THE ENOLA/CRAYOLA CONNECTION

Ever since I was a small child, I have suffered from a psychological condition neglected by Freud, forcing me to label it myself: Crayon Envy. My older brothers, presumably, possessed fully realized crayons in their formative years, but I was left with nothing but a box of stubs, causing me feelings of frustration and inferiority. I repressed these emotions into adulthood, but they painfully resurfaced when I bought my children their first crayons. As the kids scribbled, I struggled not to snatch Colors Incarnate In Wax away from them. Those were of course Crayola crayons, the best, and my Crayon Envy sharpened into Crayola Envy that drew me into buying boxes of 24, then 48, then the extravagant 64. But any satisfaction I gained was merely vicarious; the crayons were for my offSpringers. My maternal protection of the children’s self-actualization trumped my own fulfillment until, after years of feeling conflicted, I came to a powerful realization: If I were ever to resolve my issues, I needed to provide myself with a pristine box of shiny, pointy Crayola crayons.

And coloring books. I forgot to mention, my mother wouldn’t let me have coloring books. She didn’t believe in them. So my first coloring book of my very own, featuring mandalas, I bought for myself on the Internet.

After that my fixation rapidly escalated. I bought myself lots of coloring books, plus crayons to the max, specifically Crayola’s box of 120 with a Mr. Crayon orange plastic sharpener thrown in. Oh, sure, I fooled around with Twistables and markers, but nothing else did it for me like the Big Box of Crayola.

I might have been on my second Big Box when I started to write about Enola Holmes. Or rather, when I started preparing to write about Enola Holmes. What daunted me, overwhelmed me, and, to tell the truth, nearly made me drop the whole thing, was the enormous amount of research I faced. I had to write from the point of view of a girl in 1880, * gasp, choke.* I had never previously written historical novels, for the exact and precise reason that research scares me.

Fortuitously, at this crux I happened across The Victorian House Coloring Book, illustrated by Daniel Lewis, written and researched by Kristin Helberg.

Researched? Yes. Every picture was accompanied by detailed notes. That wonderful book took me, room by room, through what eventually became Ferndell Hall, Enola’s ancestral home. Her bedroom is in the coloring book. Mrs. Lane’s kitchen is in there, too. And the parlor, and the porch, and the library; all of these are where Crayola helped me connect with Enola. Coloring, say, fire screens and silk lampshades enabled me to internalize Victorian decor and the pastimes of Victorian ladies much better than reading could. Also, by coloring furniture and other structures, I better understood how things worked. Why the bathroom and the water closet were two separate places. How pictures were hung. What washstands were for. All sorts of things.

So far, so good, supplemented by other research, but what was I to do when Enola went to London?

Enter Tom Tierney’s coloring books of Victorian fashions for men, women, and children. I hadn’t realized how truly ridiculous Sherlock’s “deerstalker” hat was until I colored one. Also thoroughly researched, Tierney’s books included scholarly introductions and helpful notes. “The most popular colors for corsets were white, black, yellow, blue, and lavender.” Now, where else would I have learned that? “Preferred colors for ladies’ riding habits were brown, dark green, bronze-green, or black.” Bronze-green! I would never have thought of such a wondrous hue by myself. And who knew that real kidskin gloves were yellow?

Altogether, in the course of writing the Enola Holmes mystery novels, I colored three different books of Victorian architecture and another three of Victorian costume. Oh, yes, and one, most helpful, about the Victorian language of flowers.

It’s too bad I couldn’t find coloring books on Victorian Rookeries (slums), Victorian Street Entertainers (dancing bears) and Victorian Social Evils (hookers), but I made do. What I really needed, and never found, was a coloring book or a book with illustrations or even something on the Internet about barouches, broughams, chaises, gigs, landaus, phaetons, traps, dog carts, carriages, and cabs, none of which were drawn by dogs; all were horse-drawn vehicles. I would have enjoyed coloring the horses, too.

“Enjoy” is what the Enola/Crayola connection was all about. Who knew I could enjoy research? The first rule of fiction writing is “Show, don’t tell,” meaning that the novelist should create a visual experience for the reader. Therefore, the writer requires a thorough visual understanding of the subject matter. How better to acquire it, intimately and in concrete detail, than with a college-level coloring book and a quality set of crayons – or colored pencils, if preferred?

Besides which: Hey Mom, lookie what I did!