girl)” by Looking Glass
There's a port on a western bay
And it serves a hundred ships a day
Lonely sailors pass the time away
And talk about their homes

And there’s a girl in this harbor town

And she works layin’ whiskey down
They say, Brandy, fetch another round
She serves them whiskey and wine

The sailors say, “Brandy, you’re a fine girl” (you’re a fine girl)
“What a good wife you would be” (such a fine girl)
“Yeah, you’reyour eyes could steal a sailor from the sea”

Brandy wears a braided chain

Made of finest silver from the north of Spain
And a locket that bears the name
Of the man that Brandy loved

He came on a summer’s day

Bringin’ gifts from far away
But he made it clear he couldn’t stay
No harbor was his home

The sailors say, “Brandy, you’re a fine girl” (you’re a fine girl)
“What a good wife you would be” (such a fine girl)
“But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea”

Yeah Brandy used watch his eyes

When he told his sailor stories
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She could feel the oceans fall and rise

She could see its ragin’ glory
But he had always told the truth, Lord, he was an honest man
And Brandy does her best to understand

At night when the bars close down

Brandy walks through a silent town
And loves a man who’s not around
She still can hear him say

She hears him say, “Brandy, you’re a fine girl” (you’re a fine girl)
“What a good wife you would be” (such a fine girl)
“But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea”
It is, yes it is
He said, “Brandy, you’re a fine girl” (you’re a fine girl)
“What a good wife you would be” (such a fine girl)
“But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea”

Irina Roybal

Julia Crisler01/30/23

Revised WP1Writing 2

16 March 2023

WP 1

Brewing Brandy

Reflection

As I hummed along to “Brandy” by Looking Glass, vivid imagery flooded my mind. With each

stanza, it was as if a new chapter of a story unfolded. The more I listened, the more I found

myself lost in the Throughplot. Through genre conventions of setting, jargon, embellishment,

and structurethis project, I aimed to depict how one might interpret a song into a more detailed

and nuanced , nuanced, and personal renditionconnection—using “Brandy” as the model for such

a process. I thought of the translation as a literal attempt to depict how people tend to associate

themselves with songs that they can empathize with. In the sixties and seventies, popular artists
 8

typically wrote their song as a series of events, take “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer '' by the Beatles

or “Stairway to Heaven '' by Led Zeppelin. “Brandy” by Looking Glass is no different. As such,

I found it intuitive to translate the song lyrics into a narrative story. One’s individual

interpretation of a song may be entirely unique from someone else’s. My translation aims to

serve as a concrete illustration of such an instance. This exercise arguably increases one’s

understanding and appreciation of the music, surpassing the experience of solely listening to a

song.

Specific to “Brandy”, I thought that a romantic tragedy of sorts would speak well

to the original lyrics. To summarize, the song chronicles a portion of the life of Brandy, a woman

working in some form of a bar as a server. The bar serves predominantly lonely sailors, who

happen to find Brandy quite attractive. It is implied that her heart belongs to another, as she

wears a locket from a sailor who chose his life of seafaring over settling down with her. I long

pondered when and where my story would take place. The song lyrics themselves were pretty

unspecificunspecific, only mentioning that Brandy’s lover had come “bringin’ gifts from far

away” and that one of the gifts, a braided silver chain, was “made of finest silver from the North

of Spain” (Looking Glass). Based on the description of Spain being far away, I thought that a

time before large-scale globalization would be the most similar tolike the original intentions of

the song lyrics.

In the end I decided on RoatànRoatán, Honduras, some timesometime in the early to mid

1700s. The lyrics talk about a “port on a western bay” (Looking Glass) and there just so happens
 9

to be a West Bay in RoatànRoatán. Making Brandy’s lover a pirate certainly wasn't necessary,

but romances tend to be on the fantastical spectrum, especially period pieces, from my

experience. A pirate outcast as the love interest is far more compelling than just one of Brandy’s

many sailor suitors. More of the plot could be built up and around the dynamic between a lower

classlower-class girl from a typical working family and an unconventional stranger. By

iIncorporating piracy and colonialism in my the story, I was able to capture the essencealso of fit

the 18th century time periodperiod that I was striving going for.

Rather than just create a historical romance story that recounted the lyrics at a literal

level, I tried to dive below the surface and create a backstory for some of the elements in the

song. One instance of this was the gifts that Brandy received, particularly the braided silver

chain, which I decided was a token from Espejo’s home. An obstacle I came across during this

process was keeping some of the details historically accurate, so I found theis tool of creating an

explanation for some of the “facts” established in the original lyrics quite useful. The most

challenging instance of this was explaining how and why a beautiful young woman of age to be

married was working in a place as impermissible as a tavern. After a quick Google search, I

discovered a few cases of the tavern keeper’s daughter working in being socially acceptable, thus

I made Bridget’s (Brandy’s) father the owner of the Drunken Lady.

To add further complexity of my translation, I wanted to make subtle references to the

band and the songwriter. For example, I made one of the gifts that Brandy received “from far

away” a mirror to pay homage to the band name: Looking Glass. To continue with the “looking

glass” theme, Brandy’s love interest’s nickname is “Espejo”, or mirror in Spanish. The main
 10

character of my story, Bridget, has the last name Lurie. Her father, Elliot Lurie, has the same

name as the songwriter. This, along with other lyric references and jargon that sets the scene of a

colonial tavern, is an important component of writing known as context. The importance of

context was heavily analyzed in Laura Carroll’s “Backpacks vs. Briefcases: Steps Towards

Rhetorical Analysis”. A profound takeaway I got from the reading was that “Rhetorical messages

always begin in a specific situation or context.” (Carroll 48). This quote was such a simple and

yet nuanced perspective on the importance of context. Context is a crucial component to be

added to any genre translation to convey the rhetorical messages of the original genre.

References to the origin of the song, such as the band, add another layer of context to the work.

To contrast references to the contemporary context of the song, I wove historical jargon

into my story as to make it a more immersive experience for the reader. This is a very common

practice in historical romances as a way to set the scene for the reader. Regarding Speaking more

on the time that my translation is set in, the dialect is going to be different than a song from

1972. I made thee stylistic choice to not completely write in old English, instead infusing words

like “shaver” (young man), “privy” (toilet/outhouse), and “calamancos” (popular style of

women’s shoe). I chose to revert some words to their traditional spellings, one such example of

this is when Olde Man O’Leary is referenced. I also rephrased some of the original lyrics in

order toto keep to the era while still achieving the essence of the verse. For example, I replaced

words like “bar” (Looking Glass) with “tavern”. As contemporary readers, too much historical

jargon makes it difficult to follow the plot of the story, which is why historical fiction writers try

and blend the two.

Much of my translationthe narrative was heavy in descriptive language, especially when

describing the scene at which the events were taking place. While this may be an important genre
 11

convention for a historical romance, it is not as prevalent in music lyrics. Take this verse: “The

sailors say, ‘Brandy, you're a fine girl (you're a fine girl), What a good wife you would be (such

a fine girl), But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea.’” (Looking Glass) and compare it to my

translation: “‘Bridget… you’re a fine girl. What a good wife you would be…’ He exhaled, ‘But,

my life, my love, my lady, is the sea.’ he said, staring out to the ocean in front of them. ‘I cannot

bring myself to give up those tales that you love to listen to… I cannot ask you to leave your

family behind, nor can I begin a family under such circumstances. Most of all, I cannot subject

you to such a life of uncertainty and danger. I love you too much, Brandy Lurie.’” There is a

considerable difference in length as well as how much the author leaves said versus unsaid. In

musical lyrics, a lot of information is implied. My translation was tasked with reading between

the lines, as would a listener visualizing the lyrics of a song. .

A different aspect of the visual component of a translation is the document itself. More

generally, the structure of lyrics in a song versus a narrative piece is quite different.

One of the more subtle genre conventions in historical fictionnarrative pieces is font and

“scene breaks'', as it were. As a subgenre of historical fiction, I thought it fitting that I include

this convention in my historical romance. I chose a font, EB Garamond, that added to the

ambiance of a British outpost in the 1700s. This is a convention that song lyrics as a genre lack,

as a special font isn’t necessary for the lyrics to serve their purpose. In the fictional novels I’ve

read, it is pretty standardstandard to use a small image or symbol as a transition rather than

writing an elaborate progression to change time or setting. It’s also an excellent way to leave

some things unsaid to allow the reader to infer where the plot has jumped to. You’ll notice that a

small wave design was used to signify that the plot was now shifting to events that occurred in

the past, andpast and used again to bring the reader back to the present moment. Mike Bunn talks
 12

about reading from a writer’s perspective. He asks the reader, “Would you want to try out

this technique in your own writing?”. It’s important to seek inspiration from books or

other forms of media that you, personally, enjoy reading (Bunn 73). I thought that this

would be an excellent opportunity to try this technique out as a way toto signify Brandy’s

flashback to the day that she met her lover, which is implied in the fifth stanza of the lyrics.

Another genre convention from the original lyrics that I tried to adhere to in my

translation was keeping it chronological. “Brandy” by Looking Glass is quite similar to the

sequential nature of fictional stories, which is relatively unique in the realm of music lyrics; with

the exception of music from the sixties and seventies, most songs tend to be pretty repetitive and

focus on a feeling rather than events. In my story, I wanted to magnify this and use the song

stanzas as a sort of outline for where the plot would go. Hopefully, you’ll notice a similar pattern

between my writing and the storyline of the song lyrics.

Rather than just create a story that recounted the lyrics at a literal level, I tried to dive

below the surface and create a backstory for some of the elements in the song. One instance of

this was the gifts that Brandy received, particularly the braided silver chain, which I decided was

a token from Espejo’s home. An obstacle I came across during this process was keeping some of

the details historically accurate, so I found this tool of creating an explanation for some of the

“facts” established in the original lyrics quite useful. The most challenging instance of this was

explaining how and why a beautiful young woman of age to be married was working in a place

as impermissible as a tavern. After a quick Google search, I discovered a few cases of the tavern

keeper’s daughter working in being socially acceptable, thus I made Bridget’s (Brandy’s) father

the owner of the Drunken Lady.

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To add to the complexity of my translation, I wanted to make subtle references to the

band and the songwriter. For example, I made one of the gifts that Brandy received “from far

away” a mirror to pay homage to the band name: Looking Glass. To continue with the “looking

glass” theme, Brandy’s love interest in my narrative’s nickname is “Espejo”, or mirror in

Spanish. The main character of my story, Bridget, has the last name Lurie. Her father, Elliot

Lurie, has the same name as the songwriter. This, along with other song lyric references as well

as verbiage that sets the scene of a colonial tavern, is an important component of writing known

as context. “Rhetorical messages always begin in a specific situation or context.” (Carroll 48) It

was important in my translation that I added this context and nodded to the original source in

order for it to be effective.

Through this translation, I hope to have demonstrated the imagination that can

accompany listening to a song. A song is so much more than what the lyrics present at a surface

level. “Brandy” by the Looking Glass could have been translated into infinitely other narrative

genres, and I think that speaks to the nature of music. Listeners come from a wide array of

backgrounds and preferences, and yet for many songs, we all find our own unique way of

identifying with the lyrics. It is in that aspect that music is able tocan transcend the boundaries

that so limit books and stories, however popular they may be.
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Works CitedReferences

● Lurie, Elliot. “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” Looking Glass. 1972.

● Bunn, Mike. “How to Read Like a Writer” Writing Spaces: Readings on Writing, Volume

2. 2011.

● Carroll, Laura. “Backpacks vs. Briefcases: Steps Towards Rhetorical Analysis” Writing

Spaces: Readings on Writing, Volume 1. 2010.

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