Reality in Setting. Too Much or Not Enough.
Everyone’s posting about COVID-19, the Corona virus, and everyone’s probably sick of it, so I’m writing about something else today. Meanwhile, keep your distance, wash your hands. By now, you should know the drill and why it’s so important. And PLEASE. Don’t get your news from Facebook. Or Twitter. Or share anything you haven’t verified via a first hand, reliable source. End of lecture.
As some of you might remember, I’m working on a novel set in the British Isles, a place the Hubster and I visited last fall for our anniversary. I didn’t go with a specific story in mind, but I knew I’d want to set one there. I took pictures (see some here), made notes, picked up brochures. But as I started writing, I found that all the “research” I’d done wasn’t enough. I was setting scenes in real places, and my aging brain wasn’t holding on to the details the way it used to. I found I was referring to my photos, but I never had the one detail I wanted to include. So, I’ve been spending a lot of time with the Google Machine, trying to pin down little things that will add depth to the scene, which is slowing down the writing.
One problem I’ll be facing is how much setting to include. My hero and heroine are both from the US, and they’ve never been to the places their tour is taking them. So yes, they’re going to be overly attentive to details. Readers like to get a feel for new places, but I’m not writing a travelogue. Or a restaurant/food guide. I’ve always said that every scene needs to drive the story forward, and I need to heed my own advice.
Here’s a rough draft of the scene where Heather Donnegal, the heroine, first arrives in London. Here’s your chance to play editor. Let me know what you think about the balance. Too much research on the page? Too much setting?
“Miss Donnegal. I’m Ian. Welcome to London.” He reached for her suitcase. “The car’s not far, or you can wait here and I’ll fetch it.”
She shook her head. “After sitting for so long, I’d love the walk.”
Heather followed him through the parking garage, stopping short as she realized the cars were coming from the wrong direction. Tires whooshed against the concrete, and exhaust fumes filled the air.
Ian gestured to a black Mercedes. He punched his key fob and held the door for her. “Here we are, ma’am.”
“You can call me Heather.” She climbed into the backseat, inhaling the new car smell, wondering for half a second whether they used new cars for every passenger. Chiding herself for such a ridiculous thought—didn’t they have new car smell air fresheners?—she buckled in as Ian loaded her luggage into the trunk.
The trunk slammed shut, and Ian got behind the wheel. “We should be at the hotel in about half an hour.”
Heather checked her phone for the time. That would make it around noon. Her body had no idea what time it was. A sticker in the window said the car had WiFi, so she joined the network, taking advantage of a free way of checking her email. Ling’s name jumped out. Ling, her office manager, knew not to bother Heather unless it was important. She tapped it open.
Man called asking for you. No name. Told him you were out of communication, not taking on clients, but he seemed insistent. Wouldn’t accept anyone else. If he calls again, what should I tell him?
Heather tried to calculate what time it was back home. Wee hours of the morning. Although Ling wouldn’t get her reply until she got up, Heather sent it anyway.
Tell him the same. Thanks for the heads up.
Was it Junior? Was he trying to spread more lies about the company Heather had worked so hard to build? Or hunting for her? Even if it had been, Ling hadn’t told him anything that would lead him to her. She took a deep, calming breath.
You’re here honoring Gerry.
Heather watched out the window, doing double-takes at what appeared to be dogs driving cars.
They’re in the passenger seat. Cars drive on the other side of the road. The drivers sit on the right, not the left.
After Ian navigated the second roundabout, Heather was relieved she wouldn’t have to do any driving.
Her eyelids drooped. She blinked, trying to ignore the traffic patterns and take in things like red double-decker busses. Black taxi cabs. People on bicycles.
Ian pulled up at the entrance to the hotel. “Here you are. Paddington Hilton. If you’re hungry, there’s a nice pub a short walk away. Have you heard of Alexander Fleming?”
She startled. “As in the man who discovered penicillin?”
“Ah, you know of him.”
“I certainly do. I’m a health care professional, and penicillin’s a big thing.”
“The pub is called Fountains Abbey, and Fleming spent a lot of time there while doing his research.”
“That’s fascinating. That might be my dinner stop tonight.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt and took a deep breath.
All right, Gerry. I’m here. Guess it’s really going to happen.
You’ll note that I did take a picture of the sign explaining Fleming’s connection to the pub, but I did NOT include most of the information. Even I knew that would drag the reading to a halt. You can click to enlarge the image enough to read the text.
Also: Don’t forget I’m giving away audiobooks in my weekly giveaway.
Also – did you know most of my books are available for libraries to order? Digital books are great ways to maintain that social distance. If your library doesn’t have it, there should be a way to request it. Even though most libraries are closed to the public, there are probably librarians working remotely who can add books to their collections.
When it comes to setting, how much reality is too much? #amwriting #writerslife
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