DG and That man in a Kilt

Way back in 2000 Diana Gabaldon wrote the following:

I have a lot of friends – published and unpublished – who just can’t write without a fully worked-out outline. But there are an equal number who start work with only the roughest of notes, or with no outline at all (me for instance.)

The thing is, writing is the only important thing; it doesn’t matter how you write; nobody can tell, looking at the finished book, whether you had an outline or not, and who cares? If it’s helpful to you, that’s one thing – but sometimes an outline may seem as though it’s holding you back and preventing you from writing at all.

Look – a book is a very organic thing. It grows and changes, as you write it. It doesn’t matter how detailed your outline is, once you’ve started writing, you’ll see things you never thought of, your characters will begin to talk to you (if you’re lucky they’ll take over and tell parts of the story to you), and the whole thing will take on a life of its own. As you work – or after you have a complete entity, at least in rough draft – then you’ll have enough feel for it to make decisions about what to cut, what to keep, what to expand.

I’m not saying this works for everybody, but I started my first novel – for practice, I never meant to show it to anybody – with no outline, no plot, no characters, even; all I had was a time and place, and a vague notion that there should be a man in a kilt.

I just started in where I could sort of see something happening, and wrote. The next day I wrote some more. Then I couldn’t see any more happening there, so I wrote something else that I could see. I kept this, and as I wrote tons of these little pieces, I got a sort of feel for the overall shape of the story, and could start to stick the pieces together and move them around.

I wonder if DG has ever regretted having that man in a kilt peer up at Claire standing in a lighted window?

Those tricky titles

Titles and Forms of Address, 20th edition, is a mine of information for a historical author. It becomes obvious on delving into it that the strange ways of the addressing nobility have a purpose, if not a secret code . Though I shall never be introduced to the Queen, I know that if she speaks to me, I should answer using her title Your Majesty for the first response and subsequently can get away with Ma'am. Should Prince Philip speak to me, I answer with his title Your Royal Highness and subsequently Sir.
If I meet the children of the Queen, the same rule applies - initial response Your Royal Highness and subsequently Sir or Ma'am.
The peerage has five grades - Dukes, Marquesses, Earls, Viscounts and Barons. A hereditary title descends from father to son or grandfather to grandson. Occasionally descent includes the female line. If a cousin succeeds in an ancient peerage, it is because he is descended from some former holder of the title, not because  the previous peer was his cousin. With newer titles, it gets complicated over who might or might not inherit.

All peers have a family name as well as their title. Sometimes they are the same. Sons and daughters of peers use the family name, except in the case of eldest sons of dukes, marquesses and earls. The eldest son takes a courtesy title - in effect he borrows one of his father's lesser titles from the day he is born and uses it as his own.

It is a lot to remember when you are writing an exciting romance. More to come with the next post.