Stuck in the Research Mudbog:
Rachael Stapleton tells us when
to
spin our wheels and when to get pulled out?
Sometimes, you just can’t
avoid research—it’s like driving through mud. Actually I’m reminded of Burketon Hills, a thrilling and muddy place my Dad used to take me where 4x4 trucks with
oversized tires would climb dunes and play in the mud.
Much like currently
writing the third book in my Temple of Indra series except now I am
the monster truck spinning my wheels and flinging dirt. The message behind both
mud bogging and research is the same—drive through enough of it, and you’re
probably going to get stuck. With research tires spinning, historical wars
flying and forward progress on your novel halted, what is a writer to do?
Well first off let’s talk
about whether or not research is really necessary for your book. In my opinion,
yes, although the amount depends on what genre you’re writing. Historical
fiction and tech-based science fiction being quite reliant on research but
really even mainstream fiction requires research at times. Getting into the
mind of cops, killers, and the opposite sex doesn’t come naturally to all of
us.
My
series hinges on reincarnation and time travel of a sort which technically
feels a lot like historical fiction because two of my main characters go back
to where it all began to rescue one of their own. Here are some of the tabs
open on my browser this morning Wallachian Revolution of 1848, The Politics of
Witchcraft Studies, Romanian Folklore and Haunted Romania. Need another coffee?
Me too.
I thought I knew enough
about Romania to set a fictional backdrop there, after all I watched Dracula,
The Boy Who Cried Werewolf and Transylvania 6-5000. Tee hee!
Unfortunately, as I pour over the historical facts and political strife that
was the Danubian Principalities,
I realize this place has undergone a lot of war and finding the right time
period is going to be a challenge.
Why
don’t I just abandon this setting? Great idea! How much easier would it be to
just pick a new setting for my book, Prague, Austria, Hungary—oh wait I did
that in Book One and it was also full of political strife, besides would you leave your
once shiny new toy truck stuck in the mud? Me neither. I’m a Taurus and that
makes me as stubborn as a bull. I
would love to take a trip to Transylvania to visit the fifteenth century
Corvinești Castle that is northwest of the Carpathian Mountain range and
situated by the river Zlasti. Wouldn’t that shake something loose? From the pictures, it’s an
imposing building, with forty-three rooms, two balconies and two bridges
supported by four massive stone pillars. I could do some in-person research on
the torture chamber, no, it’s not the red room of Fifty Shades, it’s even
worse. Gasp! I could learn about the Hunyadi era when many people were brutally
tortured and killed within the castle walls, brutally beaten, hanged and
decapitated. The funny thing about research is a lot of the stuff I learn
doesn’t even wind up in my story. But it still informs my writing. This is part
of the job and it’s the reason you should not shy away from it. So here is my
advice for when your virtual truck gets hung up on a rock or you flood
that magnificent engine that is your brain?
Rock
It Out
As
soon as you get stuck, you need to come to a complete stop, go in reverse, and get
back where you started from—solid ground—so head back to your notes. To do this
you need to be organized ahead of time. If you didn’t write an outline before
then take the time and do it now. Start with the hook. This is a one-sentence
summary of your novel. Something like this: “An architect travels back in time
to save his wife.” The sentence will serve you forever as a ten-second selling
tool. This is the big picture and can be used in online pitch contests. Some
hints on what makes a good sentence: Shorter is better. No character names.
Which character has the most to lose in this story? What does he/she want to win?
Now expand that sentence to a full paragraph describing the story setup, major
disasters, and ending of the novel. Ideally, your paragraph will have about
five sentences. One sentence for backdrop and story setup, one sentence each
for your (3) disasters, then one more sentence to tell the ending. Note: This
is not the back-cover copy for your book. This paragraph summarizes the whole story.
Your back-cover copy should summarize only about the first quarter of the
story.
Add
Traction
Place
dry, solid objects beneath the edge of the tire in the direction you want to go
(forward or reverse). Some drivers like floor mats or sticks, I like characters.
Characters are an intricate part of any novel. For each of your major
characters, write a one-page summary sheet that tells: name, a one-sentence
summary of the character’s storyline, what he/she wants (motivation), what does
he/she want (goal), what’s preventing him/her from reaching this goal
(conflict), what will he/she learn, how will he/she change (epiphany). Once
you’ve created characters, take your four-page synopsis and make a list of all
the scenes using a spreadsheet that you’ll need to turn the story into a novel.
Winch
It
If
you plan to drive through mud on a regular basis, it is probably wise to outfit
your truck with some sort of winch. Even if you don’t have a winch, a
friend’s Hi-Lift jack can be used to pull the vehicle free. Likewise a good
writers group can come in handy. Sometimes we need a little help from our
writer friends. Take your prep work with you and talk it out. I can’t count how
many times I’ve been rescued by Yvonne,
Susan, Marissa, Lora, Connie and Ann.
Last
But Not Least—Pull It Out
Oftentimes,
the best and quickest way to get your truck unstuck is to have another truck
simply pull you out. Which means get back to writing and worry about the
historical accuracy, names of places, people and dates, during the rewrites. The
truth is I love to research. I could spend years delving into castle
architecture alone just to write a thriller that hinges on one small and
obscure architectural fact. I would live in research land forever but at a
certain point, you need to just write. That is why I’ve put a rule in place. I
allow myself to research during two phases: the idea phase and the rewriting
phase. In between, research is a distraction.
Here
are some of the great sites offering research advice that I live by.
Curse of the Purple Delhi Sapphire
Temple of Indra Series
Book Two
Rachael Stapleton
Genre: Mystery, Adventure, Romance
Publisher: Solstice Publishing
Date of Publication: February 3rd, 2015
Cover Artist: Rebecca Boyd
ASIN: B00SNAF018
Print Length: 215 pages
Word Count: 66, 400
Print Length: 215 pages
Word Count: 66, 400
Book Description:
As a librarian, Sophia Marcil loved reading, especially books about ancient curses and reincarnation, but she never imagined the legend of the Purple Delhi Sapphire was true until she inherited it and was transported back to a past life where she was murdered. Now she knows that not only is reincarnation real, but so is the devil’s magic locked inside the precious gem. Just as she’s about to tell her boyfriend Cullen about it, he proposes with an engagement ring made from a piece of the very sapphire that’s cursed her. Reeling from the shock and surrounded by his family, she allows him to place it on her ring finger. As soon as it touches her skin, she feels herself being wrenched back in time.
Before she knows it, she’s wandering the hallway of an old Victorian house in the body of her great aunt. Unfortunately, her nemesis has also reincarnated in 1920—as one of her family members. Sophia struggles to locate the Purple Delhi Sapphire in time to prevent the deaths of those she loves, but she fails and returns to her present-day life, to the precise moment she left, with a deep understanding that her killer’s soul is also tied to the sapphire and every life she has, he is resurrected as someone close to her.
Her stalker ex-boyfriend Nick seems like a prime candidate this time but she’s convinced she’s a step ahead of him, thanks to a tip from a medium, she knows that if she uses the magic of the stone correctly she can trap Nick’s soul in the sapphire and save herself. But when Nick is murdered, she finds evidence that has her questioning everything she thought she knew.
Is Cullen husband material or is history doomed to repeat itself?
Excerpt
Fog descended, eerily beautiful despite
the dingy residue it seemed to be composed of—producing an unwelcome metallic
taste in my mouth. I lagged behind, pulling my scarf tight around my shoulders
and taking in the outline of the buildings, which now looked even more Gothic
and ghostly. They gave me a chill, or maybe it was just the weather. I had
snowmobiled and skied on the frostiest of Canadian mornings and hardly ever
felt the cold; I even slept with the windows open at times. But this cold was
different from anything I had experienced. It cut to the core.
Of course I’d read about the smog of old
London, when a million coal fires polluted the atmosphere, but the sound of the
fog horn now blaring from the river made it real.
“Maggie,” Emily said with a cough. “We
should duck into one of these places. We’ve got a pea-souper rolling in.”
Maggie’s soon-to-be mother-in-law gave a
gasp. “A tavern is not a suitable place for a group of women and children.”
“Yes, I realize that but it’s
bloody—sorry, it’s terribly bad weather out here—” Emily stopped. “It’s going
to get worse and—”
“Mama, I’m cold,” Gigi whined. I gave
her arms and shoulders a little rub to increase the circulation.
“What is this?” Marjorie asked through a
muffled hand.
“Pollution from the—” I began and then
clamped my hand over my mouth.
“No use chit-chatting. We should be
there already. Let’s pick up our feet, shall we?”
Maggie, who was clearly uncomfortable,
made a vague gesture with her hands and followed the formidable woman down the sidewalk.
As the ladies turned a corner, a man in
a trench coat caught my eye. He’d been right behind us four blocks ago, and
earlier in the day he’d loitered outside the dress shop. His fedora rode low
over his eyes at all times and he looked to be about 5’11", coincidentally
the same build as Eugene. I kept my eye on him for the next several blocks
before he slipped behind a great stone church. I looked up and began to feel
uneasy as I realized I’d now lost sight of the gang. In the growing fog, the
iron fence surrounding it looked like rows of jagged black teeth. Don’t panic,
I said to myself. Eventually I would catch up to them or come to a place I
recognized and everything would be all right. I knew the name of the hotel we
were staying in. The problem was that I was rapidly being swallowed up into the
murk, and it was impossible to read the street signs which had now vanished
into the fog above my head.
That’s when I noticed the slow, steady
rhythm of footsteps behind me—keeping pace with mine. I turned but couldn’t see
anyone. Probably just someone else out lost in this godforsaken weather, I told
myself. Or the footsteps could only be a strange echo produced by the fog. I
started walking again, stopped suddenly, and heard the footsteps continue another
couple of beats before they too stopped. I had no choice but to keep going, so
I increased my pace. Thankfully I glimpsed Marjorie’s skirt disappearing behind
a building and took off on a terror in an effort to catch up, my mind conjuring
the sort of thing that happened in the fog in some of Gigi’s old mystery
novels. I rounded the corner onto a cobblestone side street and ran smack into
something hard.
Palming my forehead, I realized the smog
didn’t hang quite as low here, or maybe the cool breeze off the Thames River
pushed it away. The bad news was, aside from the offending lamp post, the
street lay empty. I looked up and noticed a sign that hung atop an old
storefront, advertising rare books. Maggie must have reasoned with her
mother-in-law and pulled the gang indoors. No better place than one filled with
books.
Wandering into the shop through a
brass-studded wooden door, I smiled to myself, taken in by the familiar smell
of grass mixed with a hint of vanilla, my happy place. Books were a constant in
my life, and this unmistakable smell always made me feel at home. The bell over
the door jingled and a slender man of sixty with large brown eyes, a long nose,
and a full gray mustache appeared, climbing down from the rolling ladder behind
the counter.
He smiled at me as if he recognized a
fellow bibliophile.
“Good afternoon, miss. May I help you?”
I looked around the quaint little shop.
A polished table sat empty in the corner, offering up only a delicate brass
lamp. Shelves lined the room and were packed with books at every turn but the
store was also empty, unless Marjorie and the gang were hiding in an alcove.
“Did a group of women come in here?”
“No, dear,” he replied and wrinkled his
brow.
Turning to go back out the door, panic
slammed into my chest. The man in the navy blue trench coat had followed me. He
stood at the corner of the street, leaning against the wall, casually smoking
and efficiently blocking my only way out. Half expecting him to turn around and
spot me, my mouth went dry.
“Is everything all right, miss?”
Swiping a hand over my forehead, I
brushed back a clump of sweaty hair. “I’m fine. I’m waiting for someone, that’s
all.”
The shopkeeper stood still, watching me,
his face creased with concern. Hastily I retreated, circling the room, studying
the shelves and looking for a back door.
He followed me to where I stood browsing
an older collection of Shakespeare. He pulled out a nineteenth-century edition
of Twelfth Night and handed it to me. I flipped through the pages, to be
polite, before handing it back.
“Something specific you fancy?”
“I’ll just take a look around on my
own,” I said, then noticed for the first time the book in his possession.
“What’s that?” I asked, squinting; his
hand covered the spine.
“Oh, this?”
I followed him and he laid the book open
on the counter, turning it sideways so we could both look at it. The scent of
dust and pages that time had long since begun to degrade drifted out of it. It
was the smell of the book I’d found in the library in my own time and seen
prior to that in the alchemist’s study.
“It’s a collection of spells I acquired
at an estate sale in Prague a few years ago.” He flipped the thin pages until
he came to a poem printed neatly in the center of the leaf. “It looks to me
like a book of magic,” he added, grinning.
A familiar feeling twisted within me.
Could it be?
Rachel Stapleton spent her youth cultivating a vivid imagination inside the book lined walls of an old Victorian library where she consumed everything from mystery to biography, creating magical worlds, hidden elevators, and secret spiral staircases. At sixteen, she penned a column for the local newspaper and in 2006, wrote her first book featuring an adventurous librarian.
She lives in a Second Empire Victorian with her husband and two children in Ontario and enjoys writing in the comforts of aged wood and arched dormers. She is the author of The Temple of Indra’s Jewel and is currently working on a third book in the Temple of Indra series.
Visit her website and follow her on social media or sign up at www.rachaelstapleton.com to receive email updates.
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3 comments:
A great post thank you. Color me intrigued.
Thank you Mary! Glad you like it. Please follow my blog for future posts. http://rachaelstapleton.blogspot.ca/2015/02/curse-of-purple-delhi-sapphire-last.html
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