The first time I executed formal research,
I was five (dinosaurs). I wrote my first survey when I was 15 (religious
experiences). In adulthood, I was the undergrad who wrote 75-page papers for
10-page assignments, just to fit in every—single—fact. I have out-archived
historians, out-queried librarians, out-argued shoddy PhDs, even out-classed
professors. I have taught research, evaluated, edited, and organized it. I can
use a card catalog as easily as a search engine.
Research is innate to me. Primary,
secondary. Practical, theoretical. Qualitative, quantitative. This has made me a walking encyclopedia of
useless information. And no better at writing fiction. What has made me a better writer is finding
my fiction research process.
I love historical novels set in an
inviolable world, but not so much when I can’t locate the fictional plot. If I
wanted that, I would pick up a history book and read about real life, which
I’ve heard, anecdotally, is probably stranger than fiction. I also love old-fashioned
characters in plausible plotlines who drag me by the throat into yesteryear.
But too often, blatant inaccuracy and too-modern voice tosses me out of the
adventure.
The balance between fiction and fact is the
essence of the genre. The Ken Folletts and James Micheners of the world create
the most accurate, but imaginative, worlds without sacrificing character or
plot. I, however, do not aspire to be Follett or Michener. Conversely, the
writer whose character travels across Europe by rail in 1815 works,
inadequately, on the other end of the spectrum, and I will not aspire to
failure.
Historical shortfalls aren’t always a
feature of description or setting: not always a “white wedding” before Queen
Victoria. Not always a teddy bear before Roosevelt. Mistakes happen in dialogue:
No native of Brooklyn ever said, “You look like a tap-hackled toss pot.” Errors happen in the narrative voice: clothes do not “bespeak”
anything in 1956. No one is “affrighted” in 2014. A “sennight” just never
occurs weekly anymore.
For me, characters first explain the story.
Here, research begins, always for quick answers (Etymology of “electric.” Men’s
hats in 1790. Senate passage of the Thirteenth Amendment.). Eventually, I comb
my first draft for places where additional detail will require larger context. (Daily life of a housekeeper. History of
transportation in Europe. British colonization of India.) Third, I find primary
sources, no more than two or three—diaries or letters or transcripts—and pick
out “minutiae” to add judiciously. (Food at a Civil War wedding. Trim on a
Regency bonnet. Tenth-grade coursework in 1915.)
Last but not least, my historical fact
checker seeks out anomalies. Like the structure of a book, the voice of
the characters, the order of plot points, historical accuracy and detail is
entirely at the discretion of the writer, as is the process of research. Given
my unfortunate tendency toward every—single—fact, if I didn’t follow this basic
formula—if I began by reading 50 books on my time period—I would end with a
history tome, not a plotted novel. If I ignored the details altogether in favor
of character and plot, I would lose anyone who appreciates times gone by; in
other words, my entire audience.
Mari Christie
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About the Author
Mari Christie is a professional writer, editor, and graphic designer in Denver, Colorado, whose creative work includes three mainstream historical fiction novels, one Regency romance, and innumerable poems. In the early 90s, she was responsible for the first weekly poetry slams in Denver and Charleston, South Carolina, and held positions at a wide variety of local and regional newspapers and magazines, including The Denver Post, Focus on Denver, Charleston’s Free Time, and New ReView Magazine. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in Writing, summa cum laude and With Distinction, from the University of Colorado Denver. She has acted as an advocate for poetry and creative expression her entire adult life. Visit her website http://marichristie.wordpress.com/ and find her on Twitter @mchristieauthor
