As a historical novelist, I’d say that what resides in the details is a sense of place and time. Whether found by accurate research, by educated guesswork or by extrapolation, details endow fiction with a near-tangible quality that lets both the writer and the reader experience a measure of truth behind it. We ‘hear’ a long dead spy’s voice in the clipped sentences and spelling quirks of his reports, or we find a mindset in a statesman’s liking for trees and Italy.
Details are also highly addictive.
I usually begin by wanting to know something innocent — say, what fine Moroccan jewellery would have looked like five and a half centuries ago. And at four in the morning, I’m still browsing the web, and writing to friends whose spouses work in museums, or to complete strangers who happen to be historians. In the end, the (broken) Moroccan necklace will make one brief appearance — but it will look like an actual sixteenth-century one.
Once, a few books ago, I spent a happy hour in an antiquary’s shop in Venice, peppering the owner with questions about just what kind of blade a certain kind of Venetian citizen would have bought and worn, so that, in The Road to Murder, Paolo Citolini’s Venetian dagger was not just an element of the plot, but also something that his grandfather could have bought, and his father brought with him in his English exile as a piece of home.
And then there was the session of theatre rehearsals I hijacked into a demonstration of the different styles in Renaissance fencing, to see just what my protagonist, Tom Walsingham, would learn from an Italian swordsmaster. Or the museum curator who asked his mayor for leave in orderpermission to scan old cadastral maps for me. Or the kind librarian at the diocese of Paris’ archives whom I sent on a quest for the name of the bishop’s coadjutor in 1587. Most diocesan records were lost during the Revolution, and the name I wanted couldn’t be found — and yet I became fascinated with the idea of this nameless coadjutor: can he truly be only clinging to the cliff of history by a brief mention in an English diplomatic report? Someday this will be a story, too.
And what would the inn have been called in this village? And where would the great stairs have been in that long-destroyed manor house? Details — often quite small — to be happily hunted down rabbit-holes. They don’t even all necessarily end up on the page: what goes there thickens the atmosphere; what doesn’t still serves to add depth and texture and colour to the story.
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