I didn’t set out to write historically. My first two attempts
at a novel were pure fiction, one about time-travel and the other finds a
school teacher caught up in the dark world of fine art acquisitions, forgery
and high finance. Both are well developed with interesting characters and the
synopsis on the school teacher story is complete — but the inspiration to keep
going has gone.
Not on its own or by my doing or due to mysterious acts but
simply a case of life offering me more enjoyable experiences than sitting alone
in front of a blank page of paper for eight hours a day.
Then two summers ago I read a history book about the city of
Paris, researching background for my In
the Footsteps of Vincent van Gogh presentation. What I found was a
sensational slice of history right in the middle of the Impressionists’ world.
A history relevant to current American and world cultural issues and with so
much adventure and plot twist that it inspired further investigation. After a
bit more research I was hooked. It felt natural, a story I was meant to tell.
The synopsis flowed, three main characters showed up and the
story took shape. Simple really, just drop a protagonist, villain and love
interest into Paris, 1867 and let them witness the events of the next few
years. It seemed easier to just write about real history than constantly be
making stuff up. My imagination could just relax and let the facts do the work.
I studied popular history books for a few months and got
command of the chronicled evidence. Not too complex really, the facts are
straight forward, and well documented. But less than a thousand words into
chapter two my whole plan collapsed.
I needed my character to travel across town. Simple enough,
walk out the door, down the street and ride over to her destination. But wait.
How far is she walking? What is she walking on? Stone, dirt, concrete or mud?
Can she go alone? What style of dress is she wearing? Makeup? Does she carry a
purse or handbag? What will she ride? Is she allowed on a public bus? Is she
rich enough to have her own carriage? Is it covered or might she use a sun parasol?
Pulled by one, two or four horses? Just ride her own horse? Side-saddle? Where
will she put the horse when she arrives at her destination?
My recent knowledge gains in French geopolitical history
proved worthless. I needed to know the history of the omnibus! And to learn
about crinoline and cannon and coal gas; about everyday life, the uneventful
stuff historians don’t bother to write down.
So back to the research books, back to the Internet and back
to old world Europe to search out mundane history. In Antwerp I rode on an
omnibus and chatted with the driver. He was a wise old man with a big mustache
who told me exactly how my main character was going to travel from her home
into the city.
I think it would have be easier to have my imagination just
make all this stuff up.
# # #
The Omnibus was around in Roman times. Omni is a Latin word meaning: all — a bus for all people. This double-decker version debuted in 1854.
