Having Fun With Research

I've been rewriting a story that is primarily set in 1861. This requires a bit of research to get details correct, after all, I don't have any first hand knowledge of what life was like at that time.

I was trying to find out what it might be like to be at a ball in 1861, since most of my knowledge of that coming from Gone With The Wind, and I figured I should dig a little deeper.

I found this:

 In case you didn't catch the whole subtitle, it says:

A COMPLETE HAND BOOK FOR THE USE OF THE LADY IN POLITE SOCIETY.

CONTAINING

FULL DIRECTIONS FOR CORRECT MANNERS, DRESS, DEPORTMENT, AND CONVERSATION;
RULES FOR THE DUTIES OF BOTH HOSTESS AND GUEST
IN MORNING RECEPTIONS, DINNER COMPANIES, VISITING, EVENING
PARTIES AND BALLS; A COMPLETE GUIDE FOR LETTER
WRITING AND CARDS OF COMPLIMENT; HINTS
ON MANAGING SERVANTS, ON THE PRESERVATION
OF HEALTH, AND ON ACCOMPLISHMENTS.

AND ALSO

USEFUL RECEIPTS FOR THE COMPLEXION, HAIR, AND WITH HINTS
AND DIRECTIONS FOR THE CARE OF THE WARDROBE.

And it was published in 1860.

Perfect.

And now for your edification I will share several etiquette tips from 1860.

Under the topic of Conversation:

Never use the phrases, "What-d-ye call it," "Thingummy," "What's his name," or any such substitutes for a proper name or place. If you cannot recall the names you wish to use, it is better not to tell the story or incident connected with them. No lady of high breeding will ever use these substitutes in conversation.

Under the topic of Dress:

Shopping Dresses—Should be of such material as will bear the crush of a crowded store without injury, and neither lace or delicate fabrics should ever be worn. A dress of merino in winter, with a cloth cloak and[30] plain velvet or silk bonnet is the most suitable. In summer, a dress and cloak of plain mode-colored Lavella cloth, or any other cool but strong fabric, with a simply trimmed straw bonnet, is the best dress for a shopping excursion. 

Under Conduct on the Street:

What are you doing? Sucking the head of your parasol! Have you not breakfasted? Take that piece of ivory from your mouth! To suck it is unlady-like, and let me tell you, excessively unbecoming. Rosy lips and pearly teeth can be put to a better use. 

Under Miscellaneous:

Never affect a foolish reserve in a mixed company, keeping aloof from others as if in a state of mental abstraction. If your brain is so full and so busy that you cannot attend to the little civilities, cheerful chit-chat, and light amusements of society, keep out of it.  

Under Hints on Health:

With many young ladies, it appears to be a maxim to[267] do everything in their power to destroy the health which is so much wanted in the real business of life, and which forms so important a requisite to happiness. In the first place, as to hours—they never leave the ball-room until utterly exhausted, and scarcely fit to crawl to bed. The noon-day sleep, the scarcely touched breakfast, that most important meal, are followed by preparations for the succeeding night's pleasures, or in head-aching morning calls, driving about in a close carriage, or lounging on a sofa, in an over-heated room, reading novels.
Dressing follows; the warm wrapper or dress is thrown aside; over the tightly drawn corsets is fastened a flimsy dress, with an inch of sleeve; the neck laid bare; thin stockings drawn on, in place of thick ones, and the consumption-seeker goes forth to the ball-room again. 

And finally
Under Receipts:

Simple means of removing Tartar from the Teeth.—In these summer months, tartar may be effectually removed from the teeth, by partaking daily of strawberries. 

And I bet you thought research couldn't be fun!
Now, I'm off to read this book more closely!

MEDDLING WITH THE MASTERS

(Guest Blog by my friend Dax Varley, who also has a new YA book out.)

Long before my favorite new show, “Sleepy Hollow” aired—-long before it was even pitched—-I came up with an idea for my own Sleepy Hollow. Something I thought was fresh and unique. A retelling from Katrina Van Tassel’s point of view.

But with great ideas come great problems. Like…uh…what now? Ideas don’t usually come with built-in plots. That’s up to us. I wrestled with it a while, then…

The hard part. Actually writing it.

        Historicals = lots of research x limited word choices.

            Ugh.

But…
    Great idea conceived. Check.
    Plot plotted. Check.
    1793 historical voice. Check.

Retelling classic literature is a slippery slope. I knew there would be purists who’d look at my creative license like it was a fake I.D. But thankfully those were few and far between. Here are a few ways I twisted Washington Irving’s tale:

*(These are comparisons of characters NOT prose. I’m not that stupid!)

Irving’s Ichabod:

He was tall and exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, and feet that might have served for shovels. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

My Ichabod:

Then I saw him, ambling toward us. My heart danced like never before. This young man was eons from the warty old toad we’d imagined. He couldn’t have been more than three years older than us. And with his waistcoat unfastened and shirt rolled at the cuffs, he hardly seemed the teacher sort. Though he did carry what looked like a small journal and a lead pencil in his hand.

[snip] Up close proved even better. His dark hair fell in wisps, framing his angelic face. His smiling lips accentuated a dimple on his cheek. And his eyes—Those eyes!—as green as our meadow, shimmering with morning dew.

Irving’s Katrina:

She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived in her dress. She wore ornaments of pure yellow gold to set off her charms, and a provokingly short petticoat to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

My Katrina:

(Upon endeavoring to dig up the Horseman’s bones)

Near four in the morning I dressed, wearing no stays or petticoats to hinder my work. I slipped into a shift, then a simple woolen dress. Both could easily be knotted at the hem. I put on two pairs of wool stockings for warmth, and tied my hair back with twine instead of ribbon. My slippers would get me as far as the stables, where I’d placed a pair of Father’s sturdy boots. To fit, I’d tucked rolled linen into the toes. My cloaks kept me sufficiently warm, but their hems caught easily on my heels. So I took one of Father’s overcoats too.

Irving’s Brom:

He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round.

[snip] Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!"

My Brom:

“Brom, I don’t have those feelings for you.” Even if I did, I could never put up with his endless brawling and half-witted stunts. He, along with Marten and Garritt, were always up to some foolishness—especially after an evening at the River Song tavern. Where there was mischief, Brom was involved—-be it cockfights, racing, or ridiculous pranks like upending an outhouse or stringing wire to knock a rider from his horse. I would be marrying a child.

Irving’s Horseman:

Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame.

My Horseman:

Within moments, I saw him—a headless outline of black within a gray cloud. As though sensing my eyes upon him, he slowed his phantom steed, circling once. The horse reared, pawing the haze. The Horseman quickly drew his sword and sliced the air.

[snip] His hand reached out—beckoning…inviting …bewitching me. A gray breath of evil played upon my neck, and my name wafted through the mist.

Irving’s setting:

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field.

My setting:

We finally came to a halt at my favorite part of our property—-a lush knoll that overlooked the Hudson.

The autumn leaves had scattered like pirate’s gold. Ships and scows drowsed along the river. Gulls circled the winking whitecaps. The smell of pine nuts and the sighs of lapping water were an elixir for the soul. Because of its serenity, I had secretly named it Bliss.

Irving’s twist:

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered.

[snip] Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

My twist: ???

    Spoiler Free. Check.

Amazon link to Severed: http://amzn.to/1jypOyH

Dax Varley is the author of Severed, Spellbound and Determined, and the Oracles novelettes. She lives in Richmond, Texas with her husband and a half-dozen imaginary friends. Real or imaginary, you can find her at:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DaxVarley
Twitter: https://twitter.com/daxvarley
Tumblr: http://dax-varley.tumblr.com/
Website: http://www.daxvarley.com

Anni's Attic is the American version of Downton Abbey

Over the holidays I caught up on the first two seasons of Downton Abbey. I’m now watching the third season on PBS. I am totally hooked. I adore historical fiction. What I love most about Downton is its depiction of the cultural shift caused by war. Out of something so horrific comes a miraculous evolution in the human condition.

I got to thinking there should be an American version of Downton Abbey. After all, the Civil War drastically altered American culture and society. Lo and behold, the book was in my Kindle the whole time awaiting my attention. I just finished reading and reviewing Anni’s Attic by Anne McGee. I have a feeling there are some Downton Abbey fans reading this and I have just the book for you.

Anni’s Attic
By Anne Loader McGee
Vendera Publishing
November 2012
326 pages

The last thing 11-year old Jennine Nicòle Parkington wanted to do was live on an old cotton plantation in Georgia, and share a bedroom with Annise Loréal Bouvoir, la cousine terrible. But that was exactly what happened. After her mother died, Jenn was perfectly happy living with Grandmère and Grandpère in their New Orleans mansion while her father Phillip Parkington, a businessman from England, went about his international affairs. But the Civil War had changed everything. Southerners were choosing sides and Mr. Parkington had chosen to fight in President Lincoln’s Army. He told Jenn, “Believe me, living with someone your own age will be the best thing for you, especially now I’m going –”

Be that as it may, the two cousins had nothing in common. Jenn spoke French and took pride in her impeccable manners. Anni made friends with the Negro slaves and didn’t know the meaning of the word “etiquette.” In spite of their animosity, friendship sprouted and bloomed through four brutal years of the Civil War. Together Jenn and Anni shared secrets and adventures like all young girls. Then, as the war dragged on and closed in around them, the secrets and adventures became much more terrifying and dangerous.

Through the friendship of Jenn and Anni, the intertwining of the Parkington and Bouvoir families, and the politics of war, Anne McGee skillfully weaves Confederate and Yankee sympathies into this epic tale. McGee’s intricate details of Southern life during the Civil War Era transport the reader to another time and place. Anni’s Attic is the American version of Downton Abbey. Fans of the series will absolutely love this book.~ Copyright (c) 2013 by Peggy Tibbetts

Peggy Tibbetts
Coming soon! Crazy Bitch – a dogoir

Now available at Amazon
PFC Liberty Stryker -- "a wild ride like no other"
Letters to Juniper – 2012 Colorado Book Award Finalist

Become a Facebook fan
Love dogs? Like Zeus and Pepé -- the odd couple

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Every writer knows the importance of a character’s name in a story. Think Pansy O’Hara, instead of Scarlett O’Hara. We picture a quite different character when looking at these two names. These names are both fictitious. What I want to discuss today is using “real” names for our characters. Is this good or bad?


In my young adult historical novel, my major characters are fictional, so no problem there. I did use names such as Ulysses S. Grant, John Pemberton, and Jefferson Davis. Except for Pemberton, who has a very brief part, they’re only mentioned, not actual characters in the story. The setting is real and the siege of Vicksburg, Ms, actually occurred. The facts can be checked, so those I’m comfortable with.

The story that worries me, where I changed the names again and again, is my middle grade historical Scattered to the Winds. Since the story is loosely based on my mother’s life, I started out using her name. As it is her story, it seemed like the thing to do when I was writing it. Her brothers and sisters also have their real names, as do the parents and foster parents. Then I decided I might need to use fictional names, so I played with different names that were popular during the early 1900s. I wrote another draft of the story with the new names. It was not my mother’s story, though. So I went back to the original version, and it will be published using their “real” names.

After I sold the manuscript, panic set in. All of the characters are deceased now, most many years ago. It’s not that I say anything bad about them, but I still wonder how they would feel reading this part true, part make believe story with their names. And, since I wrote the story I have met some of the descendants of my mother’s foster parents. They call me “cousin” and are the nicest people. They’ve even given me a genealogy of the family. What will they think, however, when they read my story about their grandmother and grandfather? Much of the story comes from my imagination, because I know so little of the facts of their lives. The “cousins” know about my book. They’re waiting for it to be published, and I am scared.

What will they think? (Yeah, a bit late for me to consider this.) I hope they will like it. What if they hate it? Yes, I know, writers are notoriously insecure. Anyhow, what about you? Do you ever use “real” names in your stories? If so, are you nervous about it? Or has it turned out great?

Trust the Process

In her recent post, Revising & Rewriting, Christine Marciniak confirmed once again that writing is re-writing.

Here are more quotations to bring home the point:

“I'm not a very good writer, but I'm an excellent rewriter.” – James Michener

“Rewriting is like scrubbing the basement floor with a toothbrush.” – Pete Murphy

“There are days when the result is so bad that no fewer than five revisions are required. In contrast, when I'm greatly inspired, only four revisions are needed.” – John Kenneth Galbraith

“Writing is rewriting ... If you fall in love with the vision you want of your work and not your words, the rewriting will become easier.” – Nora DeLoach

“To be a writer is to throw away a great deal, not to be satisfied, to type again, and then again and once more, and over and over.” – John Hersey

I agree with all of the above and Christine. I have written and re-written several novels over the years. I love revision. I would much rather sit down with a printed manuscript and a red pencil than stare at a blank page on the computer screen any day.

But I’m here to tell you, once in a blue moon, inspiration strikes and the story flows onto the page as though you – the writer – are taking dictation. As I mentioned in my post Unlocking the Mystery of Sarah, my soon-to-be released middle grade novel, Letters to Juniper came to me in the voice of Sarah. The writing was driven by inspiration, which is not to say I didn’t have to do research. I most certainly did. Nor did I sit down and write the book in a week. I wasn’t THAT inspired. When I wrote, the words flowed almost effortlessly. It only took six months, the shortest amount of time it has ever taken me to finish a manuscript.

My normal writing process is similar to what Dean Koontz described in a 2003 interview in The Writer magazine. The interviewer asked, “Do you revise as you go along or do you write the entire first draft and then revise?”

Koontz replied, “I cannot move on to Page 2 until Page 1 is as perfect as I can make it. On average I do 20 to 30 drafts of a page, occasionally many more, and then proceed to the next page. At the end of each chapter, I print out and pencil the text a few times, to catch problems I didn't see on the screen. I build a book much the way marine polyps build a coral reef through the accretion of millions of their calcareous skeletons: slowly.”

Oh yeah. That’s me all right – 99.99% of the time anyway. Letters to Juniper was different. Yes, I edited while I wrote, though not as meticulously as usual. I always hesitate to call anything a first draft because of all the editing I do during the writing down process, so I call it a finished draft. Once I have a finished draft, the real writing begins. Revising & Rewriting. For me it usually involves major reconstruction. Except with Letters to Juniper. I edited the manuscript, changed a few things here and there, added depth to scenes, rearranged words, etc. I had no desire to make any revisions. No chapters in the trash can, no new scenes, no deleted characters, nothing like that. I put the manuscript in a drawer for a couple months, then I read it again. I edited it some more, but had no urge to rewrite anything. It was an odd sensation.

The same voice that dictated the story, told me to trust the process. So I passed it around to a half dozen readers. Everyone said they loved it and I should leave it alone. I asked a few more people to read it. Same responses. Several times Letters to Juniper came close to netting me a contract with a major publisher. Little, Brown held onto it for nearly two years. The editors at a small publishing house thought the letters format was all wrong. She wanted me to rewrite it in 3rd person and expand on the FBI standoff.

I read and re-read the editor’s email. I re-read the manuscript. I twisted my brain in knots thinking about it. But it came down to the whole vision thing in the end. My readers had seen it, too. Those I asked didn’t think I should rewrite it. My daughter Ema said, “Don’t you dare change a thing.”

Once a story is written it can take on a life of its own. Letters to Juniper is one of those stories. It breathed on its own from the very beginning. My job was simply to write it down – and trust the process.

I dedicated the publication of Letters to Juniper to Ema.

Peggy Tibbetts

My books

My blogs:
Advice from a Caterpillar
From the Styx

Unlocking the Mystery of Sarah

The last time I blogged here I said I would tell you about my YA/crossover manuscript, PFC Liberty Stryker. Some things have changed since then. Eventually I will get to that story.

In the meantime, it just so happens I have a middle grade title coming soon in ebook from Binary Press Publications.

*UPDATE*
Letters to Juniper will be released in ebook in November.

Letters to Juniper is a gripping account of life inside a Separatist compound during an FBI standoff, from a 12-year old girl’s perspective. Sarah Smith remembers when she was six years old her mother died and she moved to northern Idaho with her brother and father. Their lives changed drastically. The only vivid memory she has of her early childhood is her best friend Juniper Holland. In her letters to Juniper, Sarah reveals her innermost thoughts and feelings about her reclusive life with three younger brothers under the rigid oppression of her father and stepmother who call themselves Separatists. Their lives are turned upside down by an FBI investigation into her father’s association with members of the Aryan Nation. As the tension and violence escalate, Sarah faces life and death decisions in order to survive.

In May 2007, Letters to Juniper" won YA Fiction.com's "First Three" middle grade contest with this comment: “’Letters to Juniper’ was a pleasure to read, and the judges quickly became intrigued by and invested in Sarah's story.” One of the judges was so intrigued she asked if I would let her read the full manuscript, which of course I did.

The ideas for my novels always come to me in the voice of the main character. Letters to Juniper was no different. During the 90s, I was as horrified as everyone else at news stories about the Montana Freemen, Ruby Ridge, and the Waco Siege. In all three cases, children were living inside the compounds during the standoff. I asked the question: “What would it be like to be a child, yet old enough to be aware of what was happening?” Not long after, Sarah came to me and told me her story in the form of letters, like a diary.

Wouldn’t it be swell if the act of writing simply involved taking dictation from the voices in our heads? Creating a character requires more than voices. The character must become flesh and blood. I had to unlock the mystery. Who was Sarah Smith?

The news stories were all about what happened after the FBI showed up. Lots of footage of reporters and agents standing around with video cameras trained on buildings. Okay, so Sarah’s home was surrounded by federal agents. How did she feel about that? What was her true conflict?

I needed to know what was going on inside those buildings, which meant I had to peer into an alternate universe of Aryan Nations inhabited by skinheads, white supremacists, Separatists, and neo-Nazis.

I visited some of the groups’ websites but they were packed with propaganda and hate speech. They were also pretty sophisticated. While I was poking around at one of the sites – I won’t say which one – an angry red message box popped up on my screen: “WARNING!”. The message said something about me not being a registered user. I don’t remember the exact words. I closed my browser. Then someone sent me an email asking why I was looking at the website, which totally creeped me out. I couldn’t figure out how they knew my email address. During my initial research I read about a writer who had become acquainted with a group of neo-Nazis in the Chicago area so he could get interviews for a story. Then he disappeared. I decided one-on-one contact was a really bad idea. I didn’t respond to the email.

Instead I looked in a different direction. I spent hours and hours at the library digging through the periodicals section. I found several accounts in magazines and books by attorneys, law enforcement agents, and journalists, all of whom had witnessed life inside isolated, extremists’ compounds. Many of their stories provided details about the leaders’ use of rigid beliefs and oppressive rituals to control others, especially women and children. I had found Sarah’s conflict.

That search led me to interviews with women who had left extremists compounds with their children, some of them refugees of the Branch Davidian ranch in Waco. Their confessions offered a glimpse into the emotional impact on the children. I also gleaned background information which helped me understand how the women and children ended up in those situations. From their stories I constructed a bio for Sarah Smith. At the same time I discovered a key element to her past that surprised me, and will certainly surprise readers.

The more I researched, the more I understood Sarah. When creating a character I definitely use character sketches, bios, and interviews. But for me, research is a passion. Through my research process, the characters show me who they are. They come to life.

Peggy Tibbetts

My books

My blogs:
Advice from a Caterpillar
From the Styx