The Outlandish Companion

by Diana Gabaldon

  Okay… Claire would know that toxicity wasn’t a problem, so she’d want to get as much of her culture as possible into the patient. She’d know that oral dosing was useless —stomach acid would destroy most of the drug’s activity—but she’d have only a little worry about an allergic reaction. Knowing she _had_ to inject the drug, she’d find a way. Perhaps with a clyster syringe and some sort of deep puncture? The husband would expect such standard therapy as bleeding and clysters, wouldn’t he?

  Oh yeah, mustn’t forget—she might not be allowed to amputate, but she’d try to surgically drain the infected limb. Ellen

  Fm: Mira Brown 100425,170

  To: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523

  Hi Diana,

  Arlene is right, and so are you. As I told you before, I’ve seen it in villages. The smell is pervasive and peculiar. People usually put a lot of, as you say, herbs, but mostly frequently changed fir/pine branches on the floor. As mourners tread on them they bruise the needles and release the smell. It helps, but not a great deal, not even on the first day.

  I expect that’s why some communities keep the windows open to “help the soul leave” or something like that. But elsewhere, the windows are shut and curtains closed and a lot of people faint, not strictly from emotion.

  Mira

  Fm: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523

  To: Mira Brown 100425,170

  Dear Mira—

  A good thought, to add aromatic conifer branches on the floor. It wouldn’t have been (I don’t think) a Scottish custom, they not having a lot of conifers to hand in Scotland—but there are certainly plenty in North Carolina (or were).—Diana

  Fm: Diana Gabaldon 76530,523

  To: Arlene McCrea 73051,2517

  Dear Arlene—

  A very good thought! However, the woman died at dawn; it’s now late afternoon of the same day, as Claire is writing up her notes (that should be clear when I add the [date] bits). The body will also have been washed and “laid out” (presumably with the addition of turpentine or vinegar, and aromatic herbs) in the meantime, most likely in Claire’s surgery or out in the woodshed. Since it will have taken the men a little while to build the coffin, chances are the newly shrouded corpse was brought into the room only a little time before—and will be taken out by dawn of the next day, for burial after the wake.

  Thanks!—Diana

  1Essentially, this just means I direct traffic, promote conversations, and answer questions where and as I can. All section leaders are unpaid volunteers.

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  3 All messages that appear on CompuServe are the copyrighted property of the people who write them. The messages reproduced here are reprinted by permission of the authors.

  4 The first few messages are reproduced just as they appear online, with all “header” information intact. Beyond the first few, though, most of the header information has been eliminated to improve readability.

  PART SEVEN

  WHERE TITLES COME FROM

  ————

  AND OTHER MATTERS

  OF GENERAL INTEREST

  OUTLANDER VS. CROSS STITCH

  ne of the questions asked most frequently—by people who have looked for my books in the U.K.—is, “Why does your first book have a different title over there?” That is, the book titled Outlander here in the States is titled Cross Stitch in the U.K. (and the Commonwealth countries, such as Australia and New Zealand).

  Well, Cross Stitch was my working title for the manuscript. It’s not a particularly good title; it’s a weak play on “a stitch in time,” with an (even weaker) reference to Claire’s occupation as a healer (doctor-wound-stitch… that sort of thing), but it was my first book, after all.

  I’d also thought—as the book grew, and I could see something of the shape of the story—that Claire would return to the present at the end of the book (which in fact she didn’t do until the end of Dragonfly). If she had returned in the first book, though, that would have made the “cross”—crossing back to the past and then forth to the future, which gave me the mental shape of an “X”—which is, of course, the shape of a cross-stitch. And cross-stitch is made up of lots of little things that make an overall interesting pattern, and… well, look I said it wasn’t a good title. When we sold the book, the American publisher’s (tactful) response was, “Well, we can’t call it that, or people will think it’s about embroidery. Can you think of something else, maybe a little more… adventurous?”

  Then ensued some eight months of reciprocating title suggestions, ranging from the bland to the ridiculous (Unicorns and Lions Wild and Tartan Temptation being a couple that I recall—along with every variation ever heard on the word “time”).

  Along the way, I had suggested Sassenach, which I liked, but the general consensus was that this would not be a good title because no one could pronounce it. Coupled with the fact that no one could pronounce the author’s name either, this was thought to be too great a liability.

  Thinking along these lines, though, I eventually came up with Outlander—which is, of course, what “Sassenach” means in Gaelic (though with a slightly more derogatory implication). This seemed quite suitable, given Claire’s situation. Since the book was going to press at any moment, the publisher was enthusiastic.

  The result of this was that when the book was published and I began doing signings, a certain number of people would pick up the book, frown at it, and then ask, “Is this the book that Sean Connery movie was based on?” (Outland was released in 1981; Highlander in 1986—both starring Sean Connery, and neither one having anything whatever to do with my book.)

  So.

  A year or so after we sold the book to Delacorte Press in the United States, we sold the U.K. rights to a British publisher, Century Random. The British editor said, “Outlander? But we can’t call it that—to us, an outlander is specifically someone from Australia or South Africa! Do you have any other ideas?” I coughed modestly and said, well, the original title had been Cross Stitch, but…

  “Perfect!” said the British editor, and Cross Stitch it was.

  The result of this being that for some time, I got letters from readers in the U.K. saying, “You know, there’s a funny story about how I found your book. I was browsing through the needlework section in the local bookstore, and…”

  ROCK-POLISHING AND OTHER PASTIMES FOR AN IDLE HOUR

  As for the titles of the other books in the series—well, I have no real standard operating procedure for coming up with titles. Thinking them up is always a good means of procrastination, when you can’t think what to begin working on. The real process of titling, though, is essentially like rock-polishing; you drop vaguely interesting lumps of words into the machine, let them roll around banging into all the other stuff in there—and then you pull out a handful and see if they look pretty yet.

  The working title for the second book was Firebringer. This was a reference to the Prometheus legend (the implication being that Claire’s advance knowledge of the future wasn’t an unalloyed blessing, either), and—I thought—made a nice echo of the “er” in Outlander (well, look, I never said titles were my strong point, okay?).

  Having heard a few doubts expressed as to whether most readers would make the connection with Prometheus (my American editor is a very tactful person), I also thought of calling the book Pretender. This would be a bit more straightforward—I mean, the book did deal with Bonnie Prince Charlie (a.k.a. the Young Pretender)—and would keep the “er” pattern. (See, I knew already that I wanted the third book to be called Voyager. That’s the only book I’ve ever written that had an easy title.)

  However, as I was working along, with the rock polisher whirring away in the background, someone asked me what had ever happened to the chunk of amber (with dragonfly embedded) that Hugh Munro gave Claire for a wedding present. Actually, I don’t know what happened to it (though it’s proba
bly in Jenny’s jewelry box, back at Lallybroch), but that question did recall the image to my mind.

  Now, Dragonfly in Amber is a pretty good title, if you ask me. “Dragon” is one of those nice, evocative words that always catches people’s attention (similar words being “blood,” “moon,” “blue,” etc. I couldn’t tell you why “a blue and bloody moon” is more evocative than “newspaper on a beige street,” but it is). A dragonfly in amber is a visually arresting image, rather poetic in sound—and it actually had something to do with the book, insofar as notions of fate and inevitability, helplessness in the face of circumstance, references to antiquity, etc., are concerned. Besides, dragonflies are good luck.

  The British publisher liked Dragonfly in Amber, too, so that was fine. True, I did get science fiction and fantasy fans asking me whether this was part of Roger Zelazny’s famous Amber series, but nothings perfect. And, as I say, I already knew the third book was titled Voyager.>>

  To me, Voyager conjured up not only the superficial meanings of journey and adventure—and the very concrete reference to an ocean voyage—but something a bit more. Growing up in the sixties as I did, I was exposed to the U.S. program of space exploration in a big way, and found the whole notion unspeakably romantic. Of all the different missions, Voyager was one that particularly caught my imagination. This was commitment to the dark unknown, in the search for unimagined knowledge. Courage and daring, in the service of hope. Very suitable, I thought, for a book dealing with dangerous journeys in search of self and soul.

  And then, along came the fourth book. The Colonies—New World, whiffs of revolution, lost daughters, gallant quests through time, Native Americans up the gazoo… Next to the Last of the Mohicans? One If by Land, Sick If by Sea? There’s a Wet Dog in My Wigwam?>>

  Well, hey, sometimes it’s easier than others. And if all else fails—look back at what you did the last time you got stuck. So… sounds like… Dragonfly in Amber. (whirrrrrrr-clank, whirrrr-clank) Begins with “D.” Okay, fine. (whirrrrr…) Three words? Awright, if they’re short. (whirrr…) With prepositional phrase? Hmmmm.

  Evocative word beginning with “D,” having (preferably) something to do with something in this book. Got Indians (in the eighteenth century they were still called Indians). Got Redcoats. Both got drums. Oh-HO! “Drum” is an evocative word, too. “Drums” is even better. (Slaves used drums occasionally, too, but my husband said he would divorce me if I did any more voodoo scenes.)

  Okay, Drums. Why of Autumn? Well, heck. I needed a prepositional phrase, the second word of which began with “A,” and one could make a case that Claire and Jamie were entering the autumn phase of their lives (though it may be a long season, what with two more books to go), and it is on the eve of the Revolution, i.e., the autumn of British rule in the Colonies, and… well, actually, I later decided that Drums of Eden would be better, but the publisher had already sent out thousands of catalogs calling it Drums of Autumn, and besides, I liked the look of all those “U”s and “M”s—aesthetically pleasing, you know.

  Now, pause a moment and ask yourself: Would you rather read a really good book with a strange title, or a mediocre book with a straightforward title? (This is not a trick question; feel free to consult the New York Times Bestseller List before answering.) Yes, well, that’s what I thought, too.

  Okay. The fifth book is called The Fiery Cross, and I’m pretty set on that one, like I was with Voyager. Since I am set on it, I’ll explain it.

  In the distant past of the Scottish Highlands, it was the custom for a chieftain bent on war to make a cross of two sticks of wood, which he would set on fire. Two clansmen would then carry this cross through the glens and corries, as a signal to the men of the clan to fetch their weapons and come to the gathering place, prepared for battle. (Naturally the cross didn’t stay on fire. Damp as the Scottish climate is, it probably went out within minutes of the clansmen stepping out into the downpour. However, the charred remains were still referred to as “the fiery cross.”)

  Now, given that at this point in the story, the American Revolution is looming on the horizon, and the Scottish Highlanders had quite a bit to do with it (though mostly fighting on the wrong side, as usual), this seemed a very good title to me. Warlike foreshadowing aside, the word “cross” implies “double-cross,” which is always a good bet when you’re dealing with people named MacKenzie, and then there’s all the crisscrossing of storylines, too (by this point, there are enough of them to weave a basket). It also has those interesting Christ-like implications of betrayal and burning anguish, about which I will say no more because I haven’t finished writing the book yet.

  An electronic friend, apprised of this title, objected to it on grounds that it reminded her of the Ku Klux Klan, and she thought a nice book should have a better title.

  “Interesting you should mention that,” I said. “Er… where do you figure the KKK—many of whom just happened to be descendants of the original Scottish settlers in the American South—got the notion?” That is where they got it. However, I don’t write nice books anyway, so I don’t think there’s a problem.

  I have—for contractual and reference purposes—been calling the sixth (and final) book of the series King, Farewell. That title comes from a very moving Jacobite song, in which the singer bids farewell to the Stuart dynasty (and, by implication, all that went with it, like the Highland clans themselves). However, no one seems able to remember it, which is always a Bad Sign. People keep asking me when Farewell to the King (or worse, Farewell to Arms) will be released. Now, I do get the occasional letter praising my excellent novel Butterfly in Amber, or asking when Drums of August will be out in some foreign edition, but it’s nothing like the confusion over King, Farewell.>>

  I must therefore assume a) that King, Farewell is probably more memorable if set to music, but book publishing technology has not advanced that far yet, and b) the title of the sixth book should preferably be one word, to reduce the chances of people mangling it (of course, they call the first book Highlander all the time, and Voyager is commonly referred to as Voyageur [featuring that intrepid French trapper Jamie Frezeliere, and his wife, La Dame Blanche], but still…).

  So I don’t know for sure what the title of the sixth book will be, but as slowly as I write, I figure I’ve got time to come up with something.

  Oh, this book? Well, that title wasn’t mine. A longtime electronic friend named Marte Brengle suggested The Outlandish Companion many years ago, and I glommed on to it, not being one to pass up a good thing. (Since the UK publisher couldn’t call the first book Outlander, of course they couldn’t call this one The Outlandish Companion. Instead, it’s called Through the Stones: A Companion to the Novels of Diana Gabaldon. Very imposing.)

  FOREIGN EDITIONS, OR “AUTRES TEMPS, AUTRES MOEURS”

  Sometime after the sale of Outlander to Delacorte Press, I was surprised to get a call from a pleasant-voiced person who informed me that he was my foreign-rights agent (I didn’t know I had one), and that he was delighted to inform me that he had just sold the rights to my book to a Swedish publisher.

  “You can do that?” I blurted. Evidently so. So far, various of the books have been sold to publishers in Sweden, France, Spain (and Latin America), Italy, Germany, Canada, the U.K., Russia, Korea, and Poland.1

  While I had realized that naturally books could be published and sold in countries other than the United States, I hadn’t realized that the author normally got paid for this. I also hadn’t realized that there might be differences between the original of a book and a foreign edition—especially one written in the same language.

  Sale of the first book to a British publisher led to a number of small changes and complications. At my request (since I’d never been to Scotland), the British publisher obligingly asked Reay Tannahill, a very well-known Scottish historian (and a fine historical novelist herself) to read the manuscript. Reay kindly sent me a number of notes on small details of the manuscript (such as what colors one could reason
ably expect to produce using vegetable dyes, the color of the prevailing granite in Argyllshire, and what Loch Ness really smells like), which were immensely appreciated. The U.S. version of the book had reached galley-proof stage by the time I received Reay’s comments. However, I was able to incorporate almost all of them into the American version, with one exception.

  Reay told me, “The war (World War II) didn’t end as abruptly for us as it did for you in the United States. Rationing and wartime austerity were still in effect for some time after peace was declared—and there are still a number of people alive who remember that. Your story starts in 1945, but the conditions you’re describing would be much more believable a year later; the book really should begin in 1946.”

  “Fine,” I said, and called my American publisher.

  “We can’t do that,” they said. “You can make the other changes, as long as they’re small, but if you change the beginning date, that will change dates all through the book. We’d have to send the manuscript back through copy-editing, and we’re too close to production to do that.”

  Consequently, Outlander begins in 1945, and Cross Stitch begins in 1946. This small dichotomy later led to a persistent error in Dragonfly in Amber (see “Errata”), which I have never quite figured out how to clear up, other than to explain its existence.

  While the books from Dragonfly to Drums are mostly identical in terms of text between the U.K. and U.S. editions (naturally, the covers are quite different), there are a few small differences between Outlander and Cross Stitch, beyond the title and dating.