Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

Fish or cut bait. Poop or get off the pot. Split wood or lend someone the axe.

During the run-up to a novel project, there comes a time when I must put down the books and pick up the pen. My problem, though, has usually been knowing when I’ve reached that point, that moment of sufficiency when, though I certainly don’t know everything about the pertinent subjects, I know enough to get started.

Now is that time.

I’ve read histories both contemporaneous and modern and pored over one-hundred-fifty-year old maps. I’ve studied languages, now nearly silent, that once echoed in the streets of this town, and read of the early days when Seattle settlers and indigenous tribesfolk lived side by side, working together to build a town beneficial to all. When I walk the roadways of the downtown, I see the ghosts of hills and ravines now graded into gentle slopes, I hear the sounds of sawmill and ship’s bell drowned out by cars and buses. In my mind’s eye, there is an overlay upon the land, a collection of older names—Herring House, Prairie Point, Salt Water, and Little Crossing-Over Place—that gives me a feeling of how it used to be, and of the people who called it home.

There is so much more to learn, but I must remind myself that my intention is not to become an expert. I am not a historian; I am a storyteller. I am not writing a scholarly work. I’m writing a novel. Knowing everything about my subject is not the goal, nor is it particularly useful. I just need to know enough.

But when is enough, enough?

I need to know enough so that I can craft a believable world peopled with believable characters enmeshed in a believable plot, but that’s just the minimum. Beyond that, I need to know enough to build an interesting world, one that the readers haven’t seen before. The characters must be true to what was, creatures of their time, but relatable and intriguing as well, all within the constraints of history. And the plot, well, it too must be intimately interwoven with the place, the time, and the society that existed there.

All of which sounds like a pretty tall order.

To be honest, it is a tall order, and I may fail to do it well enough, but in writing my previous books, I’ve learned that filling my brain with the minutiae of every aspect of a time long past is not a panacea, not a guarantee.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m good at the high-level, and good at the minutiae, but not so good at the middle ground. The trivia of the everyday, the detailed particulars of any setting, are my briar patch, and I am both Br’er Rabbit and Br’er Fox, both hiding amidst and caught by its thorny branches.

Time to write.

k