Showing posts with label About writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label About writing. Show all posts

Saturday, March 17, 2018

A Funny Thing Happened to me on the Way to 333 BC

A funny thing happened on the way to 333 BC - I got stuck there.

I was supposed to go in, interview Alexander the Great, grab my story, and leave. But Fate, that joker, intervened, and here I am - stranded in the past with Alexander the Great. Well, not really - my character got stuck. I was going to write a short story about a time-traveling journalist going into the past, and I ended up with a series of seven books.

When I started writing the Time for Alexander series, it became obvious I was going to have to do a lot of research in order to make the history believable. I'm not a historian. It would be ridiculous to pretend otherwise. This book is a work of fiction; did the time-travel element give it away? I started this saga never intending to take it so far. When I realized that the short story I'd planned to send to the sci-fi magazine was turning into a novel, I stopped writing and spent a year researching ancient Greece and Alexander the Great. A year is not enough. I could have spent ten years and not had enough information. I haunted my local library, I ordered books, I emailed ancient history professors and doctors and asked questions. I looked up toothpaste, measurements, and medical procedures. In the end, I had to walk a tightrope between what I'd learned and how I wanted the story to go.

I spent a year researching Alexander the Great, and then there was the time travel. Can you travel through time? Time travel flies in the face of physics because of the expanding universe theory. However, imagine time and space as a huge, elastic balloon that is slowly expanding- with the inside of the balloon consisting of exactly the same amount of matter as it started with - and imagine that all that matter is somehow connected and is vibrating in perfect synchronisation - and that the one thing on earth that vibrates along with it is quartz...and vibrations are waves, like radio waves or light waves - and those waves can reach back millions and millions of years without being altered in the slightest.

So back to the research - I thought (smugly) that I knew a lot about him, because I'd read some biographies, a few of Aristotle's quotes, skimmed over The Anabasis of Alexander by Arrian, and read several fiction books about him including the fantastic Mary Renault series. Plutarch wrote the most fascinating biography nearly four hundred years after the conqueror’s death, and his research seems to have been meticulous. But Plutarch was Greek, and for the Greeks, Alexander would forever be an upstart barbarian.

The biggest problem, for me, was that most accounts were written centuries after Alexander's death! I put aside my short story and started researching in earnest. Who was this person? Why did he go so far into India when he'd already captured the crown of Persia? And so I researched, and as I sifted through fact, myth, and fiction, it occured the me that the most concrete facts we have about Alexander are from the places he'd been - the actual route he travelled, which is, even now, scattered with his relics. A city here, a road there, an outpost, a fortress, a battleground, a temple built to honor his beloved horse... But why? Why go against his generals' wishes and drag (well, lead) his army across half the known world? It was as if he never really wanted to go back and rule, but go back to Babylon he did, where he died soon after.

His character came to me by reading between the lines. A warrior, yes, but a dreamer as well. An eternal student and tourist at heart, charismatic but short tempered. A brilliant tactician and energetic, but prone to ill health. His friends loved him, his enemies hated him, but no one was indifferent. He was superstitious and religious, yet he defied the gods. He was a conundrum, and he made a wonderful fictional character.

The character I needed was larger than life, (even Alexander's enemies admitted he was amazing). It wasn't hard, therefor, to create a sort of demigod. But Alexander's faults were important too. He was, according to Plutarch, 'choleric' and would drink excessively. The more I studied him, the more the idea occurred to me that my first idea of a male journalist would not work. For one thing, a man would not fall under Alexander's spell as easily as a woman would. Men, I discovered as I researched, were, well, a tiny bit jealous. It crept into Plutarch's work, it seeped out of Arrian's book - the only one who wasn't in awe of Alexander was Aristotle. Even modern historians and bloggers make the mistakes the ancients did - they either glorify him beyond reason, or they maligne him.

However, according to all the writings I found, Alexander respected women. He would be open to meeting and speaking to a woman who posed as an onirocrite, (someone who interpreted dreams) - therefore, I needed a woman time traveler. And I needed someone who wouldn't be cowed by him, and someone who would fascinate him. It wasn't hard to create the woman - what surprised me was how fast she fell into his arms. Well, it would be a romance book, then. But love isn't easy to write about, so they fell in lust first (that's more understandable). Love came slowly to this mismatched pair; the man from the past  and the woman from the future had a lot to overcome before their relationship could be based on mutual trust and understanding. And for that, she has to tell him who she truly is - not Persephone, goddess of the dead, but a woman from another time. He's impressed - of course, and all the more so because he realizes that what he's doing will be in songs through the ages. Heady stuff, for a young man!

The book advanced, and as I wrote, I researched. The army, their route, their food, their weapons, his friends, his enemies, the weather, the horses...and toothpaste. "The devil is in the details", as they say. I spent an entire day researching toothpaste. Did you know that people brushed their teeth very carefully back then? Clean teeth and sweetness of breath was considered essential. They used soft twigs, chewed until they frayed, or little brushes, and they had homemade toothpaste. So, herewith for your tooth brushing pleasure is the recipe for toothpaste circa 500 BC (it didn't change much for a thousand years...): heat snail shells in the fire until they are white and grind them very fine. Add gypsum and honey, and grind into a paste. Add essential oils of mint or other herbs for taste. Other recipes included chalk mixed with wood ash and fresh urine (a virgin's urine or the urine of a young person is best), and one simple recipe is sea salt mixed with spices such as powdered cloves rubbed energetically over the teeth and gums – guaranteed white teeth, fresh breath, and sore gums!

This story had to be plotted out using existing people, historical events, the army’s movements, and take into account the seasons and weather, so it was vital to have a strong outline. Within that framework I took many liberties. One of the tricks of writing historical fiction is to keep real events pinned to their place and time. I had to move some of the characters around – I had one of Alexander’s generals interacting directly with Alexander when most historians agree he was back in Macedonia – but I needed him there, so thanks to the wonders of fiction, there he was!

Research was important to me because I wanted the reader to feel as if they were immersed in another time and culture. Ashley feels disconnected from reality, but it's the small details of everyday life: how bread was baked, how prayers were said, how the soldiers bathed (her favorite part of the day), that anchor her to her new surroundings.  Hopefully, the reader will feel the same, not looking back across a chasm made of thousands of years but actually living, walking, and riding at Alexander's side.


Sunday, November 19, 2017

My Glamorous Life as a Writer - Part I

My Glamorous Life as a Writer
Part One
I wrote my first book out longhand on a yellow notepad. I was in Argentina and really didn’t have much else to do. We were staying in the countryside, which basically meant no neighbors for a hundred miles, and my twins were still toddlers – they would turn three in a month. We had a housekeeper who adored cooking for my husband and playing with my children, so for the first time in my life I didn’t have to cook, clean, or run after the twins. The house was surrounded by mile after mile of flat plain and tall eucalyptus trees that rustled in the wind. The wind was a constant presence. There were also swarms of mosquitoes at night and rainstorms during the day that flooded our pool and garden.
The twins spent half their time in the pool and the other half sitting on the couch wearing motorcycle helmets and watching cartoons in Spanish. The helmets had been in the house and the boys thought they were cool.
My husband was buying horses, which meant he was away most of the time, horses being spread far and wide in Argentine. On most days, he drove anywhere between five to ten hours…one way, to see a horse and try it. If the horse was any good, they loaded it in the truck and brought it back to the farm for a week to see what happened when the drugs wore off. It was a given that most horse-dealers drugged their animals or did something to them to make them act like polo ponies. In those days, finding a real polo pony was harder than nowadays. But the drugs and tricks have remained the same. At any rate, we had a barn full of horses, grooms, and I could ride whenever I wanted. But I didn’t want to leave the twins alone all day, so I stayed in the house. I was bored. I decided to write a book. My first novel was a fun book to write, and I kept at it doggedly.
I liked sitting on the veranda watching the twins play the pool, while writing my book.
People who came to visit were impressed. “A writer!” they would exclaim.
I liked being called the writer. Usually I drew pictures, but “An artist” doesn’t carry as much weight as “A writer” does. It sounded important, not flaky. Artists were flaky. Writers were intellectual. As much as I hate to admit it, I preferred being thought of as an intellectual, and not as a flake. My career as a writer was born. I thought it was glamorous and intellectual.
During the three months we were in Argentina, I taught my twins to swim, finished my novel, and wrote a couple articles for the Polo Magazine. I sent the articles in and they were accepted and published. Writing seemed a cinch. Then we went back to France, I bought a type-writer, and I typed up my story.
It was the first time I’d ever typed anything. It took a long time, a lot of paper, and much ink. When it was finished, I sent it to a friend who proof-read it and submitted it to an agent she’d met at a party.
The agent met us in NYC the next month, and was very kind. She told me the book was good but that it needed work. I had a knack for character development and plot, but I needed work on my writing skills. She thought I should try writing short stories for a while and then polish up and re-submit the book. She gave me her card and wished me luck.
I was thrilled. I realized that the agent had done me an enormous favor by meeting me in person and giving so much of her time. I also realized that writing was not as easy as I thought. Her idea about fixing the book was good but daunting. However, the short story part of her advice sounded perfect. I’d always liked writing short stories. That’s what I’d do.
I read a lot of short stories. I’ve always enjoyed them.
I sat down and wrote a short story and sent it to the Bear Deluxe Magazine in Oregon. They accepted it. Well, I thought, that’s easy.
My next twenty short stories were rejected by twenty different magazines.
I polished them up, revised them, and sent them out again. Slowly, I started selling them. Then one of them won a prize, and another was nominated for the Pushcart award, and I started to become more sure of my craft.
That was about the time I decided to write a short story about a journalist who goes back in time to interview Alexander the Great.
By now, the twins were four and we were still travelling. Writing was simply a hobby for me, like my drawing and painting.
(to be continued…)

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Writing a hot scene with a cold

Sometimes I don't feel so hot. I don't feel like writing hot. But there's a book to finish. And the hero and heroine are there, in place, (picture a book as a movie set) and the producer (the author) yells "Roll 'em!"... and the scene starts to unfold.

So here I am, sitting at my desk, a flannel blanket over my shoulders, a steaming hot tea by the keyboard, stuffed with aspirin and sucking a sore throat pill.

I'm writing, "They touch, he slides his hands along her cheeks, grasps her jaw, turns her face to his. She resists, then their eyes meet. He leans over. Their lips touch..."

And I sneeze.
I picture the woman kissing the man and then sneezing.
The moment is gone.

I start over. This time I get as far as his lips trailing down her neck, and he breathes in her scent. (and all I can smell is my camphor rub)

I try to imagine something more romantic than camphor. Jasmin. The old standby. She smells of jasmin. A delicate, sweet scent. He sighs and buries his face in her neck, her hair tickles his skin.
I sneeze again.

Damn it. I take a swig of hot tea. Blow my nose. Glare at the keyboard. The hero is getting slightly annoyed. The heroine is about to fall asleep. I realize I've been sitting here staring at the keyboard for a long time. My tea is cold. I sigh and start over.

Hands sliding over hot skin.(I have a fever)Sweat pearling on brows. (That too is easy to imagine. But the fever is making me slightly loopy. I keep imagining the hero putting cool hands on the heroine's burning forehead. I can only write it once though. Besides, she's supposed to be hot, not feverish, and feverish with desire, not with the flu.

I sigh. (sneeze) and start again.

By now my eyes are watering and I've finished a whole box of tissues.
By now I realize I will not be able to finish my sex scene.
I must get rid my my cold in order to write hot.
Sometimes, you just have to wait.
As my husband is fond of saying, "waiting is half the pleasure."

My hands fly over the keyboard.

The heroine pushed the hero firmly away. "Not tonight darling," she said. "But don't worry. The wait will definitely be worth it."

I sneeze.
:-)

Friday, November 17, 2017

Calculating travel time in ancient times

When I wrote my book, The Road to Alexander, I knew I was going to be travelling a lot.  He’d dragged his army (like a gaggle of geese, as Ashley dryly remarks*) from one end of the known world to the other – over mountains, swamps, and deserts. Luckily, I had an incredible ressource to help me plot the journey – Michael Wood’s “In the Footsteps of Alexander”, a book literally written while following Alexander’s army. Invaluable and fascinating! But from book IV to book VII, the couple voyage to Africa, Gaul, Scandinavia, and then down the coast of France and Portugal, through the ‘Pillars of Hercules’ and on to Carthage, Rome, Pompeii and finally home again in Alexandria.  But how to calculate the time it took to travel that route?
Overland routes were the easiest – although roads were often just tracks, they existed, and in those days, there was brisk trade from north to south, and east to west. Walking time is fairly easy to calculate, and the larger towns and cities were logical stopping points. But what about sea voyages? How fast did the boats go, how long did it take to get from Alexandria in Egypt to the port of Massalia (Marseilles)? Luckily the library steered me to a fascinating book on ancient travel by boat, and wonder of wonders – it was in public domain and online! So off I went to research, and this book became my new favorite as I happily plotted and planned Alexander and Ashley’s trip.
A few years later, I stumbled across this wonderful site – and now writers of history can click on a map and get travel times in Ancient Rome, and I spent a lot more time than I’d care to admit clicking on routes.
Ancient travel is mostly composed of marching, riding, sailing, or plodding along in a cart pulled by oxen.  What brings a book to life are details of everyday life – and what adds even more veracity is (trying at least) to keep travel time as close to reality as possible. I hope these online ressources can help authors as much as they helped me!
Speed Under Sail of Ancient Ships.  Lionel Casson. New York University (article) http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Journals/TAPA/82/Speed_under_Sail_of_Ancient_Ships*.html
Travel times in Ancient Rome: ORBIS. http://orbis.stanford.edu/#
For walking – use the Hiking Time Calculator: https://trailsnh.com/tools/hiking-time-calculator.php
Mile per day riding: On Roads / trails
Level or rolling terrain: 40
Hilly terrain: 30
Mountainous terrain: 20
Off-Road (or unkempt trails etc)
Level/rolling grasslands: 30
Hilly grasslands: 25
Level/rolling forest/thick scrub: 20
Very hilly forest/thick scrub: 15
Un-blazed Mountain passes: 10
Marshland: 10
Assumptions
An average quality horse, of a breed suitable for riding, conditioned for overland travel and in good condition.
Roads and trails are in good condition.
Weather is good to fair, and travelers are riding for around ten hours a day.
Notes
Halve these distances for a horse pulling a cart or for a very heavily laden horse, and essentially, it depends on the horse. Horses are athletes, and well conditioned horses that are used to travelling long distances can travel much further than horses that are not used to such activity. If your horses don’t get out and do this particularly often, then 20-30 miles (30-50 km) per day is probably a good estimate. Wikipedia supports this, with a claim of 30 miles (50km) per day for a small mounted company. This involves the horse walking for most of the duration of the day, with short breaks.
Excerpt from “The Road to Alexander”
*I nodded. ‘Fine, let’s go south. I was worried about spending the winter in the mountains anyway.’
His mouth twitched. ‘Well, that’s another reason we’re going.’
‘Fine. Did you tell your men?’ I asked sarcastically, ‘or did you just say “march south”, as if they were a gaggle of geese?’
‘A gaggle of geese?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘I don’t think my men think of themselves as geese.’
‘Oh? Well, excuse me. It’s a just silly impression I got, that’s all.’
‘Explain.’ It was an order.
‘Did you tell them why you did it?’ I asked, getting angry now. ‘Did you bother to explain? Do you know what they’re saying?’
‘About what?’
‘You know damn well about what. I’ll tell you what they’re saying. They’re saying that Parmenion had no trial. They’re saying you were the judge, the jury, and the executioner, and that you did it out of sheer fury! That’s what they’re saying.’
‘Where did you hear this?’ His eyes were blazing.
‘In the stables, the grooms are talking. Alex, you have to do something. You can’t just expect your men to read your mind and follow you blindly. They deserve your trust.’
‘Oh? They do? What about Philotas?’
‘I think he was an exception,’ I said levelly. ‘But if you go on pretending to be a god, he’ll become the rule.’
‘Pretending to be a god?’ Alexander sat heavily on the bed and stared up at me. ‘You, of all people, telling me that? I see you’re blushing. Good, so you do see the irony of your statement.’
‘I only meant that you could explain. Call your men together and give them one of your speeches, you do that so well. They want to see you; they love you and want to follow you. But if you close yourself off from them, they will be hurt, then angry, and then they will refuse to follow.’ I looked at him pleadingly.
He studied my face for a few minutes, then looked down at his feet. He wiggled his toes. ‘They really love me?’ he asked, looking up again.
‘What do you think?’
‘I wasn’t sure, you know, after last night. It came as such a shock.’
‘I know.’ I sat next to him and touched his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve already written a speech, and I was going to give it before we broke camp.’ He grinned.
‘You did?’
‘Yes, I wasn’t going to drag my men around after me like an old sack. Or a gag of geese.’
‘A gaggle.’
‘Yes, nice word. I think you worry too much, Ashley of the Sacred Sandals. You worry and fret like an old mother hen.’ He took my hand and pulled me down on the bed next to him. He started to take off my tunic, not heeding Brazza who was packing the rug, or Axiom who was taking down the lamp.
The Road to Alexander_bannerExcerpt from The Road to Alexander by Jennifer Macaire

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