Stuart Watkins holds the hardcover and
paperback versions of the book.
Irina Zlatogorova
This was my third time interviewing Stuart Watkins, a well-known member of the SaddleBrooke Writers Group, about his published work. This time, however, the focus was different. Stuart served as both co-creator and editor of The Santiago de Cuba, written by his friend William Pitt, Jr. As a result, my questions centered less on Stuart as an author and more on his role as collaborator and editor–work that requires a distinct skill set, especially when done remotely.
At a high level, The Santiago de Cuba carries readers from an intimate family history into the broader currents of 19th-century life. The narrative moves fluidly among courtroom drama, maritime commerce, and Civil War intrigue, blending personal legacy with documented history.
Stuart describes the central editorial challenge as finding the right balance between honoring a deeply personal family story and situating it within a credible historical framework. “The hardest part,” he explains, “was taking Bill’s court documents and family history and putting it all in order.” Legal records, after all, are not written to tell stories; they are written to prove points. Shaping those materials into a coherent narrative required structure, restraint, and ongoing judgment about what served the story and what weighed it down.
Authenticity was equally important. Stuart encouraged Bill to include family photographs to anchor the narrative in lived experience. Bill was initially reluctant, understandably protective of his family history, but Stuart viewed visual materials as an invitation to the reader–a signal that this was not merely history, but inherited memory.
Historical accuracy was also non-negotiable. Stuart verified lawsuits using the original court documents Bill provided. He cross-checked key details through widely available sources such as Wikipedia and Google Search to confirm dates, trade practices, and historical context. Not every document made it into the final manuscript. “Some of them had to be left out,” he notes, underscoring that credibility often comes from careful selection rather than sheer volume.
As the book expands into Civil War history, Stuart’s role deepened. He contributed pages of independent research, including images of Grant and Lee with their well-known quotations, photographs of Confederate and Union soldiers, and contextual material that placed the steamer’s story firmly within the national conflict. In shaping this portion of the narrative, he looked beyond The Santiago de Cuba itself, researching other ships involved in the blockade as well as those captured by the vessel. This comparative approach helped maintain historical balance while still highlighting the ship’s significance.
One of Stuart’s most unexpected discoveries emerged from the records themselves: passenger lists. “Finding the names of the passengers, their ages, and their status—that really struck me,” he says. Those details transformed the ship from an abstract historical entity into a moving world of individuals, each carrying a story of their own.
When asked what advice he would offer authors attempting similar projects, Stuart emphasized transparency and pacing. Clearly cite sources that support the narrative. Break dense material into manageable sections. Use white space, photographs, and illustrations to give readers room to absorb complex information. “If it’s a long story or full of details,” he advises, “make it something that can be read in short sessions.”
In the end, Stuart’s editorial philosophy is both simple and demanding: Respect the facts, protect the author’s voice, and never forget the reader. The Santiago de Cuba stands as proof that family history—when carefully edited and thoroughly researched—can illuminate the past without losing its soul.