MAURINE ROBERTSON

Screenwriter | Author | Historian | Linguist

With a strong background in history, linguistics, and writing skills, I bring a distinctive perspective to developing characters and crafting intriguing stories. My work draws from an in-depth understanding of cultural and historical complexities and multilingual expertise.

About Me

I’m a lifelong Chicagoan as well as a wife, mom, Disability advocate, and cat lady with a knack for translating fascinating stories, big and small, into the written word. I specialize in creating character-driven, historically and culturally complex narratives. My work includes screenplays, plays, novels and novellas, short stories, poetry, historical research, freelance translation, and genealogy. These endeavors are molded by my creative vision, unique academic background, and lived experiences.

While historical fiction is my primary wheelhouse, I also enjoy exploring new genres to challenge myself as a writer. Science fiction and dark comedy are particular areas of interest. My writing style often shines a light on power dynamics and imbalances in relationships, as well as the roles of geopolitics and global business in shaping personal and societal tensions.

At Saint Mary’s College, I received the Blecka-Zatko Award for Excellence in Historical Writing and published graduate research on modern European history through the University of Edinburgh. I also studied Irish Language and Literature and Irish Studies at the University of Notre Dame.

I’m also a certified and experienced social studies and bilingual education teacher. I have proficiency in many languages and very solid geopolitical research skills and knowledge. I am comfortable using Celtx. My professional background includes public relations, social media management, and editing scripts and plays, and I spent several years giving public tours at the Field Museum in Chicago. Lifelong exposure to theatre, along with my extensive travels, continues to inform and inspire my work.

Contact me at Maurine@MaurineRobertson.com for PDFs of my work or to inquire about working together.

Writing Samples

As Wars Tend To Do

Adapted from my novel Hardtack, As Wars Tend to Do is set in Paducah, Kentucky, in 1860. In a border state on the edge of conflict, three childhood best friends are forced to face the challenges of loss and loyalty as war rumbles on the horizon. As The bonds that once held them together begin to fray, forcing them to question what they owe to each other and to themselves.

To request a PDF of the full script or inquire about collaborations, please email me at maurine@maurinerobertson.com

INT. SIMPLE, WARM FARMHOUSE KITCHEN - EVENING

SAM sits hunched at the table, staring at his hands. NELL busies herself wiping tin plates clean. ISAAC leans back in his chair, arms crossed with his feet crossed on the table. The tension is thick enough to choke on.

SAM

So. Reckon I'll be headin' to Illinois in a few days. Thought you two oughta know. Nell, I’m real sorry about your daddy. Ten times sorrier for quarrelin' in front of you today of all days. This war’s gonna come between a lot of people.

NELL

Not us, though, boys. Not you and me and Isaac, Sam. You hear me?

SAM rises slowly from his chair and hesitates. He seems held back by invisible chains for a moment as he studies the other two.

SAM

Yes, ma’am. Isaac.

SAM exits through the door, leaving ISAAC and NELL alone at the table, and there’s uneasy quiet for a moment.

ISAAC

Folks are sayin' this war’s gonna last years, Nell. At first they said it'd be over in three weeks. Now they’re saying years. You think he’ll come home?

NELL

I gotta believe that he’ll come home. You hush up about the idea of him not coming home, Isaac.

Long beat. ISAAC reaches carefully for NELL’s hand. He is more gentle now than he usually is in his life.

ISAAC

It ain’t safe for you to stay here by yourself, Nell. Not if soldiers come. Not if the war comes anywhere close.

NELL smirks disbelievingly.

NELL

And you’re gonna keep me safe. Is that it?

NELL starts to pull her hand back, but ISAAC tightens his grip a bit, with a twinge of desperation in his grasp and his face.

ISAAC

You know I care 'bout you, Nell. Damn well you know that. What am I supposed to do? Go to sleep at night knowing Sam’s gone and you’re all alone?

NELL

What exactly are you proposing?

ISAAC

Well, you got the word right.

NELL

Oh, Isaac. What do you reckon I'm s'posed to say to that?

ISAAC

You’re s'posed to say ‘yes,’ Nell.

NELL scoffs and yanks her hand away.

NELL

You’re out your damn mind. I can’t marry you. You and Sam and me… we’re like family.

ISAAC

Uh-huh. Husbands are family members, generally speaking.

(BEAT.)

Nell. Your daddy got put into the ground today. Sam’s leavin'. I need to make sure someone’s takin' care of you.

NELL

(irritated)

You’ve known me since I had my milk teeth and you think I need somebody to take care of me? Why don’t you boys just take turns keeping an eye on the house and buy me a new shotgun?

ISAAC

Nell. I know it would be Sam if he wasn’t -

NELL

I never said nothing like that.

NELL seethes through the long, heavy silence that nearlysuffocates the room.

NELL

You in love with me?

ISAAC

If you can't see it by now, you ain’t been payin’ very close attention.

NELL grabs her father's whiskey bottle on the table and takes a deep swig. The liquor burns her throat, but she doesn’t flinch. She centers herself before speaking to Isaac, who seems, somehow, unsurprised by Nell's actions.

NELL

I’ll make a deal with you, Isaac. You stay here, you work the brick factory.  You don’t run off on me to fight in this silly war like Sam’s doing. You stay here, if you want to ‘take care of me.’ You promise to stay, and… fine. I’ll marry you.

ISAAC springs from his chair. His long legs close the distance between them in just a few strides. His trembling hands cup her face before his kiss crashes down against her, drawing a shocked squeal from her lips before her fingers finally give in and reach up to curl her fingers into the material of his shirt for purchase.

FADE OUT.

(END SCENE.)

Armistice

Writing in trochaic octameter is a rare and rigorous exercise in poetry. The structure demands both precision and creativity to maintain the rhythm while delivering a compelling narrative. In My Poem "Armistice," the meter serves as a reflection of the speaker's Vulnerable State of Mind, oscillating between a need for control and desperate pleas for a companion’s comfort, all while seeking stability.

If into my mind you wandered, and the thoughts you found you pondered,

You might be forgiven if you found it to be dreadful here.

But the sad and glum and lonely bits of me are not the only

Colors painted; sometimes all that melancholy disappears.

I stand in the sun sometimes and all that shadow disappears.

Not all rainstorms are austere.

You may recognize on me the the smiling glint of wide-spaced teeth

Or perhaps you know me better for the bitter tears I shed.

Either way, you know my face; you know me in my darkest place

And you know how my green eyes look in misty twilight and at dawn.

You know what my laughter sounds like in the twilight and at dawn,

How I speak in Babylon.

Lie beside me when I try to fall asleep and say goodbye to

All the real, imagined things that trigger troubling, vivid dreams

All the savage words around us, all the crises that surround us

Lie beside me that I might have naught but quiet in my head.

All that I have ever wanted -- blissful quiet in my head.

Nothing loud and nothing red.

Twine your fingers into mine and don’t let go. Say, “You’ll be fine,

And you’ll be safe beside me,” for I know those words (from you) are true.

I’ll close my eyes and think of you, beside me on some sunny shore.

Smiles on our faces as we stand upon that sunny shore.

Armistice in my own war.

Download my novella Burst Like Stars Upon Our Memory in PDF form here.