Anatomy of an Outline, Part VI

A Sense of Entitlement

At some stage in the outlining process you will want to think about titles. This can come at any point. The Dog of the North as a title existed long before the story it told; The Last Free City lagged some way behind; ; Dragonchaser was cropped from Dragonchaser and Lady Iseult's Delight at a late stage.

Ryan David Jahn blogs about this very question over at Guns and Verbs. In general I don't feel happy starting a story without having a title, even if that remains provisional until the book is finished. A title gives a reassuring solidity, a sense of something concrete behind it. It also, as Will Atkins pointed out to me this week, focuses the writer on what the story is about: Betrayal in the Boudoir would be a rather different take on the court of Louis XIV than Colbert's Conspiracy. (Neither sounds much cop: The Man in the Iron Mask is much better but I'm 150 years too late on that one).

For the time being, my story remains The Inheritance Powders: allusive without being obvious, with the focus on the central mystery, the poisonings. I stumbled across it in my reading, the internet supplying me with a link to the introduction to Strange Revelations by Lynn Mollenauer. This included the marvellous summary:

...magical remedies, love charms, and poisons known as “inheritance powders.” The inheritance powders, usually made from powdered toads steeped in arsenic, lent the Affair of the Poisons its name...

Naturally I filed this away for future use.

The obvious title would have been The Affair of the Poisons, but this risked confusion with Anne Somerset's factual account of the same name - and is any event more suitable for history than a novel.

My initial choice settled upon Hall of Mirrors, a perfectly serviceable choice. Ostensibly it refers to the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles, but of course there are overtones of illusion, chicanery and deceit, all of which are likely to feature in the novel. There are counter-arguments, though. The phrase "hall of mirrors" is perhaps too much of a commonplace to be an ideal title for a novel; and the Hall at Versailles was not completed and opened for court functions until 1684 - after the conclusion of the Affair of the Poisons. There are ways around this latter point, but it's probably not a good idea to try to fit the story around the title at such an early stage.

So The Inheritance Powders it is, for now at least.

Anatomy of an Outline, Part V

You're now at the stage of being deep into your research. You should be feeling ever more enthralled about the period you've chosen, with characters becoming more solid in your head, and little details filed away for future use ("Sire, the rain at Marly is never wet", says one toady when Louis XIV apologises for making him go out in the rain). If that deepening excitement is not happening, it may be time to reconsider whether you've chosen the right period.

This might also be the time when you want to discuss your ideas with someone else, although this part is strictly optional. I mention it only because I had lunch with Will, my editor (or perhaps more accurately, former editor) at Macmillan earlier in the week--something that I found invaluable. If Will had felt the project had no commercial potential, better to know at an early stage; fortunately, however, he was as enthusiastic as I was about the idea. The need to articulate the idea to someone else is also a helpful discipline, and gave me a better idea of what the story is likely to be about. Because Will knows and likes my work, we were able to draw out together which aspects of the scenario are likely to be a good fit with my writing and fictional interests. I came away from the meeting not only with my excitement intact, but also with a much clearer idea of the themes and shape of the story. Will also suggested ideas for a framing story and a narrative device which I wouldn't necessarily have evolved myself.

We also discussed titles, and it was only after this conversation that I realised that what I had thought was my second-favourite was in fact my favourite: The Inheritance Powders, this being a term used at the time for poisons used to hasten the death of an inconvenient person.

* * *

Meanwhile, I'm making excellent progress with Love and Louis XIV. Antonia Fraser predictably portrays the female characters in a more sympathetic--and generally more credible--light than Vincent Cronin. She's even making me reappraise my initial dislike of Madame de Maintenon. (Having two contradictory views of her in my head is an encouraging development--the result on the page is much more likely to be rounded and interesting to the reader). Fraser is much more interested in the relationships between the main players than she is in the wider political dimensions--which is why you need to read widely around the subject. No one source will give you everything you need.

Anatomy of an Outline, Part IV

Before the football season starts, players engage in pre-season training. Before they actually play any football, they have to get themselves into the right physical condition. It doesn't feel like playing football, and it may be weeks before a ball is involved, but without that preparation the season is destined to fail.

At the moment, I'm doing the equivalent of pre-season training for writing my outline: that stage where I'm not doing anything approximating writing, but getting myself into condition to do so. That means putting in some legwork to learn more about my chosen period--in this case, France in the time of Louis XIV. At this stage, I'm not even narrowing my researches down to 1679-82, the timeframe for the Affair of the Poisons. I need to have a better sense of the period before I focus in so tightly.

I've now read my first biography of Louis XIV, and as a primer it couldn't have been better. Written by Vincent Cronin in 1960, it's pleasantly dated: Cronin is quite happy to moralise throughout in a way that really isn't fashionable today. He'll infer character from handwriting and physiognomy in a manner that fell out of favour in the 19th century, and his approbation of the Sun King is so excessive as to constitute hagiography. For me, it's absolutely perfect: it presents Louis as he may have liked to see himself, and gives vivid, if tendentious, pictures of some of the key figures of the Grand Siecle. In this way it gives me an overview plus an imagined construct of character - the kind of broad strokes that are highly useful in coming to grips with the period. And if sometimes he irritates me so much that I form exactly the opposite view of a character than he intended, so much the better. From such grit are pearls formed.

Nonetheless I need a corrective to Cronin's adulation, so next on my list is Antonia Fraser's The Loves of Louis XIV, which I suspect may take a different perspective. These contrasting reflections on historical figures are the starting point for creating nuanced characters.

My reading at this stage is primarily about milieu: getting a sense of the time I'm writing about, as well as constructing the superstructure of facts within which I will work. I'm also, as a secondary benefit, beginning to feel my way into some of the characters, such as Madame de Montespan, an important figure however little she may end up on stage. What I haven't done yet is start to excavate the plot (an apt metaphor, because ultimately I will need to trim away extraneous detail to leave the shape of the story I want to tell) or to create any characters outside of the historical record.

For now, that's absolutely fine: we're still in pre-season.

Anatomy of an Outline, Part III

Selection of milieu for a historical novel is only the first of many choices the author must make. In the worked example we are creating here, we have settled on the court of Louis XIV, more specifically 'The Affair of the Poisons'. In many ways, this is the easy bit.

The next, and perhaps most significant, choice is that of protagonist. The historical novelist is freighted with more options--and hence more opportunities for error--than the fantasist. The latter, to oversimplify a touch, makes up his characters and away he goes. The historical novelist has to determine the balance between 'real' historical characters and those solely the product of imagination. Philippa Gregory's Tudor novels use almost exclusively figures from the historical record; CJ Sansom's novels set in the same period mix and match, with the main characters invented. (This latter practice is known as 'ranulfism', according to this interesting if tendentious article). At the opposite end of the spectrum to Philippa Gregory, a writer like Matt Curran can use exclusively fictional characters in an historical setting.

We know enough about the Affair of the Poisons for it to be feasible to people a story about it entirely with characters from the historical record. The main players, Louis XIV, Madame de Brinvilliers, Madame de Montespan, La Reynie, are well enough documented that we can attempt to 'reconstruct' their characters as they might have been (even given differing interpretations by historians). However, this very availability of information can be an obstacle to the novelist, who after all is not aspiring to write a history textbook. The imaginative freedom of ranulfism can allow the writer to create the character the story needs, without distorting the reputation of a historical figure. Judith Merkle Riley, whose The Oracle Glass covers the same events, uses many historical characters but her protagonist is a ranulf.

There is no right answer to this question. The story the writer wants to tell will determine the best option. We should be clear, though, that even where characters in a novel are drawn from life, they will still be a fictional construct. One of the most vivid of all characters in historical fiction, Robert Graves' Claudius, may be informed by Graves' extensive reading of Plutarch and Suetonius -- but the character on the page is all Graves.

Anatomy of an Outline, Part II

For the sake of argument, we'll assume I've selected the subject of my next project (in practice it isn't quite that straightforward: I'm meeting my editor Will next week to talk through some ideas). As some of you know, because we've discussed it in person, I'm looking to work up an outline on The Affair of the Poisons:

The Affair of the Poisons was a murder scandal in France during the reign of King Louis XIV. It launched a period of hysterical pursuit of murder suspects, during which a number of prominent people and members of the aristocracy were implicated and sentenced for poisoning and witchcraft.

The sensational trial drew attention to a number of other mysterious deaths, starting a number of rumors. Prominent people, including Louis XIV, became alarmed that they also might be poisoned. He told Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie, who, among other things, was his chief of police, to root out the poisoners. The subsequent investigation of potential poisoners led to accusations of witchcraft, murder and more.

--Wikipedia

This ticks many of my fictional boxes: court intrigue, conspiracy, murder and mayhem, a clear and distinct society with its own punctilios and protocols. It's not a period I'm immensely familiar with, but in truth whatever period I had chosen, extensive research would be necessary.

The next stage of preparing an outline is do some research. I need now to spend some time immersing myself in the period and the details of the Affair of the Poisons. Research, for me, begins with Wikipedia. This is perhaps a controversial position, but as long as iresearch doesn't also end there, I don't see a difficulty with it. Wikipedia may not be original scholarship but where it is excellent is in making links between related fields of knowledge. A free-wheeling hour on Wikipedia can be very helpful both to gain a thematic overview and to extract some telling detail. In this case, Wikipedia was very helpful in drawing my attention to the Fronde, a kind of covert nobles' coup in Louis XIV's minority--outside of the timeline of the story but clearly important in terms of how the court, and Louis, viewed themselves a generation later.

We move next to some more detailed reading, both specific and general. The starting point here is Anne Somerset's The Affair of the Poisons, the standard English-language popular history of the events. I've read this before and re-reading is now in order. I've also summoned up two biographies, Louis XIV by Vincent Cronin and The Loves of Louis XIV (Antonia Fraser). This gives me two different perspectives on king and court. Finally, I've also acquired the only English language novel I'm aware of on the subject, The Oracle Glass by Judith Merkle Riley.

Many would advise against reading other novels treating your intended subject. I take the point, but from what I know of the book, its preoccupations are rather different to mine; I hope it will illuminate rather than constrain my imagination.

Some of my more informal research included speaking to real live French people. There was a clear consensus here that if I wanted to cover this period, I needed to read Dumas' The Man in the Iron Mask, and for various reasons this seems to me a worthwhile pursuit.

That's my summer reading taken care of. Note that at this stage I am not even close to knowing the plot (the Affair of the Poisons is too large to fit everything in). I don't even know the characters, or the mixture of historical and fictional ones. These are the things which will determine the flavour of the book, but at this stage in my knowledge, those decisions are premature.

Anatomy of an Outline, Part I

I have been using the time since Macmillan declined The Last Free City considering where the muse is going to take me next, given that my Mondia series of novels is now on indefinite hold. Will, my editor at Macmillan, remains keen to see what I might do next, and expressed particular interest in writing some historical fiction.

I've decided, therefore, to work up an outline for a historical piece, a first for me in two ways: I've never worked to an outline before, and I've never tried anything historical. An outline doesn't commit me to anything, of course, but it's a chance for me to see if I can put together a story that excites me away from my normal fantasy milieu. (In the meantime, I am making efforts to place The Last Free City, which might change my emphasis once again).

Before I commit anything to paper, I have choices to make. This series of blog posts will examine those choices as I go through the process, to the point where--if all goes well--I have an outline.

The first choice to make is "when?". Which historical period do I know enough about to feel confident to inhabit for up to two years, and which will sustain my interest for that long? Readers of ::Acquired Taste will know that I've been absorbed by various different periods and locales, so let's consider some of the options.

Imperial Rome
Advantages: hugely dramatic environment, with lots of the political intrigue and violence I enjoy writing about
Disadvantages: the shadow of I, Claudius. The period is pretty much done to death and would need a new angle.

Byzantium, 800-1453
Advantages: see Imperial Rome, with the addition of a milieu less likely to be familiar to the reader
Disadvantages: my knowledge is too sketchy for me to feel confident even to produce an outline without extensive research.

14th Century England
Advantages: dramatic backdrop (desposition of Edward II, Hundred Years War, Black Death, Peasants' Revolt, deposition of Richard II). Plenty of available research material.
Disadvantages: none

15th century Dubrovnik
Advantages: extensively, if covertly, explored in The Last Free City
Disadvantages: extensively, if covertly, explored in The Last Free City

The Wars of the Roses
Advantages: epic scope, treachery, mingling of personal and political dramas
Disadvantages: none

Tudor England
Advantages: extensive familiarity with turbulent period
Disadvantages: popularity of the period in fiction means an original angle would be essential

'The Affair of the Poisons', Court of Louis XIV
Advantages: ready-made story which maps many of my fictional preoccupations. Almost untreated in English-language fiction
Disadvantages: my knowledge of the period is cursory at best

19th Century England
Advantages: extensive knowledge of the period through both history and fiction
Disadvantages: none

My outline will almost certainly come from one of these areas. Note that I have not yet given any thought to a story (with the partial exception of 'The Affair of the Poisons'). What I am looking to do at this stage is to find a fictional home, an environment where I will back myself to convince the reader and be confident that I can set a compelling story.

The next stage will be to choose which period to investigate further. Then it's a question of selecting a "situation" (i.e. the broad storyline, without necessarily identifying characters at this stage). Only at that stage will I start to work out who my characters are, and the viewpoint choices which will make this work best.

Watch this space to see the outline develop!

Back to the drawing board

Pop over to the Macmillan New Writers' blog here for a more detailed examination of the disappointing but hardly unexpected news that Macmillan have turned down The Last Free City.

My attention now turns immediately to other means I might use to get the book into print, and what project to begin next. Self-pity is an unattractive characteristic and rarely leads to constructive outcomes. The only way to deal with rejection--it is impossible to function as a writer without this attitude--is to extract as many lessons as possible from the episode and then start writing something else.

Genre Corner

Yesterday's New York Times contains a lengthy and well-informed appreciation of Jack Vance (click here). If your time for net-surfing is limited, hop over there and read the piece, a far better use of your time than hanging out at ::Acquired Taste. I've long argued that Vance is one of the great 20th century writers, ignored by the critical establishment for having the temerity to write science fiction (you can get away with writing crime and still be appreciated, but sf is the last bastion of the nerd...). It's refreshing to see Vance treated to a serious piece in a respected publication.

Over the past week I've been reading another writer from the genre ghetto, Patrick Rothfuss. His debut fantasy, The Name of the Wind, came out a couple of years ago. It's earned a lot of favourable attention, and I can see why. It's a very traditional fantasy (he's trying neither to reinvent nor subvert the genre) of a young man, Kvothe, a precocious magician and musician. The novel follows his admittance to a wizard-school which owes more to Earthsea than Hogwarts, surrounded by a framing story which at once undercuts and intensifies the central narrative. The book isn't really finished: it's one of those trilogies where the individual volumes don't stand alone - never something that worries me as a reader. If a story takes 600,000 words to tell, then it takes 600,000 words to tell.

If you're going to tell a very traditional fantasy story, there are particular challenges, because it's all been done before: you have to do it better. Rothfuss is a gifted writer: his prose is at once concrete and allusive, he has considerable emotional range and the underrated knack of integrating the comic and the tragic. The way in which the framing story and the back story dovetail is highly accomplished, and makes the book significantly more interesting than if the story were retailed chronologically.

For me the book has only two weaknesses: Kvothe is just too implausibly talented (child prodigies are very hard to bring off and I'm not convinced Rothfuss quite manages it), and the storyline is studded with foreshadowing which ultimately becomes distracting. Foreshadowing is a wonderful literary device, but it's easy to overdo.

Nonetheless The Name of the Wind is a highly accomplished novel from a talented writer. I'm looking forward to future instalments.

The Lair

In the very unlikely event that you wanted to know what my writing space looks like, which books I have on the shelves, and what I think about them -- or indeed, if you have an interest in really poor digital photographs -- SciFi Now is here to help you.

This week they are running a "writer's room" piece on my garage (click here). It's a testament to my splendid publicist Sophie Portas that the editorial team at SciFi Now have been persuaded that there's a widespread interest in this topic.

* * *

Coming up - my trip to Brugge and some reflections on Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind.

Voices from the House of Tin
A Turd on Every Page: some thoughts on the fiction of Ken Follett

Pity me, gentle reader. Although I have read some excellent books lately, with others jostling for attention on my shelves, I have spent the past week flogging through Ken Follett's World Without End, his tale of Black Death, medieval architecture and humdrum sex. Follett sells a lot of books, so he can live quite happily without my approval, and he's obviously digested the "conflict on every page" mantra*. Incident piles on incident, improbability on improbability, although after a while even this surfeit of action becomes wearisome. Once every couple of pages, breast-fondling occurs: this is the Middle Ages, and men of a certain stamp can't see a woman without lurching into grope mode. Readers will be reassured to learn that breasts in the period ranged from the fried egg profile to ample rotundity.

Perhaps the most ludicrous such moment comes on page 1078 (I really did get that far) in a dialogue of self-parodical risibility:

"I've never been good at breaking news gently," she said. "I'm pregnant."
"Good God!" He was too shocked to hold back his reaction. "I'm surprised because you told me..."
"I know. I was sure I was too old. For a couple of years my monthly cycle was irregular, and then it stopped altogether -- I thought. But I've been vomiting in the morning, and my nipples hurt."
"I noticed your breasts as you came into the garden. But can you be sure?"
"I've been pregnant six times already -- three children and three miscarriages -- and I know the feeling. There's really no doubt."
"Well, we're going to have a child."

You have to read this several times to savour the full crassness of the passage. "Good God!" He was too shocked to hold back his reaction irks with its redundant commentary; had it been necessary at all, it should have been before the exclamation. My monthly cycle has been irregular ... Good God! I am too shocked at the tinniness of this to hold back my reaction. I noticed your breasts as you came into the garden. This spectacular non sequitur defies any kind of logic: are painful nipples really so obvious, even in Follett's mammocentric fictional world?

Writing of this standard annoyed me particularly in the context of the book I am currently reading, Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind. This is a fantasy with prose of relaxed elegance, a pleasantly judged humour and an engaging authorial voice. Yet Rothfuss, a purveyor of mere fantasy, the preserve of maladjusted adolescents, sits on the bottom table in the Grand Hall of Literature, while Follett, though never likely to win the Booker Prize, basks in vast sales and a degree of critical success. Ladies and gentlemen, there ain't no justice.

* the rather more challenging maxim introduced to me by David Isaak, "a gem on every page", has not been fully implemented. Is there a school of creative writing which demands "a turd on every page"? Or indeed "a tit on every page"...