Lobcock! The Fear and Terror of Researching a Historical
Novel
At the 2010 Readercon, I remember listening to SF author Barry
B. Longyear describing how he wrote Confessions
of a Confederate Vampire—The Night, a historical vampire novel set during
the Civil War. The amount of dedication he put into setting the mood for
writing a novel set during the Civil War was impressive, to the point of
playing music from the genre, displaying artifacts on his desk, and even eating
food from the era. It sounded daunting. He had performed a megaton of research,
all organized into folders on his computer.
The problem is there’s not quite as much ready information
floating around about the Carolina colonies circa 1701-1703. Okay, I already
hear an American history major sighing in disgust. Let’s put it this way: I am
not an American history expert. I would have a better chance of writing a novel
about Great Britain because I’ve always been a British history fan.
In truth, it’s not so much a matter of the broad history; it’s
a matter of seeking out everyday details. One huge question: what type of
clothing did people wear? There’s ready info on what the rich wore, but what
about the common people? What materials were used for clothing? What styles,
colors, or textures were used? I never imagined that folks wore shoes crafted
from wood.
Describing meals is important to me. I hate reading stories
where no one eats. What food did people eat back in 1701 Carolina? What did
they drink?
Then came the matter of what people lived in. What house
styles were in use in 1701-1703 Charleston?
What type of insults would have filled the air? When I found
a site featuring insults from that timeframe, I jumped for joy. I want to start
calling people lobcocks (a large relaxed penis or a dull inanimate fellow).
Then I made the mistake of inflicting a serious wound on a
character. Now I needed medical research. Talk about stomach-turning!
All this research baggage is why I was scared stupid of
attempting to write a M/M historical romance. Fellow writers warned me if I
screwed up a detail, a savvy reader would happily call me out on it. Readers
with degrees in history would wait with daggers, studded clubs, and
blunderbusses. Damn, I do love that word. Fellow writers also warned me that reviewers
would cheerfully point out any mistakes, down to “well, that buckle style
wasn't used until 1715, not 1701.” It made me terrified to talk about shoes,
but I did!
Hell, compared to historical research, fantasy world
building is easy. Let’s face it, when you world build, you call all the shots.
You draw maps, name cities, determine what people, wear, eat and how they live.
It’s a blast. The author is God. How fun is that?
Happily I swallowed down my historical fears and took the
plunge. I researched, researched, and researched the research. The research was
equal parts fun and frustrating. When I found solid, factual information, I
grabbed on with both hands and changed my vague descriptions to match reality.
The result? I am proud to have written “Love in the
Shadows”, a mix of a historical and contemporary romance. The historic novel is
set in 1701 New York, then over 1702-1703, in the Carolina colony, Boston, and
Sweden. At least the contemporary story is set only in Stockholm. I cut myself
a break there. I was also lucky enough to have a Swede read the novel and point
out glaring errors regarding aspects of modern Swedish culture. Many thanks to
Alison and Christina for their valuable support.
A note to the 16th century Colonial History majors— please, I tried my hardest. I did. Be gentle with me.
Thanks to Illustrious Illusions for having me here today! xo
Here’s the first chapter from “Love in the Shadows,” a
chapter set back in 1701.
BLURB:
When history,
romance, and the supernatural collide, can love triumph over all?
Opening an ancient trunk
transforms Doctor Rolfe Almersson’s life. When the spiritually-sensitive
academic breaks his rules about touching an article sans gloves, fierce love
wells at him. The unwrapped parchment reveals a burnt diary written by
Magistrate Nels Halverson. The diary documents meeting seventeen-year-old
orphan Aindrias Aster in 1701. Nels describes their eventual love affair, along
with tragedies and triumphs in infatuated, intimate detail.
Rolfe’s obsession with his
find overwhelms him. Reading about the men’s evolving relationship influences
Rolfe’s tempestuous relationship with his lover. Will the story’s romance and
tragedy push Rolfe forward into romantic liberation and academic triumph, or
will it ruin his life?
EXCERPT:
Afternoon,
January 26, 1701, Kingston, North of the City of New York
(This
is where I wish to begin my memories. I own no reason to begin elsewhere. I
need to begin here. This is when my heart truly started beating.)
I stealthily raised my worn leather
flask to my lips and indulged in a mouthful of inferior rum. My body needed the
false comfort on this cold, miserable day. Faugh. Winter’s deadly bite ruled
the day. My mind also needed fortification before I conquered the crucial
matter at hand.
Blast Samuel for
running off with a flirtatious doxy. Lively Samuel’s love for lasses had
destroyed his dedication. I had found him at a Quaker orphanage near
Philadelphia. My former clerk was adept in Latin and competitive thought, yet
deep in my heart, I realized that Samuel’s destiny lie elsewhere. The sprightly
youth had never displayed the proper spine to wear the magistrate’s wig. No
wonder he escaped after a mere six months.
Many a day I
wondered if I still had the proper spine myself. After long years as a
competent yet hardly brilliant judicial specimen, did I still deserve the
sacred honor? Did this sad fool deserve to pass judgment on others?
My thoughts
skidded toward self-defeating bleakness. My fingers clutched the slick reins. I
refrained from indulging in more drink, tucking the half-empty flask into my
right saddle pouch. To arrive reeking of cheap swill seemed unwise.
I urged Bel Canto
forward through the murk. My colleague Howard had warned me that St. Luke’s
Home for Orphans looked more like a stone jail than a benevolent almshouse
guiding young souls toward a better life. His words rang true. The lumpy stone
building looked foul, almost rotten. I curled my upper lip in disgust. However,
three years ago, Howard had unearthed his highly praised clerk from this
establishment. Just after that, a new deacon had stepped into place. The notion
worried me.
My meager funding
did not allow me to hire a seasoned clerk. I had hired my past clerks from
charitable institutions such as this one. Often my choices worked well for me,
except for poor Charles. Damn. My heart tightened in remorse.
I refocused on my
task, urging Bel Canto to the gate. During my dismount, my coat caught on the
saddle. Happily no one watched my near fall from my horse. When had my life
turned into a sad comedy?
I clanged the
battered outer bell. The worm-eaten, stout wooden outer gate did not raise my
spirits when it opened. Curious
lizard-green eyes set in a gaunt, pockmarked face examined me with suspicion.
“Master Halderson?”
“At your service,
sir.” I bowed. “I am here to interview my clerk candidates.”
A cringing boy
scuttled out, pushed forward by the slovenly man in the doorway. He accepted my
horse’s reins with trembling fingers, greeting me with a brief, frightened bow.
“If you please, sir, I shall stable your horse.”
“Thank you, lad.”
The poor boy acted positively browbeaten.
A cold breeze
swooped around me. I slapped down my wrinkled gray greatcoat from flapping up.
A stray raindrop ran behind my collar. Typical. The miserable weather was
accompanied by miserable company. The ill-kept man standing in the home’s outer
doorway sparked worry in my soul. His appallingly defiant stare raised my
hackles. I had done nothing to warrant such a rude welcome. If this was the
teacher’s caliber here, my journey beyond New York’s energetic confines seemed
useless.
The scarecrow’s
reedy voice wavered between respect and mockery. Quite a verbal feat. “Welcome
to St. Luke’s, sir. I’m Master Amos, teacher of numbers. Right this way, if you
please. Deacon Buck will show you the selected candidates. I’m sure one will
suit your legal needs.”
“Lead on, Master
Amos.” We entered the dim recesses. The smell of despair, unwashed bodies, and
rotting garbage assailed my nostrils. I was far from a dandy, but the bitter
smell even overwhelmed my senses. I left my wet tricorn on my head. Why expose
my tied-back hair to the cold dampness? This rank, foul place did not deserve
my gentlemanly consideration. At least my casual day wig sat safe in my room.
The infernal curly confection took forever to dry. When wet weather threatened,
I ignored the need to appear proper.
We entered a
dismal central courtyard. Slick brown rats rooted through a tumbled refuse pile
in the far corner, dispersing only when the youth returned from stabling my
horse and shooed them away. What an unhealthy sight.
In another dreary
corner of the courtyard, five youths, dressed only in patched black breeches
and rough, gray, homespun shirts, stood under a sheltered area. How barbaric to
make them stand in the raw cold without coats. Four appeared to be normal young
men, slightly defiant, nervous, and uncertain. They shivered in the murky damp.
The fifth lad,
taller than the others, stood straight as a slender beech tree challenging a
mountainside’s chill snowfall. The others glanced my way. Number five stared
forward in resolute determination, ignoring me with peculiar intensity.
Tattered ribbon kept his long hair away from his face. Wavy lengths tumbled
down his neck, imprisoned by his tight queue.
The surface of his long face reminded me of rosy marble. A wild pattern of raw,
red eruptions were scattered across his forehead and chin, likely caused by a
mix of adolescent growing pains and poor diet.
Although I tried
not to stare at him, I concentrated on his intelligent face. I realized he was
my choice. Why did he appear desperate? Something in the set of his lips
displayed a deep fear, and I had witnessed enough honest fear to judge the
sensation in my fellow men.
Something in this
hovel terrified the youth.
I studied Deacon
Buck’s poorly-shaven face. Discouragement fluttered through my soul. The man
looked to be a drunkard, a liar, quick to use the whip for punishment. He had
probably procured his current position through patronage, not skill. Nothing
surprising there. Any youth who had advanced into manhood under this creature’s
tutelage could not be trusted as my clerk.
Neverthelsss, I
might as well interview the lads. Perhaps before he passed on, the former
Deacon had skillfully crafted the fifth lad’s mind and soul. I wished for such
a glad outcome.
“Magistrate
Halderson, welcome to Saint Luke’s.” The stout man possessed a whiny voice
which could have irritated a saint. He grabbed my unhappy right hand, squeezing
as if he intended to woo me. His filth skin felt greasy. “I feel honored my fine establishment is
still known for producing learned lads. Before you stand five candidates
selected for your clerk position. They can read, write, and think.” The Deacon
raked his piggish stare over my candidate with loathing. “Aye, one of them
thinks a bit too much for his own good.”
Buck’s open
antagonism sickened me. “I feel sure I will find a lad to suit my needs.”
Despite my urge to point at the slim youth and declare I would rescue him, I
queried the others in my normal fashion.
The first four boys answered in coherent sentences, yet they lacked
outstanding mental abilities. Candidate one, the biblically named Joshua,
displayed a severe stutter, not beneficial in public speaking. Malcolm and Guy
acted too obsequious toward me. How badly had this place treated them? As he
stumbled on his answers, Matthew scratched a nasty magenta neck rash and
refused to meet my gaze.
My head ached in a
dreadful fashion. One last chance for redemption stood before me. Number five
performed a swift bow and surprised me by speaking first with nervous
authority. His alert, green stare met mine. I half expected him to grasp my
hands and drop to his knees.
“Sir, believe me,
I am a worthy clerk for such an honorable man as yourself. Not only do I read,
speak, and write fluently in English and Latin, but I also communicate in
French and Spanish. My handwriting is superior and neat. My spelling is
flawless.” He darted a sharp glare at the glowering Deacon before he refocused
on me.
“Sir, I am accused
of thinking too much, but an inquisitive mind is essential for learning. I do
not comprehend the law’s sterling rule, but I am a fast study. In addition, I
am healthy, I never fall ill, and I am willing to work as hard as you desire. I
will endure long, hard hours serving you. In addition, sir, I feel ready to
leave this place far, far behind me.” The youth’s intense words ended in a
second bow. He looked down at his battered, square shoe tips. Rich, pink color
stained his pale cheeks.
My mind reeled.
What an astonishingly forward speech.
Something haunted
this lad enough to make him beg for the clerk’s position. Indeed, the poor boy
acted no different than a shunned leper offered a king’s grand palace. I hardly
considered the unpaid two-year clerk’s position a prize.
Deacon Buck
snorted in reprimand. He glared as if his irritated vengeance could melt flesh.
“This miserable sinner acts awfully bold for his place in life. You can tell he
thinks right highly of himself. Sir, trust me, young Aster is an insufferable
brat. The chit is not worthy of your important time.”
How odd. I smiled
in arch reply. “Pray tell, sir, why do you present this sinful brat to me?”
The Deacon flapped
his chapped lips in annoyance until he shrugged off my question. “The law
requires I offer you my eldest lads for the position. This dense wretch falls
into the category. I’d hardly select Aster to present to you.” The miscreant
cozied up to me with physical camaraderie. I almost stepped away from his swill-tainted
breath. “Listen well, sir. I warn you, he is not your choice. Mark my words,
this mouthy cur’s fantasies, endless questions, and lies will make your ears
bleed. Aster’s brash speech shows his shameless disposition. Is that any way
for a callow bumpkin to talk to someone like you, sir?”
Buck’s crude
character assassination stiffened Aster’s body. “I am not a liar, sir.” His
defensive assertion barely broke a whisper.
“Did the good
magistrate ask your opinion, you bold scum?” Buck lifted his grimy right hand
in a threatening gesture.
The Deacon’s hand
never completed its threat. If his corrupt flesh had touched Aster’s skin, I
might have disgraced myself by punching Buck’s warty nose. Something evil had
happened between my candidate and the Deacon. I ignored the vile man, returning
my attention to my prime applicant. “Master Aster, I need to see a sample of
your handwriting. Deacon, may we use a desk?”
This time the
Deacon included me in his glare. My stern, cold stare devoured his mistake,
pummeled it, and spat the mess into his face. I possessed a dangerous gaze,
ripe with my icy Swedish heritage. I suspected Viking blood fueled my finest
stares.
Buck struggled to
conquer my will, but he failed. After ungraciously accepting defeat, the ogre
angrily gestured toward a narrow opening across the courtyard. My cutting smile
betrayed my frigid mood. We traveled down a rank hallway littered with
dust-decorated cobwebs which smelled, to my dismay, worse than the fetid
courtyard. Did any room in this pit smell remotely pleasant? Horrible.
Our mismatched
trio entered a crowded office. The sty resembled the town dump. The sputtering
oil lamp’s flicker had blackened the small paned windows. The familiar, welcome
aroma of old pipe smoke masked another sinister stench, something my nostrils
equated with dire rot. How fitting.
Buck slumped
behind his disorderly desk. A crusty inkwell, and a few tattered quills jammed
into a broken ceramic mug added to the clutter.
My nervous
candidate shuffled his feet.
“What is your full
name?”
“Aindrias Aster,
sir.”
“What an unusual
name.”
“Yes, sir, a
family name given by my poor parents, may they rest in peace. Shall we start,
sir?” Another respectful bow. “Let me select a quill.” Aindrias critically
examined three different quill tips, rapidly dismissing them. Number four
earned a thoughtful frown before Aindrias lifted the rusty pen blade and
sharpened the tip.
For a second, I
feared Buck might strike Aindrias for his innocent effrontery. My stern stare
halted him as I encouraged Aindrias. “Excellent. A man who understands his
writing quills. You have neat sharpening work.”
“Sir, I cannot
abide a dull quill.” Aindrias’s words drifted toward the quill, but they also
aimed for Buck’s ears. “A blunt, ill-treated tool wastes ink and time. Any
instrument not kept tidy is useless.”
Aindrias stirred
the ink and performed a few practice flourishes. His fingers pantomimed a
beautifully light touch. He finished his preparation and nodded in approval.
His gaze shyly questioned me. “What shall I write, sir?”
Without asking, I
selected a clean parchment page, cleared an area on the desk, and silently
dared Buck to challenge me. The lout remained quiet. “While I recite, take
notes in Latin, please.”
To my
satisfaction, Aindrias smiled as if I offered him heavenly solace. His pen
anticipated my words. I subjugated my amused smile and spoke in my normal trial
pace. Aindrias’s pen raced across the paper with graceful speed, the flow
broken only for the needed ink dip. He performed the mundane task with neat
precision.
I droned on about
nothing in particular, glancing at Aindrias’s tidy, easily readable
handwriting. Once I finished speaking, I read the written page and nodded with
sincere appreciation. Every Latin word appeared correct. He performed well
under stress.
Intelligent
Aindrias was my perfect candidate.
His tall grace
made me wonder about his true age. “How old are you, Aindrias?”
My question
encouraged Aindrias to stand straighter, trying to appear older by squaring his
slight shoulders under his threadbare shirt. He reminded me of a young rooster
facing down an older, far more experienced cock. He hiked his pointed chin
in the air with stubborn pride. “I
turned seventeen a few days ago, sir. I am plenty old enough for the job. Truly
I am, sir.”
His age suited the
position. My choice made complete sense to me. Unlike Charles, Aindrias would
be my proud achievement.
Deep in my soul, a
knowing voice straight from Hell hissed, “Wrong.”
Black-winged guilt smiled and danced in bony malevolence.
Begone! I vowed to
wait. I would.
I swore to myself
on Charles’s sacred soul.
The act nearly
brought me to tears.
(I need to break here. Writing this account
is more difficult than I ever imagined. A jolt of sherry comforts me.)
About S.A. Garcia
Thirty years ago, I started writing gay male romance.
Writing about men inserting tab A into slot B didn’t seem the norm for a
suburban female teenager. Reading Gordon Merrick, John Rechy and Larry Kramer
helped me fill in the serious informational gaps.
As the years progressed, I still wrote gay male romance,
although the stories progressed from lurking in notebooks to hiding on the
computer. I wrote fantasies, contemporaries, bodice rippers; I chugged along
following my goofy muse.
Now I’m glad I kept the writing faith. I never thought I’d
have published novels. Imagine, my comedy An
Elf for All Centuries (Silver Publishing) was in the running for a few
awards. The novel didn’t win, but come on, what a thrill.
Life is now is a fun quandary of too many stories hindered
by my slow, two-fingered typing skills. I blunder onward into more trauma,
drama, and humor. I just hope I can keep up with sexy men who insist on running
off with the plots!
My M/M romdramedy (romance/drama/comedy) The
Gospel According to Cher releases in late October 2013 via Dreamspinner,
home to my novellas and the novel Cupid Knows Best.
My dark comedies An Elf for All Centuries and Temptation
of the Incubus are sold at the usual retailers.
Facebook: S.A.
Garcia
Twitter: SAGarcia_Writer
