My Saturday car
shopping trip alerted me to a detail I'd forgotten in my novel.
My story won't
include car-shopping -- at least not for anything like a 2004 Jetta
wagon. But when my son-in-law inspected the spare tire compartment, I
remembered a telling, tiny detail.
The Jetta's
previous owner lived where all the roads aren't paved. While the
detailers had cleaned and polished the rest, they'd neglected the
spare tire bay. All around the tire, and inside some hidden storage
compartments, we found a layer of fine, tan dust.
Suddenly I
remembered my years of driving unpaved roads to work – the
billowing clouds that followed me and the fine layers of silt that
worked its way into every crevice.
It's something my
protagonist, a jazz musician in 1925 Indiana, would regularly
experience. That's where things get tricky. To my character, it's a
normal detail of life. But it's also a subtle way to give readers a
sense of that era.
Likewise the smell
of coal smoke, the hiss of steam, and the fine black grit that blows
into the open windows of coaches behind a locomotive. Start the trip
with a white shirt and by the end of the day it's gray, with darker
deposits around the cuffs and collar. Good thing those celluloid
Arrow collars detach.
At my upcoming
visits to antique car museums, I plan to pay special attention and
take lots of photos of pre-1925 models. I know only a few of those
details will make their way into the story. But at this point, I
can't know which.
I want to include
enough grit for my story to ring true.
