The question no one asks

Many of you know my WIP (writer-speak for work in progress) is a historical mystery novel featuring Máté Nádasdy, who you met in Death’s Visage. Family and friends enjoy hearing about my novel and always ask questions like, “How many pages have you written?” and, even more telling, “When is it going to be done?”

But the question they never ask, probably out of courtesy, is, “What’s taking so long?” I usually preempt the question by talking about the editing process and how I expect to go through six, seven, or more revisions. But last week, I spent the better part of three hours on a minor research project for the WIP. Consider this an object lesson in what I do and one reason historical fiction is so time-intensive.

In my WIP, I have our hero, Máté, jetting around 1800s Budapest by cab (horse-drawn carriage) to most of his appointments, which was a common means of transit but pricey for a middle-class coffeehouse owner. While a person of Máté’s means might use a cab occasionally, it’s more likely he’d walk or use public transportation.

And here we come to my research. The public transportation system in Budapest in 1889 was a hodgepodge of different modes: horse-tram, electric-tram, horse-drawn omnibus, funiculars, cog railways, and cabs. So I first had to find transit maps from the period and overlay them to determine what was available for Máté in March of ‘89. And then out came the highlighters:

Why do I expect you to have any interest in such a minor point of my narrative? First, this is a significant part of the work of a historical novelist: digging into the past to create as authentic a setting as possible. Readers expect it in today’s data-saturated world. They presume nothing less than an absolute replica of life on that day in that location on planet Earth. The bar is higher now than it’s ever been for authors, exactly because there is so much historical information available. For example, anyone with a cell phone or laptop can access historical maps of Budapest and overlay them with the modern city and buildings. Quite something, eh?

In the end, it comes to trust. Has the author done the work necessary to engender the trust of the reader, and does that effort shine through in the narrative? Often the effort is covert, laying behind settings and the political and social forces that influence the character’s motives and actions. But the scaffolding must be there, else something is lost, something the reader can feel but often not articulate. Trust is broken.

I’m reminded of a quote from Johannes Brahms, the renown Romantic composer. He said he would work a composition over and over until it was technically perfect. Then he went on, “Now if it expresses something deep, something of the heart, that is different, but perfect it must be!”

Readers want engaging stories that express something deep and of the heart, to borrow Brahms’ words. But underneath that must be a structure that is perfect, one that supports the characters, their loves and loathings, their successes and downfalls. That’s what makes a story, not an obvious structure. In fact, the structure should be all but invisible, for when you are caught up in a story, who thinks of such things as the accuracy of the horse-tram system?

So, back to our original question. What’s taking so long? Scaffolding, settings, characters, story. What else could it be?