Decisions, decisions

Sam Plank was not meant to live as long as he has done.  When I first wrote “Fatal Forgery” he was only a bit player, but I liked him so much that I rewrote the whole thing from his point of view.  And then I loved him so much that I turned it into a series.  So the Sam in “FF” was a bit accidental: whatever characteristics I gave him there, almost unthinkingly, I then had to carry on into subsequent books.

But Gregory is different.  He already knows that he’s going to have five stories, so he’s in it for the long haul – and so the choices I make now carry much more weight.  I already know quite a bit about his background – his age, where he’s from, what he did before coming to Cambridge – as these were part of my initial research into whether writing about a university constable was even practical.  But as for his life in Cambridge, it’s still all to play for.

Where did he work?  Now, I know what you’re going to say: he worked at the university as a constable.  But that was only a part-time job: constables did most of their work in the evenings, making sure that “junior members of the university” (undergraduates) were safely tucked up in their colleges by 10 pm.  So what did he do with the rest of his time?  (Spoiler alert: I’m fairly sure he’s an ostler.)  And where did he live?  Whatever I decide now, he and I will have to put up with it for at least five books.  It’s nail-biting stuff.  But I think we’re there.  And one enormous, unforeseen benefit of working on Gregory rather than Sam is that – even in times of lock-down – I was able to go out on my bike yesterday and gaze at the house where he lived.

(My husband has just looked over my shoulder at my to do list: the last entry reads “Decide where to find the body”.  That will teach him to be nosy.)

The approach of Gregory

It’s nearly upon me…  One day soon, I am going to have to stop noodling around in the name of research and start writing the first book in my new series.  What is different this time is that when I wrote “Fatal Forgery” I didn’t know it was the first book in a series – I thought it was a standalone effort, if I even gave the distinction a moment’s thought.  And so when I came to start “The Man in the Canary Waistcoat” – the second Sam book – I realised that I would have to continue with Sam as I had, with no planning, created him for his first outing.  I re-read “Fatal Forgery”, making careful notes of anything I had mentioned, carelessly, about his appearance or family or opinions, so that I could be consistent.  And with every book, I added to his biography – always dreading the day when I made a mistake and a scar appeared in the wrong place or he gained a sibling.

This time it’s different.  I already know that Gregory Hardiman – fairly sure about that name – is going to appear in five books.  This means that he needs to be rounded and interesting enough from the outset to make readers want to learn more about him, and that I will have to drip-feed what I already know.  With Sam, information was drip-fed by default, as I created it.  And this past weekend I spent several hours thinking about how I want Gregory to sound – literally and on the page.  I know he’s a country lad, Protestant, and that he served in the army in Spain – all of those will inform his diction, vocabulary and views.  I’m also conscious that I really don’t want him to sound like Sam, and so I am thinking that I will make him something of a poet – moved by beauty and nature.  Sam was moved by bustle and activity and being part of thriving city, but I think Greg will be a country mouse by comparison.  And as for appearance, well, I’m thinking stocky and sturdy (as a Norfolk farmer’s son would have been), handy with his fists, and self-conscious about his facial scarring.  Yes, he’s definitely on his way…

Rabbit-holes of research

Alice’s adventures in Wonderland start when she spots a white rabbit checking his pocket-watch, which makes her “burn with curiosity”, and so she follows him down a rabbit-hole: “The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way… Either [it] was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next… Down, down, down.  Would the fall never come to an end!”  It’s not hard to see why, when we’re tempted to follow links and footnotes and passing references and dropped hints and other lines of enquiry, we call it “going down that rabbit-hole”: who knows how long it will last, where it will lead, and what we will find at the end of it.  And this is where I am at the moment, as I start my research for the first book in the Gregory/Cambridge series.

Before I can even think about plotting in earnest – I have the flimsiest of story ideas – I need to set the scene.  And so far I have found three rabbit-holes that I need to explore: military history (so that I can put Gregory into the right regiment for his military background and then send him to the right battle in the Peninsular Wars to get his injury and his nightmares); university history (so that I can drop the right references to the structure of the place and its governing bodies, as well as its often fractious relationship with the surrounding town); and details about the life and duties of a constable (which I already know are far more involved and varied than I had initially imagined).

My problem is that, oh dear me, I do love a rabbit-hole.  Yesterday I spent an hour reading happily about a “town and gown riot” that took place in Cambridge – in 1854.  Yes, that’s a full three decades after the setting of my series and therefore totally and utterly irrelevant, unless I decide to make Gregory a clairvoyant – and I can guarantee that I won’t.  I have no discipline at all when it comes to research and I need to get myself under control.  My mantra for today’s research session is: yes, but is it relevant?  Of course, I don’t yet know precisely which details I will use, so I am perfectly entitled – and indeed obligated – to gather much more than I will ever use, in order to give myself the wide knowledge that I need to talk with authority about the period.  But an hour on something that happens after Gregory has died?  Get a grip, woman!

A trio of triumphs

One of the delights (and downsides) of indie publishing (I’m trying to school myself to call it indie publishing rather than self-publishing) is being responsible for your own marketing.  I find that it’s very mood-based: if I’m feeling optimistic and imaginative, promotion and marketing are great fun, but if I’m feeling a bit low, it’s very hard work.  And no matter the mood, it’s important to remember that marketing is a long game: you can put out feelers and tasters and temptations and hear nothing for weeks – months – and then suddenly something happens.  Today I can report three somethings.

First up, we have the marvellous Richard Tearle.  Richard is a great supporter and promoter of indie writers and publishers, and has a special fondness for historical fiction: some time ago he wrote some terrific reviews of the Sam Plank books, and then he asked me to take part in an interview for his new blog, Slipstream.  The questions were thought-provoking, and the interview has appeared today on Richard’s blog.

Secondly, ages ago – in June – I contacted the webmaster of a site called “Order of Books” and asked for the Sam books to be added.  In essence, people can consult this website to find out about series of books and to get the definitive word about the order of the books in the series.  And today – most unexpectedly – my entry has appeared (although I was born in Brussels, not Germany).  Do go and have a look – it’s a really handy website for those of us who love series (and who wouldn’t want to revisit a beloved character?).

And thirdly, I have solved the mystery of the spike in sales of “Portraits of Pretence” (the fourth – green-covered – Sam book).  For several years now I have been in email contact with a lady in California who teaches an occasional college course on historical fiction.  And in a recent email she mentioned that this month her book club, on her recommendation, is reading “Portraits”.  So thank you, Claire and friends in California: that’s eleven copies on the tally!

(And – too exciting – as I write this, I have an eared cocked for the doorbell: the proof paper copy of “Heir Apparent” is being delivered this afternoon.  If all is well, I might even be pressing that big red Publish button a few days early…)