Historical moments usually fill me with dread, then a desire to write. Seeing the film of Yevgeny Prigozhin chatting with the military commander of Rostov in Russia was one of those times. What was the Rostov commander thinking when he accommodated Prigozhin’s troops? Did he calculate that whether he resisted or not his career – and possibly his life – was over? Did he decide he wasn’t going to create the flash point that plunged Russia into civil war? Did he know in his bones that it would destroy him to see his city in ruins? We will never know what he was thinking in that moment, but we as writers can explore the possibilities for character development in our stories. Perhaps I’ll start a collection of historical photographs for inspiration when one of my characters faces a life-changing decision.
The latest issue of Foreign Affairs, all about dictators, got me thinking about catastrophic failure and character development. Vladimir Putin was a KGB agent when the USSR fell, and the existential shock shaped his career. Although he could not save his country then, he has spent the last decades trying to reverse that loss. I started thinking about how – if – I could create a character who by force of will forms the world she wants, and what that world might look like.
Most of the examples history provides don’t turn out well for humanity. Writing science fiction allows me to explore characters who do incredible things. Studying history shows me that the incredible really isn’t so hard to accomplish if you are willing to shed enough of other people’s blood.
Perhaps I won’t take the challenge to write about someone determined to remake the world. The headlines are scary enough, and I’m not convinced the reading public needs another dystopian novel.
Creating art usually starts with a question. What if I mixed these colors? What if I sewed these fabrics together? What if a stranger came to town with a mysterious gift? Then you bring out the paints, or the scissors, or sit at the computer and let the rest of the project flow logically from that question. Turns out writing history is the same. You start with a question, assemble your supplies – in this case, the documents, photographs, and artifacts of the era you’re studying – and let the story flow logically from the facts. Except that the interpretation of the facts is colored by the way you ask the question. Steven Johnson asked a question about fashion, recreation, entertainment, and the unknown masses and came up with a different take on history. The first chapter of Wonderland: How Play Made the Modern World is called Fashion and Shopping. I’m not thin or rich enough to be a fashionista, but I certainly have experienced the benefits of retail therapy, especially at a quilt shop. How wonderful, then, to read Johnson’s discussion of the effect of cotton on Europe. Not only was cotton a revelation in texture to people accustomed to wool and linen, but the results of the dying techniques developed in India were irresistible. “When Vasco da Gama brought back a cargo full of textiles in 1498 from his landmark expedition around the Cape of Good Hope, he gave Europeans their first real experience of the vivid patterns and almost sensual textures of calico and chintz.” The next line is even better: “As fabrics, calico and chintz first made their way into the routine habits of Europeans through the gateway drug of interior decorating.”
My first thought on reading these paragraphs was about my next stories and novels. I could build my grand civilizations not on the bones of conquered peoples, but on the imagination of interior designers. My planets could be ruled not by emperors, but by fabric artists. Storytellers could be the most highly regarded in the population. The economies could work because they already have worked here. I’ve just begun the book and have already flagged a dozen pages with notes-to-self on world-building. All of which proves that asking questions is always valuable, and asking odd questions is even better.
I was a history major in college, as were most of my roommates. We threw dinner parties to commemorate important dates. The Chicago Fire, the invasion of Poland, Pearl Harbor Day, Armistice Day – anything that came close enough to a free weekend so we had time to cook.
Dates and food are still important to me. I once made Cheesehenge Fondue for a summer solstice. As a writer, however, I want to do more. My friend and fellow writer Marlene Dotterer published her wonderful alternate history The Time Travel Journals: Shipbuilder to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Titanic sinking. I started writing a story that is set in World War I. While the 100th anniversary of the end of that war is fast approaching, the end of that story is not.
I decided part of my trouble was pulling myself out of the “what-does-this-date-mean-to-me?” role. Separating my ego from my words is job number one for getting a story written. One of these days, the right story for the right date will reveal itself. Until then, bring on the cookbooks. There’s always another anniversary to celebrate.
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