Rachna Gilmore's Blog, page 2
June 24, 2011
TIPS ON WRITING HISTORICAL FICTION -- PART II
More tips on writing historical fiction -- with the same caveats as in previous post:
8) Research into background can take time, so be patient. Sometimes, it can take ages to dig out one tiny piece of background detail – such as the appearance of a particular car during a particular year. It’s a detail that adds to the texture and truthfulness of the story without being essential to the plot, so you need to know it even though it’s entirely peripheral to your story.
9) Interviewing elders again, as well as experts, in round two or three of your research is helpful to pin down those pesky details because you can simply ask your tangential and arcane questions rather than spend hours digging them out. Call me lazy, but it’s easier and it’s much better, because you get specific answers to specific questions without wading through pages and pages of irrelevant information in order to find that one sliver of information you really need.
10) Visit museums that specialize in the era of your story. It’s a great way to flesh out your understanding of that era. It also helps you imbibe the right atmosphere. I went to the Cumberland Museum in Cumberland Ontario, which is about rural life in the 1930s. I found it helpful with many a detail but also to soak up the atmosphere of the time.
11) Look for books published by local Historical societies in the community you want to depict. I found self-published books by people living in Eastern P.E.I. and they were invaluable for the glimpses they gave me into everyday life in the 1930s. They weren’t necessarily brilliantly organized; often they were anecdotal, but there was enough there to help develop my understanding of the era, and help me see more clearly the “givens”.
12) Check old atlases and maps to help you find fictional names and place names. For example: I knew that the early settlers to P.E.I. – and John’s family in particular – came from the mainland in Scotland across from Skye. Many villages and towns in P.E.I. reflect this. In selecting my fictional names, I found it fascinating to search maps of Scotland for place names that would sound convincing in my novel.
13) If you are writing about a place that is well known, you might want to consider changing the names of the people and the places to fictional names. I set my story more or less in the area in which my father-in-law grew up, but as I changed the geography to suit my fiction, I decided I’d better use fictional names. Otherwise I knew there’d be Islanders coming up to me and saying, “That railway line was never there; you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” or some such thing.
14) I found it helpful to draw out a map of my character’s fictional home and farm so I could reliably and consistently remember how he’d get from A to B. I also made a map of the area in which my character lived – again, so I’d be consistent.
15) I chose deliberately not to include a map in my book, because P.E.I. is a small place and inevitably people would try and figure out where I’d really set it, and then point out inconsistencies.
16) The elements of good writing apply to historical fiction as much as to any other work of fiction. It’s essential, I think, for the character to be true and real so he/she takes centre stage and moves the story forward, rather than serve as a minuscule or peripheral adornment for your historical facts.
8) Research into background can take time, so be patient. Sometimes, it can take ages to dig out one tiny piece of background detail – such as the appearance of a particular car during a particular year. It’s a detail that adds to the texture and truthfulness of the story without being essential to the plot, so you need to know it even though it’s entirely peripheral to your story.
9) Interviewing elders again, as well as experts, in round two or three of your research is helpful to pin down those pesky details because you can simply ask your tangential and arcane questions rather than spend hours digging them out. Call me lazy, but it’s easier and it’s much better, because you get specific answers to specific questions without wading through pages and pages of irrelevant information in order to find that one sliver of information you really need.
10) Visit museums that specialize in the era of your story. It’s a great way to flesh out your understanding of that era. It also helps you imbibe the right atmosphere. I went to the Cumberland Museum in Cumberland Ontario, which is about rural life in the 1930s. I found it helpful with many a detail but also to soak up the atmosphere of the time.
11) Look for books published by local Historical societies in the community you want to depict. I found self-published books by people living in Eastern P.E.I. and they were invaluable for the glimpses they gave me into everyday life in the 1930s. They weren’t necessarily brilliantly organized; often they were anecdotal, but there was enough there to help develop my understanding of the era, and help me see more clearly the “givens”.
12) Check old atlases and maps to help you find fictional names and place names. For example: I knew that the early settlers to P.E.I. – and John’s family in particular – came from the mainland in Scotland across from Skye. Many villages and towns in P.E.I. reflect this. In selecting my fictional names, I found it fascinating to search maps of Scotland for place names that would sound convincing in my novel.
13) If you are writing about a place that is well known, you might want to consider changing the names of the people and the places to fictional names. I set my story more or less in the area in which my father-in-law grew up, but as I changed the geography to suit my fiction, I decided I’d better use fictional names. Otherwise I knew there’d be Islanders coming up to me and saying, “That railway line was never there; you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” or some such thing.
14) I found it helpful to draw out a map of my character’s fictional home and farm so I could reliably and consistently remember how he’d get from A to B. I also made a map of the area in which my character lived – again, so I’d be consistent.
15) I chose deliberately not to include a map in my book, because P.E.I. is a small place and inevitably people would try and figure out where I’d really set it, and then point out inconsistencies.
16) The elements of good writing apply to historical fiction as much as to any other work of fiction. It’s essential, I think, for the character to be true and real so he/she takes centre stage and moves the story forward, rather than serve as a minuscule or peripheral adornment for your historical facts.
June 8, 2011
TIPS ON WRITING HISTORICAL FICTION -- PART I
Here are some tips about writing historical fiction, the usual caveat being that there are no golden rules – these are just things (great catch all word that – things, although thingie is even better and a personal favourite!) that worked for me.
Bear in mind, though, that these tips are based on my experiences while writing my novel, THAT BOY RED which, although set in a particular era, is not woven around concrete historical events per se. This is a character-driven episodic novel following the exploits of eleven-year-old Roderick "Red" MacRae, with historical details pertaining to the era – P.E.I. in the early 1930s – woven into the story.
1) Keep one notebook for historical research, another for your fictional notes. Meticulously record your research along with sources because you'll forget from one draft to the next whether some detail you've inserted has been checked and verified.
2) You don't need to do all your research before you start to write. At least I don't – I can't. It would bore me to tears to do nothing but research at the start. I find that instinctive leap and connection with character far more valuable and essential to writing fiction than getting slogged in a mire of research. For me it's essential that the connection to character be paramount so the story sings and flows with inner truth.
3) The background and research must serve the story and not the other way around. One of the biggest flaws in historical fiction is when the reader's attention trips over a chunk of explanatory information that the author has stuck in to inform. It always distracts from the story. When you write a story, you're spinning a thread for the reader to follow – if there are nubs and knots that the reader notices, you stall the smooth flow of the story, break the dream that you want the reader to fall into when reading your book. A work of historical fiction should never serve to showcase historical facts. Nor should you be so vested in your research that you feel compelled to stick it in just because you've spent so much time digging it up.
4) One way to avoid chunks of information is to include information only when your character is thinking of it – but don't have your character gratuitously think about something that's a given, just to inform your readers. Don't over-explain; trust your readers to infer what they need to.
5) Despite my caveats about not needing to do all my research up front, I found I did need to do some initial research in order to start writing THAT BOY RED with a certain degree of authority and ease. I needed to know what daily life was like for a young lad in the 1930s. If I were to write about a child getting up in the morning in the present day, I'd easily be able to create the sights, sounds, smells, textures and nuances surrounding that child. With THAT BOY RED I needed some of that basic knowledge so that when I started to write I wouldn't stumble during the heat and flow of writing the story because of gaping holes in my understanding of the era.
6) Interviewing elders and experts was a great place for me to start my research. I grilled my father-in-law, John, and his older brother Martin, and all the other elders I could pester, with questions about the five senses from their childhood. I asked them what they'd hear first thing in the morning. Smell, touch, see, taste. I asked about the most striking images/memories in their lives pertaining to the five senses. I had to be specific – for example, I'd ask about the first sounds in the morning to fit what I needed for my story. This was a huge help in colouring and texturizing my knowledge of the era. I asked questions about daily routines and made copious notes to build my own instinctive understanding of the patterns of the daily life of my characters.
7) For me, the research tends to work parallel to the spiral of successive drafts until I reach the centre, the heart of that last draft. Sometimes you don't know what you need to know until you write the next draft.
Tips on Writing Historical Fiction -- Part II will be posted on June 24th.
Bear in mind, though, that these tips are based on my experiences while writing my novel, THAT BOY RED which, although set in a particular era, is not woven around concrete historical events per se. This is a character-driven episodic novel following the exploits of eleven-year-old Roderick "Red" MacRae, with historical details pertaining to the era – P.E.I. in the early 1930s – woven into the story.
1) Keep one notebook for historical research, another for your fictional notes. Meticulously record your research along with sources because you'll forget from one draft to the next whether some detail you've inserted has been checked and verified.
2) You don't need to do all your research before you start to write. At least I don't – I can't. It would bore me to tears to do nothing but research at the start. I find that instinctive leap and connection with character far more valuable and essential to writing fiction than getting slogged in a mire of research. For me it's essential that the connection to character be paramount so the story sings and flows with inner truth.
3) The background and research must serve the story and not the other way around. One of the biggest flaws in historical fiction is when the reader's attention trips over a chunk of explanatory information that the author has stuck in to inform. It always distracts from the story. When you write a story, you're spinning a thread for the reader to follow – if there are nubs and knots that the reader notices, you stall the smooth flow of the story, break the dream that you want the reader to fall into when reading your book. A work of historical fiction should never serve to showcase historical facts. Nor should you be so vested in your research that you feel compelled to stick it in just because you've spent so much time digging it up.
4) One way to avoid chunks of information is to include information only when your character is thinking of it – but don't have your character gratuitously think about something that's a given, just to inform your readers. Don't over-explain; trust your readers to infer what they need to.
5) Despite my caveats about not needing to do all my research up front, I found I did need to do some initial research in order to start writing THAT BOY RED with a certain degree of authority and ease. I needed to know what daily life was like for a young lad in the 1930s. If I were to write about a child getting up in the morning in the present day, I'd easily be able to create the sights, sounds, smells, textures and nuances surrounding that child. With THAT BOY RED I needed some of that basic knowledge so that when I started to write I wouldn't stumble during the heat and flow of writing the story because of gaping holes in my understanding of the era.
6) Interviewing elders and experts was a great place for me to start my research. I grilled my father-in-law, John, and his older brother Martin, and all the other elders I could pester, with questions about the five senses from their childhood. I asked them what they'd hear first thing in the morning. Smell, touch, see, taste. I asked about the most striking images/memories in their lives pertaining to the five senses. I had to be specific – for example, I'd ask about the first sounds in the morning to fit what I needed for my story. This was a huge help in colouring and texturizing my knowledge of the era. I asked questions about daily routines and made copious notes to build my own instinctive understanding of the patterns of the daily life of my characters.
7) For me, the research tends to work parallel to the spiral of successive drafts until I reach the centre, the heart of that last draft. Sometimes you don't know what you need to know until you write the next draft.
Tips on Writing Historical Fiction -- Part II will be posted on June 24th.
May 18, 2011
THERE'S GOLD IN THEM THAR TALES: Spinning Family Stories into Fiction
I am delighted to announce that my novel THAT BOY RED published by HarperCollins Canada, has now been released. Set in P.E.I. during the 1930s, it follows the adventures and misadventures of eleven-year-old Roderick "Red" MacRae and his large and lively family as they struggle through bad weather, plunging crop prices and more during a particularly turbulent year.This episodic novel is my first foray into historical fiction and it was inspired by my father-in-law's anecdotes about growing up on a P.E.I. farm during the Depression.Family stories are like gold, but we don't always recognize their value because they're familiar. We often fail to appreciate the weight and charm of this rough ore, and the potential for refining and burnishing it into fiction.Here's how this novel started for me and one of the biggest challenges I encountered...My father-in-law, John Gilmore, who is now deceased, lived in P.E.I. and my husband and I travelled there annually, treasuring our time on the Island and with John. Our mornings together were particularly special. In his small, brown kitchen, John would put on a pot of porridge, then he'd pull up the sides of the wooden table which he had built, so we could all sit comfortably around it. After we'd eaten, we'd linger at the table with our tea and coffee and just talk, talk and talk.Often, this was when John would talk about his childhood – incidents both trivial and dramatic, some funny, some heart-breaking, and the general way of life back then. Being curious and sometimes frankly nosy – which I guess all writers have to be if we are to spin stories – I'd pepper him with questions. Perhaps I'd think to ask questions, as opposed to my husband, because the background wasn't my given. In any case, pepper him I did, because I was fascinated by his anecdotes.In part, maybe this was because my favourite books when I was growing up were the ANNE books by L.M. Montgomery, so anything about a bygone P.E.I. era carried charm.But it wasn't just that. John was a wonderful man, steady, deep, funny, and his anecdotes and his way of telling them reflected that. He also knew how to spin stories and jokes without getting bogged in irrelevant details; he knew how to pace it, and boy, did he know how to deliver a punch line. I wonder if people of that generation, who grew up without TV learned, almost by osmosis, the fine art of telling stories and jokes.In any case, I loved his reminiscences about life on the farm, the bad turnip crop, the lost twenty dollar bill, the plane that landed in a neighbour's field, and more.One day, as I listened to him, I felt that familiar tingle inside me, the fire of story, and my mind began to trip overtime spinning fictional stories around John's anecdotes. I felt that charge inside me that told me here was a book I wanted to write.I thought it over carefully before discussing it with John, to be sure I did want to write this book. I never for a moment considered writing this as a biography; it's just not my forte, and anyway, sticking to bald facts can restrict the creation of a satisfying story arc. Incidents from people's lives don't necessarily make for good fiction or drama. I needed to feel free to make things up, to add humour and drama as needed in order to create story and meaning through fiction, because that's what I do best. I firmly believe that I can tell a better truth through fiction than through bald facts.It's telling the truth through lies.I had another reason for wanting to write this as fiction. For a story to resonate and sing, it needs characters with flaws. That's easier to do in fiction than in biography. It's unsettling, disrespectful even – or so I felt – digging for and then dishing the dirt on people you love. No, it had to be fiction.So I asked John if I could use his anecdotes to craft into fiction, making things up as I needed, using fictional characters. He immediately agreed; he was pleased and even flattered that I was interested enough in his life to want to do that.One of the biggest challenges when writing fiction inspired by stories, family or otherwise, is to create characters that are your own so you're not harnessed to, or restrained by, the real people who may have inspired them.I knew I had to create a main character that was inspired by, but was not, John. I had to find, unearth, chip out a character of my creation – someone I'd know inside out – so I'd feel free to weave stories through and in and around him without ever wondering at the back of my mind if John might do that. I had to be completely free to give my character flaws – all kinds of rashes, warts and tics – without being hampered by how that might reflect on John. I had to do this for all my characters, for the members of my main character's family.It was more of a challenge at first than I thought it would be. My ideas developed and evolved, and my research progressed so that my sense of that time period began to be coloured in with more precise detail and vision (more on that later). But as I tried to unearth, dig out and know my main character, I still found myself, at times, referring back to John's persona, wondering what he might feel or do in a fictional incident, trying to understand him as a young lad.I knew I hadn't yet nailed that elusive main character, but that I had to find him in order to write this book – a character who could be himself.So I chipped away at it. Finding the right name was crucial. I tried several before I settled on Roderick "Red" MacRae. I was aware that people might make the connection with that other red-headed P.E.I. character Anne Shirley, but my Red was not based on her. When I tried to change his name I couldn't, because that name fit him – and by the way, no, his hair is not red!Slowly, Red came into clearer and clearer focus. When I was finally able to name his flaws and his scratchy warts with certainty and conviction – and with the affection one feels for one's characters – I knew that Red was real.I'm not sure when that exact moment occurred – it was gradual and organic rather than one blinding aha! moment – it was a spiral of ongoing discovery to the heart of the character. But I knew I was there when I found myself wondering if some trivial incident I had in my head was something Red had told me about, or if I'd heard it from John.That's when Red became fully fleshed. That's when he took the helm of his story.And that is when the writing began to flow. I just love, love, love the stage when I know a character so well that all I have to do is follow him/her and write down what he/she does. This happened many times with Red; somehow he had a tendency to veer off in unexpected directions, to do things I hadn't thought about consciously but which, after I'd written about them, were absolutely true and right, sometimes making me laugh out loud.My next blog post will explore some of the other challenges of writing historical fiction.
THERE'S GOLD IN THEM THAR TALES: Spinning Family Stories into Fiction
I am delighted to announce that my novel THAT BOY RED published by HarperCollins Canada, has now been released. Set in P.E.I. during the 1930s, it follows the adventures and misadventures of eleven-year-old Roderick "Red" MacRae and his large and lively family as they struggle through bad weather, plunging crop prices and more during a particularly turbulent year.
This episodic novel is my first foray into historical fiction and it was inspired by my father-in-law's anecdotes about growing up on a P.E.I. farm during the Depression.
Family stories are like gold, but we don't always recognize their value because they're familiar. We often fail to appreciate the weight and charm of this rough ore, and the potential for refining and burnishing it into fiction.
Here's how this novel started for me and one of the biggest challenges I encountered...
My father-in-law, John Gilmore, who is now deceased, lived in P.E.I. and my husband and I travelled there annually, treasuring our time on the Island and with John. Our mornings together were particularly special. In his small, brown kitchen, John would put on a pot of porridge, then he'd pull up the sides of the wooden table which he had built, so we could all sit comfortably around it. After we'd eaten, we'd linger at the table with our tea and coffee and just talk, talk and talk.
Often, this was when John would talk about his childhood – incidents both trivial and dramatic, some funny, some heart-breaking, and the general way of life back then. Being curious and sometimes frankly nosy – which I guess all writers have to be if we are to spin stories – I'd pepper him with questions. Perhaps I'd think to ask questions, as opposed to my husband, because the background wasn't my given. In any case, pepper him I did, because I was fascinated by his anecdotes.
In part, maybe this was because my favourite books when I was growing up were the ANNE books by L.M. Montgomery, so anything about a bygone P.E.I. era carried charm.
But it wasn't just that. John was a wonderful man, steady, deep, funny, and his anecdotes and his way of telling them reflected that. He also knew how to spin stories and jokes without getting bogged in irrelevant details; he knew how to pace it, and boy, did he know how to deliver a punch line. I wonder if people of that generation, who grew up without TV learned, almost by osmosis, the fine art of telling stories and jokes.
In any case, I loved his reminiscences about life on the farm, the bad turnip crop, the lost twenty dollar bill, the plane that landed in a neighbour's field, and more.
One day, as I listened to him, I felt that familiar tingle inside me, the fire of story, and my mind began to trip overtime spinning fictional stories around John's anecdotes. I felt that charge inside me that told me here was a book I wanted to write.
I thought it over carefully before discussing it with John, to be sure I did want to write this book. I never for a moment considered writing this as a biography; it's just not my forte, and anyway, sticking to bald facts can restrict the creation of a satisfying story arc. Incidents from people's lives don't necessarily make for good fiction or drama. I needed to feel free to make things up, to add humour and drama as needed in order to create story and meaning through fiction, because that's what I do best. I firmly believe that I can tell a better truth through fiction than through bald facts.
It's telling the truth through lies.
I had another reason for wanting to write this as fiction. For a story to resonate and sing, it needs characters with flaws. That's easier to do in fiction than in biography. It's unsettling, disrespectful even – or so I felt – digging for and then dishing the dirt on people you love. No, it had to be fiction.
So I asked John if I could use his anecdotes to craft into fiction, making things up as I needed, using fictional characters. He immediately agreed; he was pleased and even flattered that I was interested enough in his life to want to do that.
One of the biggest challenges when writing fiction inspired by stories, family or otherwise, is to create characters that are your own so you're not harnessed to, or restrained by, the real people who may have inspired them.
I knew I had to create a main character that was inspired by, but was not, John. I had to find, unearth, chip out a character of my creation – someone I'd know inside out – so I'd feel free to weave stories through and in and around him without ever wondering at the back of my mind if John might do that. I had to be completely free to give my character flaws – all kinds of rashes, warts and tics – without being hampered by how that might reflect on John. I had to do this for all my characters, for the members of my main character's family.
It was more of a challenge at first than I thought it would be. My ideas developed and evolved, and my research progressed so that my sense of that time period began to be coloured in with more precise detail and vision (more on that later). But as I tried to unearth, dig out and know my main character, I still found myself, at times, referring back to John's persona, wondering what he might feel or do in a fictional incident, trying to understand him as a young lad.
I knew I hadn't yet nailed that elusive main character, but that I had to find him in order to write this book – a character who could be himself.
So I chipped away at it. Finding the right name was crucial. I tried several before I settled on Roderick "Red" MacRae. I was aware that people might make the connection with that other red-headed P.E.I. character Anne Shirley, but my Red was not based on her. When I tried to change his name I couldn't, because that name fit him – and by the way, no, his hair is not red!
Slowly, Red came into clearer and clearer focus. When I was finally able to name his flaws and his scratchy warts with certainty and conviction – and with the affection one feels for one's characters – I knew that Red was real.
I'm not sure when that exact moment occurred – it was gradual and organic rather than one blinding aha! moment – it was a spiral of ongoing discovery to the heart of the character. But I knew I was there when I found myself wondering if some trivial incident I had in my head was something Red had told me about, or if I'd heard it from John.
That's when Red became fully fleshed. That's when he took the helm of his story.
And that is when the writing began to flow. I just love, love, love the stage when I know a character so well that all I have to do is follow him/her and write down what he/she does. This happened many times with Red; somehow he had a tendency to veer off in unexpected directions, to do things I hadn't thought about consciously but which, after I'd written about them, were absolutely true and right, sometimes making me laugh out loud.
My next blog post will explore some of the other challenges of writing historical fiction.
This episodic novel is my first foray into historical fiction and it was inspired by my father-in-law's anecdotes about growing up on a P.E.I. farm during the Depression.
Family stories are like gold, but we don't always recognize their value because they're familiar. We often fail to appreciate the weight and charm of this rough ore, and the potential for refining and burnishing it into fiction.
Here's how this novel started for me and one of the biggest challenges I encountered...
My father-in-law, John Gilmore, who is now deceased, lived in P.E.I. and my husband and I travelled there annually, treasuring our time on the Island and with John. Our mornings together were particularly special. In his small, brown kitchen, John would put on a pot of porridge, then he'd pull up the sides of the wooden table which he had built, so we could all sit comfortably around it. After we'd eaten, we'd linger at the table with our tea and coffee and just talk, talk and talk.
Often, this was when John would talk about his childhood – incidents both trivial and dramatic, some funny, some heart-breaking, and the general way of life back then. Being curious and sometimes frankly nosy – which I guess all writers have to be if we are to spin stories – I'd pepper him with questions. Perhaps I'd think to ask questions, as opposed to my husband, because the background wasn't my given. In any case, pepper him I did, because I was fascinated by his anecdotes.
In part, maybe this was because my favourite books when I was growing up were the ANNE books by L.M. Montgomery, so anything about a bygone P.E.I. era carried charm.
But it wasn't just that. John was a wonderful man, steady, deep, funny, and his anecdotes and his way of telling them reflected that. He also knew how to spin stories and jokes without getting bogged in irrelevant details; he knew how to pace it, and boy, did he know how to deliver a punch line. I wonder if people of that generation, who grew up without TV learned, almost by osmosis, the fine art of telling stories and jokes.
In any case, I loved his reminiscences about life on the farm, the bad turnip crop, the lost twenty dollar bill, the plane that landed in a neighbour's field, and more.
One day, as I listened to him, I felt that familiar tingle inside me, the fire of story, and my mind began to trip overtime spinning fictional stories around John's anecdotes. I felt that charge inside me that told me here was a book I wanted to write.
I thought it over carefully before discussing it with John, to be sure I did want to write this book. I never for a moment considered writing this as a biography; it's just not my forte, and anyway, sticking to bald facts can restrict the creation of a satisfying story arc. Incidents from people's lives don't necessarily make for good fiction or drama. I needed to feel free to make things up, to add humour and drama as needed in order to create story and meaning through fiction, because that's what I do best. I firmly believe that I can tell a better truth through fiction than through bald facts.
It's telling the truth through lies.
I had another reason for wanting to write this as fiction. For a story to resonate and sing, it needs characters with flaws. That's easier to do in fiction than in biography. It's unsettling, disrespectful even – or so I felt – digging for and then dishing the dirt on people you love. No, it had to be fiction.
So I asked John if I could use his anecdotes to craft into fiction, making things up as I needed, using fictional characters. He immediately agreed; he was pleased and even flattered that I was interested enough in his life to want to do that.
One of the biggest challenges when writing fiction inspired by stories, family or otherwise, is to create characters that are your own so you're not harnessed to, or restrained by, the real people who may have inspired them.
I knew I had to create a main character that was inspired by, but was not, John. I had to find, unearth, chip out a character of my creation – someone I'd know inside out – so I'd feel free to weave stories through and in and around him without ever wondering at the back of my mind if John might do that. I had to be completely free to give my character flaws – all kinds of rashes, warts and tics – without being hampered by how that might reflect on John. I had to do this for all my characters, for the members of my main character's family.
It was more of a challenge at first than I thought it would be. My ideas developed and evolved, and my research progressed so that my sense of that time period began to be coloured in with more precise detail and vision (more on that later). But as I tried to unearth, dig out and know my main character, I still found myself, at times, referring back to John's persona, wondering what he might feel or do in a fictional incident, trying to understand him as a young lad.
I knew I hadn't yet nailed that elusive main character, but that I had to find him in order to write this book – a character who could be himself.
So I chipped away at it. Finding the right name was crucial. I tried several before I settled on Roderick "Red" MacRae. I was aware that people might make the connection with that other red-headed P.E.I. character Anne Shirley, but my Red was not based on her. When I tried to change his name I couldn't, because that name fit him – and by the way, no, his hair is not red!
Slowly, Red came into clearer and clearer focus. When I was finally able to name his flaws and his scratchy warts with certainty and conviction – and with the affection one feels for one's characters – I knew that Red was real.
I'm not sure when that exact moment occurred – it was gradual and organic rather than one blinding aha! moment – it was a spiral of ongoing discovery to the heart of the character. But I knew I was there when I found myself wondering if some trivial incident I had in my head was something Red had told me about, or if I'd heard it from John.
That's when Red became fully fleshed. That's when he took the helm of his story.
And that is when the writing began to flow. I just love, love, love the stage when I know a character so well that all I have to do is follow him/her and write down what he/she does. This happened many times with Red; somehow he had a tendency to veer off in unexpected directions, to do things I hadn't thought about consciously but which, after I'd written about them, were absolutely true and right, sometimes making me laugh out loud.
My next blog post will explore some of the other challenges of writing historical fiction.
April 29, 2011
WILLIAM SAFIRE'S GREAT RULES OF WRITING
I love this list -- it covers many basics!
~ Do not put statements in the negative form.
~ And don't start sentences with a conjunction.
~ If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
~ Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
~ Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
~ De-accession euphemisms.
~ If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
~ Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
~ Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"
~ Do not put statements in the negative form.
~ And don't start sentences with a conjunction.
~ If you reread your work, you will find on rereading that a
great deal of repetition can be avoided by rereading and editing.
~ Never use a long word when a diminutive one will do.
~ Unqualified superlatives are the worst of all.
~ De-accession euphemisms.
~ If any word is improper at the end of a sentence, a linking verb is.
~ Avoid trendy locutions that sound flaky.
~ Last, but not least, avoid cliches like the plague.
William Safire, "Great Rules of Writing"
April 15, 2011
THANK YOU MRS. CHAUBAL – AND ALL TEACHERS WHO READ ALOUD TO STUDENTS
In my previous post I wrote about the long circuitous road to my newest novel THAT BOY RED, and how it started with my love of a book, ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, by L.M. Montgomery.
This is how I first met Anne...
It was a hot day in late Spring, in Bombay (now called Mumbai) India. I was a student in Standard Four – Grade Four. I went to a private school, one of the best in Bombay – Cathedral and John Connon School. There was a girls school and a boys school back then, although later the schools merged and became co-ed. The girls' uniform consisted of light cotton dresses with faint grey and white pin stripes, and a sash denoting the house (red, yellow, green or blue) to which the student belonged. I belonged to Red House, so I had a red sash.
My class was large and particularly lively and high spirited – read undisciplined – and as we grew older, we became the bane of all the teachers in school. I suspect that the unfortunate teacher who drew the short straw and was assigned our class threw herself down on the floor drumming her heels in despair and then went on to develop unexpected tics and twitches as the year progressed.
But back in Standard Four, we hadn't yet reached the pinnacle of our potential for mischief. My teacher that year was a western woman, Mrs. Chaubal, and she had a great knack of handling us. I haven't the faintest idea if she was British, Irish, American or Canadian. To us kids, all westerners were simply from abroad, and they all had funny accents because, of course, we spoke impeccable and unaccented English. What I do remember about Mrs. Chaubal is that she was pale skinned and freckled, had reddish hair tidily arranged in a French bun – a source of fascination to me – and she was smiling, enthusiastic, and had stocky legs and thick ankles.
One morning, Mrs. Chaubal, gathered us together in front of her desk to read to us. Perhaps she thought a morning read would calm our high spirits, or perhaps she simply wanted to share with us a book she loved.
It was that morning – squirming against the other girls on the hard vinyl floor, the overhead fan whirring our hair, with the faint school smells of disinfectant, chalk dust and sneakers wafting around us – that I first met Anne.
I was hooked from the start. Mrs. Chaubal read with great expression and energy, and she was adroit enough to skip the long descriptive passages that she thought might make us restless. Each morning, she read a part of the book, and each morning our eagerness to hear the story escalated. We were completely still and rapt as she read to us.
When the school year ended and the book didn't, I had to find a copy of the book to finish the story. I had to find out whether Anne ever forgave Gilbert and what happened next.
I hunted the second hand book stores I frequented, and where I spent most of my pocket money, to no avail. I couldn't find the book in the library across the road, either. Finally, I discovered it in a new book store and I unhesitatingly spent my precious pocket money on a brand new copy. I devoured the book. I was delighted to discover that there were sequels and I bought all the sequels I could lay my hot little hands on, and read them again and again.
I was an avid reader, and I used to trade books that weren't keepers for other books to keep myself supplied with reading material. But I never dreamed of trading my Anne books. They were friends to re-visit over and over again. In one of my infrequent fits of organization, I arranged and numbered my books in order of their importance to me. ANNE OF GREEN GABLES was number one. Inside it I wrote:
The grass is green
The rose is red
This book is mine
'Til I am dead
P.S.Even after I'm dead.
I didn't at first realize, not even after I'd read the books many times, that the world in which the books were set was a real place. I assumed that Anne's world was entirely fictional.
I can't remember exactly when I discovered that P.E.I., the place in which the books were set, was real. Perhaps it was when I studied Canada in a Geography class and the name Prince Edward Island leapt out at me and settled with a satisfying click against the name I'd read in the books.
But I do remember that the moment when I realized P.E.I. was real was a light bulb moment.
I decided in an exuberant burst of joyful adventure that one day I would go there. And so I did, after I graduated from university...and met my husband...and was inspired by my father-in-law's anecdotes to write THAT BOY RED.
I don't imagine that Mrs. Chaubal could have envisioned the far-reaching and life-changing impact she had on one small girl sitting in front of her, drinking in the words to the story she loved and shared with her students.
Perhaps you teachers who read aloud to your students don't always get thanked. Perhaps you don't hear about the lives you change – but be assured that you do change lives. If nothing else, you bring delight – yes, delight, the light – to your students.
Thank you, Mrs. Chaubal, where ever you are.
This is how I first met Anne...
It was a hot day in late Spring, in Bombay (now called Mumbai) India. I was a student in Standard Four – Grade Four. I went to a private school, one of the best in Bombay – Cathedral and John Connon School. There was a girls school and a boys school back then, although later the schools merged and became co-ed. The girls' uniform consisted of light cotton dresses with faint grey and white pin stripes, and a sash denoting the house (red, yellow, green or blue) to which the student belonged. I belonged to Red House, so I had a red sash.
My class was large and particularly lively and high spirited – read undisciplined – and as we grew older, we became the bane of all the teachers in school. I suspect that the unfortunate teacher who drew the short straw and was assigned our class threw herself down on the floor drumming her heels in despair and then went on to develop unexpected tics and twitches as the year progressed.
But back in Standard Four, we hadn't yet reached the pinnacle of our potential for mischief. My teacher that year was a western woman, Mrs. Chaubal, and she had a great knack of handling us. I haven't the faintest idea if she was British, Irish, American or Canadian. To us kids, all westerners were simply from abroad, and they all had funny accents because, of course, we spoke impeccable and unaccented English. What I do remember about Mrs. Chaubal is that she was pale skinned and freckled, had reddish hair tidily arranged in a French bun – a source of fascination to me – and she was smiling, enthusiastic, and had stocky legs and thick ankles.
One morning, Mrs. Chaubal, gathered us together in front of her desk to read to us. Perhaps she thought a morning read would calm our high spirits, or perhaps she simply wanted to share with us a book she loved.
It was that morning – squirming against the other girls on the hard vinyl floor, the overhead fan whirring our hair, with the faint school smells of disinfectant, chalk dust and sneakers wafting around us – that I first met Anne.
I was hooked from the start. Mrs. Chaubal read with great expression and energy, and she was adroit enough to skip the long descriptive passages that she thought might make us restless. Each morning, she read a part of the book, and each morning our eagerness to hear the story escalated. We were completely still and rapt as she read to us.
When the school year ended and the book didn't, I had to find a copy of the book to finish the story. I had to find out whether Anne ever forgave Gilbert and what happened next.
I hunted the second hand book stores I frequented, and where I spent most of my pocket money, to no avail. I couldn't find the book in the library across the road, either. Finally, I discovered it in a new book store and I unhesitatingly spent my precious pocket money on a brand new copy. I devoured the book. I was delighted to discover that there were sequels and I bought all the sequels I could lay my hot little hands on, and read them again and again.
I was an avid reader, and I used to trade books that weren't keepers for other books to keep myself supplied with reading material. But I never dreamed of trading my Anne books. They were friends to re-visit over and over again. In one of my infrequent fits of organization, I arranged and numbered my books in order of their importance to me. ANNE OF GREEN GABLES was number one. Inside it I wrote:
The grass is green
The rose is red
This book is mine
'Til I am dead
P.S.Even after I'm dead.
I didn't at first realize, not even after I'd read the books many times, that the world in which the books were set was a real place. I assumed that Anne's world was entirely fictional.
I can't remember exactly when I discovered that P.E.I., the place in which the books were set, was real. Perhaps it was when I studied Canada in a Geography class and the name Prince Edward Island leapt out at me and settled with a satisfying click against the name I'd read in the books.
But I do remember that the moment when I realized P.E.I. was real was a light bulb moment.
I decided in an exuberant burst of joyful adventure that one day I would go there. And so I did, after I graduated from university...and met my husband...and was inspired by my father-in-law's anecdotes to write THAT BOY RED.
I don't imagine that Mrs. Chaubal could have envisioned the far-reaching and life-changing impact she had on one small girl sitting in front of her, drinking in the words to the story she loved and shared with her students.
Perhaps you teachers who read aloud to your students don't always get thanked. Perhaps you don't hear about the lives you change – but be assured that you do change lives. If nothing else, you bring delight – yes, delight, the light – to your students.
Thank you, Mrs. Chaubal, where ever you are.
April 5, 2011
COMING FULL CIRCLE – THE ROAD TO RED
My latest book, a middle-grade novel THAT BOY RED (HarperCollins Canada) will be out in bookstores in mid-April. Set in Prince Edward Island during the Depression the book follows the escapades – sometimes hilarious, sometimes hair-raising – of eleven-year-old Roderick "Red" MacRae, and his coming of age through a particularly tumultuous year.
Seeing this book in print feels in a strange and satisfying way like coming full circle. Like most authors, I am repeatedly asked where I get my ideas and about the stories behind the story. Sometimes it can be difficult to remember, so organic and convoluted is the process.
But the story behind RED is a long road that winds back to my childhood.
When I was a girl growing up in India and then England, one of my favourite books was ANNE OF GREEN GABLES by L.M. Montgomery. I loved that book. I read and re-read it umpteen times, as well as its sequels, until the world in which it was set, Prince Edward Island, became as familiar to me as mine. Or perhaps more familiar in the magical way in which imagined and internal worlds can be more real than external ones.
I'm not quite sure what it was about this book that so gripped me, so worked into my inner being. Perhaps it's because Anne's world was so different from mine.
My world when I first met Anne (how I met her is another story, for my next blog post), when I first walked through the magic portal of that book, was Mumbai, a sprawling city teeming with people, hot, dusty, vibrant, a cacophony of colour and sounds.
Anne's world was almost the polar opposite – rural, contained, peaceful, with familiar nooks and crannies, beloved fields, wild flowers, woods. I crossed roads with blaring traffic and a maidan – a field – to get to school, a field filled with people, the grass trampled by many feet. Anne walked through the woods, through Violet Vale to school. What were violets? What were mayflowers? I had hibiscus, boring, familiar old hibiscus.
I was fascinated by Anne's cosy family life with Matthew and Marilla, the meals eaten together, the predictability and stability of chores. The satisfaction of contributing to the household. My parents, as upper middle class Indians, had an active social life and servants to do all the work. We children rarely ate dinner with our parents. (And dinner was always the evening meal; the mid-day meal always lunch.) I was wistfully envious of Anne's chores – washing dishes seemed delightfully cosy and homey. So...pioneerish!
And I was fascinated by Anne's climate. Oh, the magic of snow.
I'd never seen snow. My seasons consisted of hot, hotter and wet – the wet part being the monsoon, when you could count on rain every single day, and after which you could count on no rain every single day. The summers were dusty and dry, and only mad dogs and Englishmen went out in the noon day sun. And of course, children. If I went out anywhere in the summer, I'd collapse in a sweaty puddle – that's right, sweat, no lady-like glow, never mind manly perspiration – under the fan when I got home. Anne snuggled into sweaters. I only ever wore a light cardigan on those odd winter days when the temperature dipped below hot.
The Anne books became beloved friends. They were a constant thread through my life when I moved with my family to England. And like all good friends, the books eased the longing and be-longing that such a seismic shift creates.
When I decided after graduating from University to come to Canada, the Anne books were my impetus for choosing Prince Edward Island.
It was there that I met and married my husband. It was there – during my fourteen years on the Island – that I jerked past my inertia and my fear of failure to finally embark on my dream of writing. It was there that I delighted in my first publication success – a book published by an Island press, and one that became a best-seller.
And this book, THAT BOY RED, my latest work of fiction – this book was inspired by my father-in-law's anecdotes about growing up as a young lad in rural P.E.I. during the Depression.
I don't think I ever dreamed or imagined when I was a girl in India – and my youthful dreams were wildly extravagant; I was not a parsimonious dreamer – that one day I'd live on the Island, marry an Islander and, inspired by my father-in-law's anecdotes, write a book about a boy growing up on the Island, set in the era following Anne's time.
Full circle.
Sometimes life is stranger – oh, so much neater, so much sweeter – than fiction.
March 18, 2011
A GOOD STORY IS LIKE A PERFECTLY DECORATED ROOM
Easy reading is damn hard writing. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne
When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing. ~Enrique Jardiel Poncela
True Ease in Writing comes from Art, not Chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.~Alexander Pope, "An Essay on Criticism"
These quotes resonate deeply as I'm still obsessed with the fine-tuning of stories while I twitch and fiddle with my picture book manuscript, THE FLUTE, due out this Spring with Tradewind Books.
It seems to me that a good story is like a beautifully decorated and harmonious room.
What you don't notice is the work that went into it.
Imagine it – an empty room. Imagine the wall colours, the furniture. The floor. Will you pick carpet or wood? Or marble? Imagine the swatches you bring home and try out in every light, the arguments with your spouse and kids, the vacillating mind about which colours and floors to pick. Imagine acquiring the right pieces of furniture, the hours and days or weeks of shopping, getting it delivered, moving the pieces around until they look just right, arranging and re-arranging, then hunting for those accessories that please your eye. Why are they so hard to find? How can it take days to hunt down the perfect candlesticks? At last you've found them. You place them here. No, perhaps there. Imagine the mess as there's stuff everywhere and nothing looks right and you wonder why you bothered to start in the first place.
Oh, but then you find the perfect rug, only now the furniture isn't quite right, so you'll have to change that and find pieces that work in the new plan. Aaaaargh. But you love the rug and it's perfect so...deep breath. Here we go. Again.
Gradually, there is a sense of order. The furniture in place. The pictures on the walls. Which ones will you hang, and where, and how high? Now you look at the whole and perhaps there are a few too many knickknacks? Perhaps you need to take a few things away?
You'll probably leave it for a while, so you can see it with fresh eyes, perhaps even consult others whose tastes you trust – maybe an interior decorator – if you haven't already done so.
When you're finally done, you fill in and repaint the holes in the wall where you nailed the pictures before moving them, wipe the smudges off the walls – those damn fingerprints and pencil marks – put away the ladders and tools, vacuum up the mess, straighten the pictures, twitch the ornaments just so and curse that this fiddling process takes so long. So damn long. Finally you decide that's it, or perhaps you must stop because you had deadline...those guests to dinner...but you must find the right coloured candles, dust, shine, polish.
Oh, if only you could stop fiddling. Just that shift of an ornament here. A teeny bit there. No, it was better before. LEAVE IT, ALREADY. It's time to say DONE.
You're exhausted. But the room looks great. Everyone says so. When the guests walk in they exclaim and admire. So harmonious, so clean. The flow of energy is just right, do you know Feng-shui? They're charmed by it all. Oh, and they just love glow of the candles.
They don't know what you put into it. The the time, the energy and angst. The fights, the fatigue. The agonizing over minutiae.
No, they don't know see the work that went into it.
Sound familiar?
When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing. ~Enrique Jardiel Poncela
True Ease in Writing comes from Art, not Chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.~Alexander Pope, "An Essay on Criticism"
These quotes resonate deeply as I'm still obsessed with the fine-tuning of stories while I twitch and fiddle with my picture book manuscript, THE FLUTE, due out this Spring with Tradewind Books.
It seems to me that a good story is like a beautifully decorated and harmonious room.
What you don't notice is the work that went into it.
Imagine it – an empty room. Imagine the wall colours, the furniture. The floor. Will you pick carpet or wood? Or marble? Imagine the swatches you bring home and try out in every light, the arguments with your spouse and kids, the vacillating mind about which colours and floors to pick. Imagine acquiring the right pieces of furniture, the hours and days or weeks of shopping, getting it delivered, moving the pieces around until they look just right, arranging and re-arranging, then hunting for those accessories that please your eye. Why are they so hard to find? How can it take days to hunt down the perfect candlesticks? At last you've found them. You place them here. No, perhaps there. Imagine the mess as there's stuff everywhere and nothing looks right and you wonder why you bothered to start in the first place.
Oh, but then you find the perfect rug, only now the furniture isn't quite right, so you'll have to change that and find pieces that work in the new plan. Aaaaargh. But you love the rug and it's perfect so...deep breath. Here we go. Again.
Gradually, there is a sense of order. The furniture in place. The pictures on the walls. Which ones will you hang, and where, and how high? Now you look at the whole and perhaps there are a few too many knickknacks? Perhaps you need to take a few things away?
You'll probably leave it for a while, so you can see it with fresh eyes, perhaps even consult others whose tastes you trust – maybe an interior decorator – if you haven't already done so.
When you're finally done, you fill in and repaint the holes in the wall where you nailed the pictures before moving them, wipe the smudges off the walls – those damn fingerprints and pencil marks – put away the ladders and tools, vacuum up the mess, straighten the pictures, twitch the ornaments just so and curse that this fiddling process takes so long. So damn long. Finally you decide that's it, or perhaps you must stop because you had deadline...those guests to dinner...but you must find the right coloured candles, dust, shine, polish.
Oh, if only you could stop fiddling. Just that shift of an ornament here. A teeny bit there. No, it was better before. LEAVE IT, ALREADY. It's time to say DONE.
You're exhausted. But the room looks great. Everyone says so. When the guests walk in they exclaim and admire. So harmonious, so clean. The flow of energy is just right, do you know Feng-shui? They're charmed by it all. Oh, and they just love glow of the candles.
They don't know what you put into it. The the time, the energy and angst. The fights, the fatigue. The agonizing over minutiae.
No, they don't know see the work that went into it.
Sound familiar?
March 8, 2011
The Pains and Perils of Reviewing Proofs – Part V
It Ain't Over 'Til the Fat Lady Sings
How do I know when I've finished reviewing the proofs?
When the fat lady sings.
That's me screaming when the publisher tells me it's all over, that I can't make any more changes. When they pry my hot little hands off the manuscript.
Which is all very traumatizing.
And a huge relief.
And did I say traumatizing?
And a relief?
Upon which I go and sink my face into chocolate–lots of it.
And wine–lots of it, too.
March 4, 2011
The Pains and Perils of Reviewing Proofs – Part IV
No Sentence is an Island
Ah, this is one to remember when you review your proofs. NO sentence is an Island (my apologies to John Donne.) I have, at times, fiddled endlessly with one sentence, to get it just right.
But there are several pitfalls to watch out for:
A sentence can be well-crafted, but not fit in your particular piece because it doesn't flow from and into the sentences before or after. This can be because the sentence length is too similar to the ones around it, or because the cadence or music of the words just don't sound right. No sentence is an Island.
A sentence can be well-crafted, but that particular perfect phrasing may not be true to your character's voice. It must reflect the character, or be consistent with the narrator's voice. No sentence is an Island.
A sentence may be well-crafted but does it inadvertently repeat words in the sentences around it? No sentence is an Island.
When reviewing proofs, or for that matter, during any stage of editing, it's important to resist the temptation to over-fix a sentence. To remember the context.
Or to employ another metaphor, remember to look at the forest, not just the trees.
Ah, this is one to remember when you review your proofs. NO sentence is an Island (my apologies to John Donne.) I have, at times, fiddled endlessly with one sentence, to get it just right.
But there are several pitfalls to watch out for:
A sentence can be well-crafted, but not fit in your particular piece because it doesn't flow from and into the sentences before or after. This can be because the sentence length is too similar to the ones around it, or because the cadence or music of the words just don't sound right. No sentence is an Island.
A sentence can be well-crafted, but that particular perfect phrasing may not be true to your character's voice. It must reflect the character, or be consistent with the narrator's voice. No sentence is an Island.
A sentence may be well-crafted but does it inadvertently repeat words in the sentences around it? No sentence is an Island.
When reviewing proofs, or for that matter, during any stage of editing, it's important to resist the temptation to over-fix a sentence. To remember the context.
Or to employ another metaphor, remember to look at the forest, not just the trees.
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