As soon as I started trying to explain how Edwina was on the train, I was deluged by questions. Utterly flooded. What kind of train? How are the seats set up? How long will the trip take? What station is it going from? Can she walk from one carriage to another? Would she have a thermos of tea in her basket?
I didn't really think through the consequences of choosing to set my novel in Victorian times, I just wanted to write something that I would enjoy reading. But now of course, I have to figure out what year it probably is, so I know if trains even run to that city. Unless of course I don't and just keep going with making things up and all the poeple who actually know these things can rant and curse all they want about idiotic people who don't know the first thing about rail history between the period of 1830 and 1890. I can tell you - I know more than the average person on the street, and I don't know nearly enough to write this scene! So I'm going to stop worrying about it. I don't have time.
I'm about to bend a whole lot of other things, so I don't see I should worry overmuch about details like train timetables. But where things can be plausible, they should be. ARGH! How does anyone every write anything?! But she has a manservant, and seems to be independently wealthy, oh, and educated. I think I'll just stick with the old "it's different for the rich" excuse until I get a clue.
I slept poorly and had nightmares last night. Was it something I ate or just the heat? No matter, today Edwina must get to Belfast and discover that Ireland is a seething mass of political foment, not the idyllic pastoral retreat she had imagined.
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