(There is a third alternative—force your spouse and/or children to do housework. This strategy is effective in the long run, but, at least in the beginning, will eat up a lot more time than it saves.)
Still, no matter what strategies you adopt, Real Life tends to intrude. When it does, the only thing you can do is to shuffle the writing to the back of your mind—but keep thinking about it.
As example and encouragement, following is a letter to friends, written in late 1995, while I was struggling to complete Drums of Autumn, and illustrating How a Writer Deals with Real Life. (Bear in mind that I did eventually finish the book. The moral is: Don’t Give Up!)
Research & Craft
15-Dec-95 12:01:46
Sb: #Making Time to Write
Fm: Diana Gabaldon/SL8 76530,523
To: Alex Keegan 100555,1651 (X)
Dear Alex—
Oh, yes—about being first thing a writer and having it always going in your head. Gets you past the days when Life interferes.
Yesterday was One of THOSE Days, beginning with angst and trauma in the morning, when the little one couldn’t find her violin and the middle one was so conked, his father couldn’t rouse him and had to call for assistance (I have a secret method; I toss back the covers and get him by the feet, then play This Little Piggy on his toes. This aggravates him enough to get him upright and snarling, at which point he can be levered out of bed and into his closet), and the big one wasn’t happy with the way her hair looked.
Having gone down at 3 A.M. the night before, getting up at 7:15 left me a hair short, even on my usual rations of sleep. I also ached in every limb, having fallen off the staircase the day before (don’t ask; it had to do with the fax machine and the fact that I’d been writing. I was still writing in my mind when I came down to retrieve an incoming fax, and—apparently—reached for it while still on the stairs, not aware that I couldn’t levitate. Actually, I apparently did levitate for a short distance, as I ended up on knee and elbow some six feet from the foot of the staircase).
I rallied round, though—found the violin (by the simple expedient—which drives everyone in my family completely mad—of asking “Where did you see it last?”), combed the big one’s hair into a ponytail (had to make her sit down on the edge of the bath to do it; she’s four inches taller than I am), tied the middle one’s shoes, and ran upstairs to write notes to two of his teachers (he had the flu, on and off, and missed six days of school, with consequent assignments. Problem is, he’s too shy to go up and ask any of his teachers for a list of what’s missing).
The boys from next-door-but-one came and knocked—they’d missed their bus, could I take them to school? Loaded up everybody, picked up my purse to get in the car, when the housekeeper beetled out and said we’re out of X, Y, Z, especially washing powder.
Dropped the kids—adjuring Sam sternly to be sure to deliver notes to his teachers—went to the drugstore, where I got all the cleaning supplies and checked for the homeopathic flu cure JLM recommended (felt a sore throat coming on). While driving to and fro, kept thinking of snow (no good reason, it’s about 85 degrees here). Went home, delivered the window cleaner, washing powder, et al, came upstairs and spent my usual hour having breakfast (diet Coke and Milky Way Dark) and reading/answering messages and e-mail, seeing in the back of my mind footprints dark on the snow, and heaped wet leaves, crusted with ice, the dark furrow in the leaves where someone had been lying, under the shelter of a log.
Set in to work as usual at 10, stoked to the gills with Vitamin C and occilococcinum. Read through a half-done scene in progress, added a couple of paragraphs, then was overcome by a new, vivid image—I was following the footprints in the snow, and there was a dead hare, caught in a snare, furred with ice crystals, stiff across the path. Switched screens and started the new scene, to get it under way. Fell into the state of mind in which I walked off the staircase, feeling the worry of the woman following the footprints. Why didn’t he stop for the hare? Where is he?
Settled nicely into the first paragraph, when comes the dreaded summons from the foot of my stairs, “Es un hombre a la puerta!”
Hombres at the puerta are always an intrusion, but usually brief, as in FedEx or UPS, or now and then the exterminator or the man from the feed store delivering horse pellets (this is a large nuisance, as I have to go collect all the dogs and shut them in the garage, then go round and open the big gates into the backyard for the truck to come through).
This time it was an hombre from the phone company, come to fix the fax machine’s line (cf. staircase, above). Showed him the miscreant fax, helped him track the phone line—which had been installed by one of my husband’s programmer employees back when he had his office in that room—then left him to it.
Reminded of phones, checked for messages (only one phone in the house rings, for reasons I won’t go into; this means I normally don’t hear it from my office—a Good Thing, on the whole—so I’m in the habit of checking the voice mail once every hour or so). Message from my father, wanting to know when girls are off school so my stepmother (bless her heart) can take them to have their hair cut. Message from person wanting to sell my house for me (ignore). Message from person wanting to come and demonstrate antiburglary system (ignore. Inside dogs have finally quit barking at phone person, but he’s gone outside, and outside dogs are now having hysterics. There’s a reason we’ve never had burglars, aside from the fact that we haven’t got a lot of stuff anyone would think worth stealing, unless you count SuperNintendo. If anyone wants to come steal my ancient XT clone, they’re welcome to it; it’s insured). Message from librarian in Salt Lake City, wanting to confirm that I am coming to speak at a conference in Snowbird at end of May, and can I do the dinner speech too, they’ll pay me extra.
Minor panic. Did I agree to go and talk to people in Utah in May? Rustle through tray of speaking/workshop engagements. Evidently I agreed conditionally (hint: never throw anything away, and when you talk to people on the phone, write down on their letter what it is you told them), provided I didn’t have to go to ABA. Think suddenly that I don’t know whether I have to go to ABA; Drums may be out late enough that they’re featuring it there.
Telephone editor, who is out, but get her assistant, who promises to find out for me about ABA. Return to work, get as far as lyrical description of shadows lengthening under the trees, turning from vanilla to chilly violet and then cold blue on the snow as the sun goes down. Get up to open balcony door, as it’s getting rather warm in office. Phone hombre comes inside to ask where main phone line panel is. Luckily I know this (from earlier phone adventures in this house) and go show him.
Go upstairs. Come downstairs at once, as Airborne Express hombre has arrived with parcel to be signed for. This proves to contain a dust jacket proof for Drums of Autumn, causing mingled interest and panic (said book being in a state of severe incompletion upstairs). Set proof on kitchen table and stare at it for a while in attempt to decide whether I like it or not, while feeding bloodworms to fish and newts who live on table. Put fresh seed and water in parakeets’ cups (if the dogs don’t announce a burglar, the four birds will, noisy things).
Leave cover proof to marinate in my subconscious and go upstairs. Finish sentence about shadows, start worrying about the man out hunting, why hasn’t he come back? Is he walking his trapline? Go look at book on animal tracks, find out what hare tracks look like in snow. Take passing note of ferret tracks, various bird prints. Check Roger Tory Peterson field guide (pausing to wonder whether constant exposure to this in my field-work days is where I got the name “Roger.” Hope not, as I’ve met RTP, who at the time was rather a pompous old geek. Now he’s dead, RIP) to be sure that kind of bird would be in North Carolina in winter.
Federal Express hombre arrives, bearing mysterious box labeled “Norm’s Gourmet Mushroom Garden.” Unable to put this aside, open it to discover that my sister has sent me… a mushroom garden. For Christmas. Roughly a foot-square chunk of rot oozing brown liqui
d inside a plastic bag. I am assured (by the enclosed directions) that if I remove the plastic, spray this object with water, set it in a pan of same atop a chunk of wood, and leave it in a quiet, cool place, where it gets roughly 6–8 hours a day of diffuse light, it will sprout shiitake mushrooms (what I am to do with these, once sprouted, the instructions do not reveal).
Put mushroom garden on downstairs desk, where I will not forget it (next to large pile of bookplates waiting to be signed, which I will make every effort to forget, but the secretary’s coming round Monday to make sure I don’t), and go upstairs, feeling pleased that I have already ordered an Archie McPhee potato gun for my sister for Christmas.
Sit down and reread the six sentences I have onscreen, sinking back into scene. How long will I/she wait before setting out to look for the missing man? It’s dark outside, it’s getting colder. She’s stoked up the fire, but her hands are still cold. Dinner is cooking, but she doesn’t feel hungry, and the scent of food doesn’t comfort her. If he’s had an accident… Phone rings and I hear it, for a wonder. Editorial assistant, informing me that they don’t know yet whether I should go to ABA, but they’ve changed the date and it isn’t till mid-June, so I can go to Utah if I want.
Meanwhile, husband arrives downstairs, complaining of acute pain in foot, asking a) did I remember to buy him wart remover, and b) do I want to go and eat a hot dog with him? Answer yes to both, and go to eat Polish sausages with sauerkraut and mustard, while discussing whether I should go to Utah in May. Upon finding out that they’re offering me $1,000 to come and talk to them, husband agrees that I should, and remarks casually that he has always wanted to build a kit plane.
Return (in car, I find myself crouched behind a screen of rocks and twigs. There are Indians I don’t recognize, passing in single file through the wood a few feet away. Their faces are painted, and they’re moving in the direction of the house I just left) to find that another Federal Express hombre has come by, but missed the housekeeper, and instead left a delivery notice on the door. Go upstairs, quickly download and skim messages, then sit, list in hand, and try to organize rest of day. Phone rings; in-laws inviting us to come over for dessert after supper. Phone rings; woman in Alabama wanting to get hold of autographed copy of Drums for Christmas present for sister. Explain politely that it isn’t finished yet, suppressing various uncharitable remarks that come to mind when she exclaims, “but why NOT?”
Little one comes home from school.
Have five minutes to make her a snack, listen to her report of her day, and sympathize with her teeth (she needs orthodontia, and we’ve just had the first spacers put in yesterday), then go to collect the older kids from their school.
Discover that son hasn’t given teachers their notes. Grasp him metaphorically by ear and drag him off to beard teachers in their dens. Extract lists of missing assignments from two, but find third one has already left for day.
Decant everyone at home, distribute food and drink all round, load up little one, who wants to come with me, and set off for afternoon errands—feed store to buy nose bag and two hundredweight of oats for elderly horse who isn’t getting his share of the pellets, Alphagraphics for new shipment of bookplates, and grocery store because we are out of necessities like milk and tuna fish, and because little one is holding a Christmas party next day, at which she and six friends intend to decorate cookies, among other things.
Return home, having discovered in the car that the Indians are indeed sinister, being Mohawk far from their home range, raiding for purposes unknown (has this got anything to do with Father Alexandre, the Jesuit missionary, whose flesh is weak, and whom we’ll meet a good deal further on?). Cook dinner, slug down more homeopathic flu remedy and vitamin C, go off to dessert at in-laws.
Return (she’s found him, denned up in a cavity under a pile of brush. The Mohawk are being stealthily followed by a small band of Tuscarora Indians that they do recognize). Superintend massive homework while baking ten dozen sugar cookies “You know,” remarks my little one, who is (ha-ha) “helping” me bake cookies, “I feel kind of bad.” “Your teeth still hurt?” I ask. “No,” she says, “but I was just thinking, I’ll be in bed in a little while, and you’ll still be baking cookies. I feel kind of guilty about that.” While feeling gratified at this evidence of developing conscience, I assure her that that’s perfectly all right, I like baking (I do, but), and dash upstairs to find Sam a black marker with which to prepare visual aids for a presentation on current events).
Oldest daughter comes out to ask whether I can type her constitution for the nation she is designing in school, as she is a very slow typist and overwhelmed with work tonight. Assure her that I can, and take document up to park by computer, where I will not forget it.
Tuck people in bed. Take more anti-flu stuff while listening to husband tell me how exhausted he is. Tuck him in bed, eat a bowl of rice and leftover Chinese beef from dinner, drink more diet Coke, and go upstairs to work at midnight.
Answer a few messages, play one game of solitaire, discover I am falling asleep, lie down on floor, and nap for an hour. Wake up, but can’t stay awake—get a sentence or two down but discover it doesn’t make sense. Decide flesh and blood has limits, and stagger downstairs to lock up, check kids and animals, turn off lights, feed rabbits and hamsters, etc. Heading for bedroom when I realize I have not typed Laura’s constitution, which she urgently requires for class next morning.
Unlock office, go upstairs… came down again at 2:30, took more vitamin C, and passed out. Net result, writing-wise, being that I have maybe 300 words actually written, which would be discouraging (and is) in view of my 2,000-word goal, but I do know a heck of a lot more about what’s going on than I did in the morning, and in fact, I didn’t stop writing all day. And maybe tomorrow I’ll post the scene itself.
So I’ll get there, eventually. If I don’t die first.
—Diana
ANNOTATED
BIBLIOGRAPHY
This bibliography has two purposes. The main purpose, of course, is to allow people with an interest in some topic to find further information on it. The secondary purpose is to give the reader a glimpse of the research and resources behind some elements of the Outlander novels—if only to indicate just how tenuous the connection between inspiration and execution sometimes is!
I’ve done bibliographies before; many of them. I used to be a scientist, after all. However, this present bibliography is rather different from the scholarly version. First off, while I would have read every word (frequently more than once) of each reference in a scholarly bibliography, there are several books in this one that I haven’t read at all. There are many more that I’ve read only in part, others that I’ve skimmed—and a few that I never intend to read, but keep in case I need to look up some particular bit of information.
A scholarly bibliography would also be complete—or as complete as industrious research could assure. This one isn’t, by a long shot. Many books that I consulted in the early days of writing were returned to the library without being recorded anywhere (I didn’t realize at the time that I’d have to do this, or I’d have been more careful about it, I assure you). Many others have been consulted and then consigned to my storeroom—and if you think I’m going to go dig around in there…! I acquire books constantly, and in fact currently have some two or three hundred that will be used in the course of writing The Fiery Cross and King, Farewell—but they aren’t included here.
No, this bibliography essentially consists of the books that I used as background and reference while writing the first four books of the series—but isn’t a complete listing of those books; it’s what’s still on my office shelves. This is highly unscholarly, totally idiosyncratic—and has a lot to do with the differences between a scientist and a novelist.
A scientist would refer to a specific citation either in order to support her own work, or to challenge the citation’s conclusions. A writer may simply pick up a book, smell it, and sit down to write, with
out even opening it (my thanks to Anne Bennett, the kind lady who sent me the 1777 edition of Pope’s Iliad, which I’ve never read, but which smells great and inspired bits of several scenes in Voyager). A writer may read an authoritative reference, and then merrily disregard everything it says.
Looking over the headings in this section, I came to the conclusion that this bibliography ought really to be subtitled “Etc.” (This isn’t really a proper bibliography; it’s a compost heap, and I’m not sure there are any rules for the organization of compost heaps.) As it is, references are grouped according to the main area of interest into which they fall—but since ideas know no bounds, there will undoubtedly be a bit of overlap here and there.
Consequently, while the list of herbal guides—for instance—could certainly be included in the “Natural History (Etc.)” heading, I have instead included them in the “Medicine” section, since virtually all herbal guides deal with the medical aspects of the herbs described. A few books seemed to fall equally into either of two sections; in these cases, I generally included the title in both sections, to make it easier for people to find specifically what they may be looking for.
N.B.: All references are as complete as possible, which in some cases is not very.
EIGHTEENTH CENTURY: GENERAL HISTORY, GEOGRAPHY, BACKGROUND, ARTIFACTS, ETC.
Collins Encyclopedia of Antiques. London: Tiger Books International.
Great Britain: A Bantam Travel Guide. New York: Bantam Books.
Alexander, William, and George Henry Mason. Views of 18th Century China: Costumes, History, Customs. London: Studio Editions, 1988.
Allcott, Kenneth. Eighteenth-Century Prose, 1700–1780, Vol. III. Baltimore: Penguin Books, Ltd., 1956.
The Outlandish Companion Page 60