Pigeon pie and unruly curls

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banker, editing, Fatal Forgery, magistrate, Martha Plank, Samuel Plank, The Man in the Canary Waistcoat

Way back in November, I mentioned in a post that it would make sense for me to start keeping track of details that I mention about my characters in “Fatal Forgery” and “The Man in the Canary Waistcoat”, so that I can avoid blunders like making Wilson dark-haired in one book and then fair in the next.  It’s taken me a while to get around to it, but I realised that the longer I leave it – i.e. the more books I write – the more difficult it will become.  And so this weekend I speed-read (sped-read?) both novels again, looking out for descriptive details.

(I hope it doesn’t sound too conceited, but I have to say that I was really rather proud of what I had written.  I haven’t read either book since publication, so I had forgotten quite a lot, and I’m glad to say that the stories hang together well.)

As I was gathering details, I realised that I am building up a core cast of characters.  There are Sam and Martha, of course, and then Wilson.  But then there are also the magistrate Conant and the banker Freame and the prison keeper Wontner.  I like them all, and I think Sam is the sort of man who would make and retain loyal friends, so I hope that they can all appear in all of the novels – they are certainly there in “Plank 3”.

So I now have a separate folder called “Character details”, with a sub-folder for each one.  And they’re filled with handy hints like “has unruly curls” and “really likes pigeon pie and walnut loaf” and “teetotal because father was a mean drunk”.  I think the time to add to these folders – rather than simply consulting them – is after the publication of each book.  Because as I’m writing, I daren’t add details in case they change in a later edit – after all. Wilson might go undercover and hit the hair dye.

Writing what you know – and what you don’t

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author, banker, Fatal Forgery, financial crime, magistrate, police, Regency, Samuel Plank, The Man in the Canary Waistcoat

One of the most popular pieces of advice given to writers is to write what you know.  I can see the wisdom in this; after all, these days I find myself writing almost exclusively about financial crime, whether it is modern money laundering or historical fraud.  (I should clarify that this doesn’t mean that I know about these things because I do them – I know about them because I think a lot about how to prevent them.)  But surely the joy of escapism that comes with fiction is for the author as well as the reader.

Take my Plank novels, for instance.  They are about magistrates and police officers and lawyers, of whom I have known – and continue to know – many.  They are set in London, which I know reasonably well.  And the first one – “Fatal Forgery” – centred on a bank, which is a species of financial institution with which I am very familiar.  But beyond that, well, I’m off into the unknown (or at least, the initially unknown – days of research usually put paid to my innocent status pretty sharpish).  Beyond reading all of Jane Austen and some of Georgette Heyer, I didn’t know much about the Regency period – but being a contrary sort of person, I felt that the Georgians, Victorians and above all the Tudors (saints preserve us from yet more tomes about the Tudors) had been done to death, and the 1820s are just so perfect for financial crime and nascent detectives.  I didn’t know much about the prison system back then – particularly the frankly bizarre treatment of debtors (basically, lock them up until they pay off their debt, but because they’re locked up they can’t earn any money – see “The Man in the Canary Waistcoat”, and weep).  And on a personal note, I didn’t know much about spending a marriage longing for children who don’t arrive; I never wanted the little blighters myself, but I have a couple of friends in this situation and was able to talk to them about it.

To be honest, a book based purely on my own experiences would actually be quite interesting, as I have had a (let’s be charitable) varied upbringing and (ditto) colourful family life.  But it would be interesting only for the reader – not for me, the writer, because I’ve been through it all once already.  So I’m sorry but we’re going to have to compromise on this, and stick with stories that allow me to comfort you with some genuine knowledge while entertaining myself with some exploration and discovery.

Hip hip hotel

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banker, Berners Street, Fatal Forgery, financial crime, fraud, marketing, Samuel Plank

This afternoon I spent an hour in this hippest of ultra-hip hotels, the London EDITION.  No, I have not won the pools, but I have been racking my brains to think of innovative marketing ideas for my books, and the address of the bank at the centre of the plot of “Fatal Forgery” was 6 Berners Street, and the banker himself lived next door at 7 Berners Street, and this hotel is now on the same site…  So you follow my thinking: would the hotel manager be interested in the book?

Well, I can’t say yes or no yet, but he agreed to meet me this afternoon and seemed intrigued by the idea.  I told him all about Sam and about magistrates’ constables and about what his part of town looked like in 1824 (for a while, his hotel’s block was the very edge of town – beyond it was countryside) and about Henry Fauntleroy.  I probably talked the poor man’s ear off, to be honest.  And then I suggested that he might like to have “Fatal Forgery” in his hotel’s library or gentlemen’s bar or snug, or perhaps in some of the swankier suites.  And he said that it might be a nice gift for regular guests.  And his secretary said that they sometimes hold after-dinner talks on topics relevant to the hotel.  And I said that many of London’s visitors come to the city precisely because of its historical richness, and might like to know about a real crime that took place on the very site of their hotel.  I then gave him a copy of the book, and he promised to read it.  It was all very thrilling to talk about Sam and his adventures, and I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.

(And just to balance the books, if you will, I also contacted the hotel that now inhabits the building that was Great Marlborough Street magistrates’ court – Sam’s office.  And despite three emails and one voicemail, the manager there was obviously not interested at all.  But you have to try everything, as you never know which approaches will work and which will not.  At least that’s how I got my husband.  Only kidding.)