You are writing a historical novel. How much research do you do?
I would say that you must show enough for the reader to believe, but no so much that it burdens your pages.
When do you do it? Before, during or after you write your first draft? Different writers will give different answers. These days I would say all three.
I am beginning a story set in the twelfth century, somewhere (I think) on the borders of Wales. I have knocked out a first chapter. I have a rough storyline in my head. I am doing my research as I go: reading and listening. I need to build the atmosphere of this world in my mind, and I want to be sure of my detail.
One of my closest companions on this journey is a churchman called Gerald. He is tall, pious, educated and very full of himself. He was born in the middle of the twelfth century and pursued a career in church politics, in which he was ultimately unsuccessful. But he left detailed descriptions of the people and customs of the Wales of his time. He is essential reading for anyone trying to write a novel set there and then.
He is a good guide, full of stories and useful nuggets of information. He describes country dances and local superstitions. He reports stories of little miracles, which he is careful neither to believe nor disbelieve. I may suppose Wales to have been the land of the longbow, but the bow that Gerald describes is short, and it isn’t made of yew either. These are all good things to pack in around the story that I am writing, to make it firm and strong and to help it belong to the time in which I have set it.
I feel quite friendly towards Gerald. I cannot believe that he would feel the same towards me, or my characters. One thing that’s clear from his writings is that he was quick to condemn. The human frailties that I want to celebrate are all failings that he despises. Piety and obedience are his virtues, but he will not find much of them in my story. His ghost stands behind me, rolling its eyes and clicking its tongue as my words creep on to the page. There will come a moment when I will try my hand at some Latin. He will take one look over my shoulder and then wander off in disgust.
For sure he was a writer himself, and a penniless one. “Nowadays no one ever pays for books,” he wrote, “and I do not seek or expect any other reward. Among men in high places there seems to be a conspiracy against authors.” He knew all about a writer’s self-pity. But that did not stop him damning his fellows with his pen. (He doesn’t like Geoffrey of Monmouth. Maybe some professional jealousy there?) This is another thing authors do.
Yet I have this right over him: that I have read what he has written. It’s what he begged for eight hundred years ago. I am neither the first nor the last to do this, but I too have granted his wish. Therefore I may grab him by the hem of his robe and demand that he guide me. He is no Virgil and I am no Dante. But it is the fate of the greater that he must lead the less.