One of the great pleasures I’ve discovered in writing time
travel is that the past can be every bit as exotic as science fiction, that
building the world of the past, though not a flight of fancy, can be just as creative.
When I wrote Screwing
Up Time, I got to explore Bodiam Castle. I memorized the entire map of the
castle, and I could probably find my way around blindfolded. I learned all
about Medieval cuisine (cockentrice, wines, and spices), heraldry, and religious
observances. In Screwing Up Babylon,
I researched city maps, food, the Hanging Gardens, etc. I know all about palm
wine, cuneiform, harems, and Archimedean screws. And for book three (here’s a
hint), I learned about ostriches, anti-psychotics, tasers, and cone mosaics. I
could write a dissertation on dumb waiters or draw an engineering schematic.
But all this information is the bane of an author too.
Sometimes you come across a fact so amazing you want to share it with your
readers, but it doesn’t fit into the plot. You try to make it work, but it
doesn’t. And if something doesn’t advance the plot, you have to cut it—Sir
Arthur Quiller-Couch called it “murdering your darlings.” And it’s so painful.
I actually have documents where I store my murdered darlings because I just can’t
quite snuff them out. When I put my little beauties there, I tell myself, I can
always add them back in if I need them. I never have. I’ve never actually
re-read them. They weren’t part of the story. They were just sparkly bits, and
I was an enthralled magpie. But once I fitted my jeweler’s loupe, I can tell
zircon from diamond. And zircon never belongs in a story.
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| Loupe photo by Adamantios, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons |
Hope it's not just a zircon.
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