Author: susanne

What’s different about writing historical fiction?

fig26I love my writing critique group. Smart writers, talented, and we are honest in our criticism. None of us are in it for adulation and reassurance. We’re in it to face the firing line, get real reader reactions to what we’ve written, show ourselves as vulnerable on the way to crafting a finished product.

So when I get a similar response from several members of the group about a weakness in what they’ve read of mine, I pay attention to it. (I also pay attention to the individual responses, but they can be more matters of taste and preference.) And this past week, several group members found that I was too wordy, too explaining, adding too much detail in the scenes, that what I’d written would gain in strength by heavy use of the blue pencil.

I’m sure they’re right, and I’ll go in and doubtless find many instances where less is definitely more that I was blind to when I first drafted those pages. That’s so often true, it almost goes without saying.

But one of the members raised the question as to whether the additional detail, or over-elaboration, is something that is expected/necessary because it’s historical fiction (which he doesn’t normally read), and that made me think too.

Basically, historical fiction has to obey all the same rules as any kind of fiction. And yet, we are creating worlds that are unfamiliar to our readers. We want them to be able to picture what we picture, to be in the period.

For instance, a novel set in modern times can assume a lot more than one set in the past (and I suspect that fantasy and science-fiction also share some of this). You can say “She got dressed and went to work,” and we’ll all have a pretty good image of what that would entail. But what about in a past where, in some social milieus, one didn’t dress oneself, where it was impossible, in fact, to do so because of all the fastenings at the back, completely out of reach?

That’s an oversimplified example, but I think it’s a little to the point. I think the same group member questioned why I would specify that my heroine was driven somewhere in her father’s new Pierce-Arrow motorcar, instead of just saying she was driven. I didn’t have a ready answer, but on thinking about it, I felt that automobiles are still so new in 1910 that anyone who had one or rode in one might be hyper-aware of the novelty, and automatically think in those terms.

Of course, the real trick is to convey all that detail, all that evocation of a period and place, and not make the text feel overburdened with words. And then, you have to make sure that you don’t lose the reader for the opposite reason, because she lacks the period vocabulary to paint that mental picture. A crespine, for instance, mentioned as an item of clothing, needs to somehow be put in context as something that goes on the head. In a modern context, there’s no need to explain what you do with a hat.

I think this need of historical fiction, of drawing the reader into a world she’s completely unfamiliar with, is partly why people will read multiple books set in the same time period, or concerning the same people. Over time, they’ve built up a “vocabulary” of images that put them in that place and era, and they don’t have to work quite as hard to find their way back as they had to work to get there in the first place.

The Ladies’ Mile

6thavenueearlyI’ve been dipping in and out of this work-in-progress and have lately gotten back into it. I did a lot of research to start off with, but in my experience, the research never stops throughout the writing process.

The novel is about two young women in 1910 New York, one an Irish immigrant who suffers some reversals and ends up getting into terrible danger, the other a member of the wealthy class who’s just come home from four years of college, and is dealing with the competing demands of her mother’s ambition to marry her well, and her own desire to make a difference in the world. Their two stories intersect in the shadowy underworld of white slavery.

The writing is going well now, but I have started over from the beginning three times now. I began in the first person, then realized that there are so many complicated sides to what was happening that multiple third would serve me better. I also changed the timing of the beginning, and many of the events.

All this meant that yesterday, I found myself researching the department stores in New York in 1910. It was already a commercially thriving city by that time, with big department stores like Macy’s, B. Altman, and Lord & Taylor opening their flagship stores in what was known as The Ladies’ Mile.

The area, now a historic district, stretches from around 15th street up to 24th (extending to 34th when Macy’s store there opened), east to what is now Park Avenue South and west to the other side of Sixth Avenue.

200px-ONeillBuilding-NYC-LadiesMileMapThanks to the New York City Landmark Preservation Commission, most of the buildings are still there, although many have been repurposed into smaller retailers and offices.

Of course, the most iconic of them all is the Flatiron Building, but Gimbel’s and B. Altman had pretty impressive buildings themselves.

These establishments employed armies of shop girls and porters, and supplied the wealthy and the growing middle class with ready-to-wear clothes, fashion accessories, and household goods.

If you’ve been watching The Paradise or Mr. Selfridge, you’ve got a pretty good idea of what retail was like around the turn of the 20th century. Here’s a slideshow with some vintage images to enjoy!

What do readers want?

reading-glasses-on-a-bookThis may seem like a rather foolish question. Readers want to read, OF COURSE!

But what I’m talking about is what is arguably on the mind of every agent and editor at every publishing house: what kind of books will capture the most readers, which translates into: what’s going to be the next big thing in publishing and how can I either find a writer who has already produced it, or get one of the writers I already know to write it?

The funny thing about writing is that you have to really love what you’re writing about. You have to get behind it and be willing to spend a sizeable chunk of your life and energy on it, warts and all, until you produce something you actually think is worth reading.

And then, it’s quite possible that not very many people will want to read it once it’s all done and dusted. At least, that’s what we’re told by mainstream publishers.

I had one of those, “It’s not what editors are looking for,” moments recently. A very kind and thoughtful agent took the time to read something I’ve been working on for about eight years, and although she liked it very much (at least that’s what she said), pointed out that editors are not buying books about the period I was writing in, which happened to be the mid-thirteenth century. Undoubtedly that is true.

As a historical novelist, I absolutely delight in digging into research, discovering things about the period of whatever book I’m working on and gaining a deeper understanding of history because of it. Yet historical novels are already a thin slice of the entire fiction market, albeit one with a devoted readership. I looked up Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, Eleanor Catton’s The Luminaries, and Phillippa Gregory’s The White Queen on Amazon (those being the three titles I could think of that might be the most popular in historical fiction), just to look at their rankings. None of them were below the 2,000 mark in Kindle books, and even higher in paperback. And that despite the fact that two of them had won the prestigious Man Booker Prize in recent years.

Periods in history, historical subjects, come and go in popularity. Right now, there seems to be a plethora of Tudor era novels. It’s a wonderful period, rich in subject matter, so it doesn’t surprise me. But unless someone has written a really remarkable book (like Hilary Mantel’s novels about Cromwell), or put a new spin on it (like C. W. Gortner’s Tudor mystery series) I’m kind of over the period.

But are “readers?” At least, are enough of them?

At what point do editors—who are under an awful lot of pressure themselves to make the numbers—decide to take a chance on a period that isn’t “popular,” or on a historical novel on a subject that most potential readers aren’t familiar with? And should they?

I try to put myself in their shoes. I believe that I would champion a novel that I thought was really excellent. But then I’d have to sell it to the marketing folks, whose first observation would be, “No one’s heard of that (person/place/time period/event). Hell, they can’t even pronounce it!”

This focus on selling has been decried as a dumbing-down of the literary world. Yet publishing is a business, and a business must make money. Works of true literary merit do still manage to get published by mainstream houses. Here’s a very illuminating quote from The Guardian about the effect of the Booker Prize on book sales:

The Booker effect is most noticeable for less well-known authors – sales of Tan Twan Eng‘s The Garden of Evening Mists leapt from 174 to 950 during shortlist week in September; Jeet Thayil‘s Narcopolis from 100 to 727; and sales of Alison Moore‘s The Lighthouse rose from 283 to 1,392

Book sales in the hundreds—no publisher could make money on that. I don’t have access to the industry figures, but Alison Moore’s critically acclaimed novel is now at about 145,000 on the Amazon Kindle list. I know from experience just how few sales that might represent.

With all this, it’s no wonder that so many authors have turned to self- or indie publishing, as it’s euphemistically called these days. I’m sure there are many wonderful books written that cannot find a publisher willing to take a chance on them. But does that solve the problem? The overwhelming majority of self-published authors don’t sell very many books, either as e-books or print on demand. They can’t get shelf space in bookstores, and there’s very little apparatus for getting the important pre-release reviews that help sell a book.

Self-publishing may be a way to get your book “out there,” but it isn’t necessarily a way to get it into people’s hands.

So are we, as authors historical fiction, destined to hope our passion becomes popular, or that we stumble into a subject that for some reason first capture’s an agent’s, then an editor’s, then the marketing department’s, then the designer’s, then finally the reader’s imagination, and becomes that “breakout book?”

All I know is that I can’t set about to write for the market. I simply have to keep writing what I love, and hope that—eventually—the market finds me.

What I’m Reading

I tend to be a bit schizo when it comes to reading. Often I have several books going at the same time, sometimes using different delivery methods.

GoldfinchFor instance, I’m listening to Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch. It’s a long listen, and I can only do it when I’m in my car alone, because my significant other hasn’t heard the beginning. My observations so far: I admire Tartt’s writing. It’s skillful and she really draws me in. But I had a hard time with the two boys being essentially abandoned by any authority figures and left to get drunk and do drugs on their own. Where are the social services? I was so relieved when Hobie reappeared. I will finish the book despite having heard various things about the ending because I want to form my own opinion.

My SO and I are listening together to Love in the Time of Cholera, which I’m absolutely adoring. Such an achievement. I love the way Marquez toys with the timeline, giving you the ending and then taking you back to the beginning, never losing your interest. I want to know how that result came about. And then, even the stories are not chronological. Brilliant. Evocative, engrossing, it really takes me to this place that is so terrible and so beautiful, to a culture that is very old and a bit decadent. I’m lost in that world while I listen.

On my Kindle I’m reading about four things, depending on what mood I’m in at any given time.

ohf_smallAn Honest Fame by M.M. Bennets I chose because the author recently died, and I’d never read anything of hers. I’m not very far into it, but enjoying her writing and the atmosphere and time period very much (Napoleonic wars). Makes me wish I’d discovered her earlier.

Night and Day by Virginia Woolf. I’ve read everything Woolf ever wrote, plus the letters, plus Quentin Bell’s excellent biography of the author. Virginia Woolf made me want to be a writer back when I was in my early twenties, having given up on a musical career once I realized that I needed a private income to sustain me during the years of never earning a penny as a pianist—and I did not have one.

I’ve been gradually re-reading Woolf, now that I am about to hit the age of sixty and have six published novels of my own under my belt. I’m pleased to say that her work more than holds up. Her early books (I’ve reread The Voyage Out already) have a delicate touch and evoke the time so beautifully, and you can just feel her chafing against something, wanting to push the boundaries, but staying within them at first, very like a female Henry James. Although she’d probably have hated the comparison.

Fire_from_Heaven_coverTreasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. OK, I am ashamed to admit that I never read him as a child. It’s a treat to read him now; he really spins an exciting tale, and his characters are so vivid in an almost Dickensian way. The only problem is that there was an excellent movie made of this, and I keep playing it in my head as I read.

Fire From Heaven by Mary Renault. I read The King Must Die and The Bull from the Sea years ago, and noticed on Twitter that the Guardian book club was reading her Alexander trilogy. I have a feeling I started this a long time ago and abandoned it. I love her writing, but it takes a long time for me to get into that very different historical mindset. My goal is to read the entire trilogy.

So, that’s my bizarre current reading. I have some wonderful books circling that will land and which I will enjoy reading very much, I’m certain.

What’s a book worth?

Kindle-vs-booksLately, the conflict between Amazon and Hachette has raised the issue of e-book pricing to a very public level. Amazon wants e-books to be much cheaper than print books because (in their words) “Many e-books are being released at $14.99 and even $19.99. That is unjustifiably high for an e-book. With an e-book, there’s no printing, no over-printing, no need to forecast, no returns, no lost sales due to out of stock, no warehousing costs, no transportation costs, and there is no secondary market — e-books cannot be resold as used books. E-books can and should be less expensive.”

On the side of Hachette is the argument that charging a much lower price for an e-book devalues the author’s work, that producing a book still requires a huge investment in editorial time and production (cover design etc.), not to mention promotion.

I confess, I don’t know which side of the fence I sit on. So I thought I’d break it down here and think out loud a little.


I want e-books to be as cheap as possible, because I read a lot and I can’t afford to buy everything I would like to. I’m also more likely to take a chance on a new author if the price is below $5, say, and sometimes will buy both a physical book and an e-book if I really love it.


It takes a lot. of. time. to write a book. Forget about trying to figure an hourly rate! I think mine is down around pennies or less.

However, I’d rather have someone purchase an e-book than borrow someone else’s copy of a physical book. And frankly, more readers is a good thing overall—especially since I don’t have a huge income that is at jeopardy if I lose out on price for the sake of quantity.

Plus, I get a 25% royalty fee on e-books that are published by the big publishers. So of course, the fee goes up if the price is higher. What I want to know (and what Amazon purports) is whether the quantities rise enough to more than compensate for the price differential.


Let me be revealing and break it down. Forgetting the whole advance thing, I earn 15% royalties on hardcover books, which sell for $16, so that means for every hardcover book I get about $2.50 in royalties. For a paperback, it’s less, only 7% on a $8 book, or $.56.

For a $9.99 e-book (starting price for my old S&S novels), at 25% royalties that’s $2.50 as well. Three of my Bloomsbury YA historicals are on sale for $1.99 as e-books, so I will get $.50 each for them—roughly what a paperback nets me.

Amazon claims to have statistics to back up the fact that lower prices generate more sales. Here’s what they said:

For every copy an e-book would sell at $14.99, it would sell 1.74 copies if priced at $9.99. So, for example, if customers would buy 100,000 copies of a particular e-book at $14.99, then customers would buy 174,000 copies of that same e-book at $9.99. Total revenue at $14.99 would be $1,499,000. Total revenue at $9.99 is $1,738,000. The important thing to note here is that the lower price is good for all parties involved: the customer is paying 33% less and the author is getting a royalty check 16% larger and being read by an audience that’s 74% larger. The pie is simply bigger.

Of course, I don’t sell in the hundreds of thousands, so we’re talking much smaller increments here.

And I have to say, as a low-income person myself, I’m grateful when I can purchase e-books by the authors I love at bargain prices. I will splash out up to the $9.99 amount Amazon is talking about, but much higher and I’ll just wait until the price goes down.

I guess I’ve persuaded myself that on balance, I believe Amazon’s appraisal of the situation. Perhaps the most telling paragraph in their letter was the one that recalled the outcry when paperbacks hit the market, and traditional publishers were up in arms that it would be the ruin of publishing.

Change is hard, and there is definitely a place for the hard work that publishers and editors put into the books they produce. But as a writer, most of all I want the most readers possible. And if that means less expensive e-books, then so be it.

My abandoned children

Children in woodsI am sitting down to start writing. Now that I have two day jobs (one full time, one part time) that old idea about writing every day has disappeared, along with cleaning the house, so this would be the first time I’ve added any words to a novel in progress since exactly a week ago.

It’s my own fault: I’ve made decisions in the past that have led to this, both good and bad. I don’t let myself feel angry that at my age—less than six years from supposed “retirement”—I have as hectic and pressured a life as I have ever had. That would mean wishing all the amazing things I’ve done in past years undone, and I don’t regret a moment of it.

My situation has taught me a lot about myself as a person and as a writer—not that the two are actually separable. (Just then, a thought popped into my head: “Damn! I have to email this person about that…” Focus, Susanne) One thing it has taught me is just that. To focus on being creative, on seeing something through from beginning to end, requires time and space.

I do read every day, however, in those cooling down, mind-clearing moments before bed. One of the things I’ve been reading is Dani Shapiro’s Still Writing. I felt the need to read something about craft to help me bridge the gaps between when I could sit down and write and when I had so many other necessary things crowding my mind.

Big mistake. Don’t get me wrong: Shapiro writes beautifully, the book is engaging and thought-provoking. It just doesn’t provoke the right thoughts for me at this time. Shapiro has a busy life, of course: children at school, a house to run, and we know that those things are time-intensive and much more work and more stressful than those who don’t have such occupations believe. But her angst is all about sitting down at the computer and having a stretch of time in front of her every day that she must fill with productive writing, and the mind tricks and strategies that she employs to get the most out of them.

Can you spell “envy?”

I had to abandon the book for the moment because it was making me feel guilty, angry, depressed, deprived—all things that are not conducive to good work in any part of my life.

And then I started thinking about the writing I am doing. I have three—count them, three—projects on the go at the same time. One is an old novel, the beginning of a trilogy of which the other two novels are already finished, but which have never found a publishing home. One is the novel I’ve been writing about here that takes place in New York City in 1910. The third is a contemporary novel that I thought I couldn’t or wouldn’t want to write, but that’s proving a little more engaging to me than I anticipated.

All three of them are in danger of never being completed. When I work on one, I feel as though I have left the other ones abandoned and gasping for attention. They distract me from what I am writing, add an extra layer of guilt on top of the, “I should be weeding the garden, or cleaning the house, or going to the dump” etc. Shame on them.

I am not one to anthropomorphize my projects normally, not one who sees each precious novel as a child that one is sending out into a cold, cruel world. I see them as creatures of my imagination, though, that would not exist if said imagination did not breathe life into them. Bad reviews, poor sales—these things disturb me, of course. But I don’t feel they constitute a personal attack. A novel, once it is published, has its own existence separate from me.

And that’s the key: once it is published. Until then, that novel is very much a part of my psyche, my inner and outer world. And that is why by doing what I am doing right now, I feel as if I am constantly being a bad “mother.”

If I had six or eight hours a day to put into my writing I might be able to divide up my time and chip away at each of them. But with only—if I’m lucky—that much time each week, I have to choose. It’s my own personal Sophie’s Choice, albeit much less genuinely heart-rending.

So, now that I’ve spent some precious time writing this, which one of my projects will get my attention today, and which others will be left to beg on the street for food to keep them alive until I can nurture them in their turn? And having spilled all this out, can I give myself permission to work the way I have to work, and not feel guilty about it?

I’ll leave you to guess.

Fast read, slow read

T and HA couple of things happened to make me think about this topic recently. First there was a Facebook post about the 22 books people pretend they’ve read. Then a few discussions about “old-fashioned” vs. “modern” writing, especially regarding pace and plot. And finally, I actually met someone else who had read The Luminaries, by Eleanor Catton, winner of the 2013 Man Booker Prize.

First, let me qualify the following by saying that I’ve not yet finished Catton’s book, but I have no doubt that I will for a number of reasons.

The essential question here is whether saying something is a “fast read” is a compliment or not. The answer is not so straightforward as people on either side of the issue might think. Here’s sort of what I mean:

Fast read: the positive take

We’ve all experienced those books that we galloped through, because something grabbed us and simply would not let us go. It’s exhilarating to be so wrapped up in a book that time disappears, and  before you know it you’ve reached the end. These are fabulous reading experiences, no question. I felt that way about the Hunger Games trilogy, for instance.

Fast read: the not-so-positive take

I’m sure we’ve all equally experienced a book that made us turn the pages in spite of ourselves, whose prose is so simple and undemanding that speed-reading is not out of the question, and whose author knows those tricks that prevent you from stopping when you really want to, the cliffhangers, the unanswered questions etc. I rarely read novels that fall into this category all the way through, but I’ve had to read non-fiction that takes this approach, and frankly, I find it excruciating. For a fiction example, I’d go with Dan Brown.

Slow read: the negative take

Books that plod are simply murder to get through. Prose bogged down with excessive description, or with intrusive backstory or uninteresting characters doing things that don’t matter—yuck. These are the books I usually manage not to purchase. A read of the first page or two can sort them out for me, usually. These more than any other make one wonder how they managed to get published, why someone didn’t edit them well. Sadly, they can sometimes be books by well-known authors whose editors don’t intervene very much, depending on the loyalty of the audience, and submitting to the demands of the marketplace for the next book. But that’s a whole different topic.

Slow read: the positive take

Henry James. Herman Melville. Emily Bronte. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Anthony Trollope. Hilary Mantel. Charles Frazier. Kazuo Ishiguro. I could go on. I don’t mean slow because they’re boring or inept. I mean slow because the author is taking time with something, savoring and caring about the words and the characters, luring us into the world of the novel by seducing us with the pure tactile, sensory effect of the writing. These are often the books that stay with you for a long time, perhaps in part because they took time to read.

OK, so where does The Luminaries fit in this rather over-simplified continuum? I haven’t finished it, as I said, so I can’t say for certain. But here are the characteristics I’ve discerned so far:

  • Beautifully drawn characters, but without excessive descriptive passages
  • An incredibly slow moving plot, but of such subtle complexity that curiosity keeps drawing me on
  • The audacity to use antiquated literary conventions, to confront the past by resurrecting Hawthorne-like authorial intrusion, for instance

This book, whether I end up thinking it’s important or just a tour-de-force, challenges me as a reader. And it does so not by being obscure and intellectual, but by telling a story in a daring way. Oddly, it’s the opposite of Mantel’s Wolf Hall, which I loved. Mantel uses very modern, almost post-modern literary style to paint a perfect, evocative picture of the life-and-death intrigue in the Tudor court. Any coincidence that they both won the Booker prize?

That one word, I think, sums it up: challenge. I love that people read, and honestly, whatever they enjoy reading it’s all good. But are we losing a taste, as a society, for challenging reading? For books that take time and insist that we pay attention to details—word choice, sentence structure, form? Are the big five publishers afraid to get behind books like this, unless they’ve been anointed by receiving prestigious literary accolades?

I don’t have an answer. I’d love to hear from anyone who does. In the meantime, let me know if you’ve got some of those meaty novels that stretch the mind for me to try. I can’t guarantee I’ll like them, but I won’t give up easily.

And think twice before you mean to give a compliment to a book by calling it a “fast read.” If nothing else, I’ve definitely decided that, in and of itself, that description wouldn’t recommend a book to me.

Not Writing

frustrated-snapped-pencilYou know how I can tell that it’s been a long time since I’ve written a blog post? Because my browser didn’t bring up the URL as soon as I started typing.

When I finally got here, I was ashamed to see that my most recent post was September, 2013. What kind of a writer am I?

The short answer is that I’m a writer who lost her nerve for four long months. I had written the first draft of a novel called White Poison, about white slavery in 1910 New York. My critique group was enjoying it, but they had some comments that should have set off alarm bells for me. Nonetheless I sent it to my agent.

He hated it.

Well, maybe hate is too strong a word. But his reaction was like having a bucket of ice water poured over my head, not least of all because I could see that there were many ways in which he was right. I’ve agonized and thought about his comments and reaction, as well as the reactions of my other readers, and taken away what feels right.

I started all over again. Most of the same characters, the same premise, but completely different POV for a start. Instead of the first person that works so well in my YA novels, I switched back to multiple close third. This is what I used in my adult novels, and it enables me to go into more depth with my characters and create a  more layered story.

I started the action in a different place. Often this can create a breakthrough. In my case, I not only started the action differently, I used a different character’s POV. I used the character whose story is truly at the heart of the narrative instead of one who is looking at her from the outside.

This was, perhaps, the biggest change. I still want to show the stark contrast between upper and lower class women, and what motivated them in early 20th-century New York. I still want to tell the remarkable story of two women who helped the police crack a white slavery ring. But I realized that a part of me hadn’t wanted to get too close to what was actually happening to those young, friendless girls who were sexual slaves. I realized that I was cheating my reader of being able to feel the full horror, the full degree of depravity, that would ultimately allow them to feel the redemption.

So now I’m at just over 10,000 words on the new version. Wish me luck. And courage.

Time and space

My primary mode as a person is doing. If in doubt, feeling agitated or depressed, it’s time to DO something.

That’s the impulse that originally started me writing historical fiction. I found myself unable to get a job teaching at a college, after spending eight years of my life getting a PhD from Yale in music history.

I had to do something with all that knowledge and passion. And I did.

I consider it a bit of a failing that I cannot always simply be. I have just finished the first draft of what I hope will be my seventh novel, and instead of letting myself breathe and think about it, I am a little depressed, feeling that I should now DO editing, even though in my heart I know that a little distance, a little time and space, will be good for it.

No doubt this feeling will pass in the crush of everyday life. My full-time-plus day
job won’t give me a moment to linger over this feeling.

In the meantime I hope my characters are busy both being and doing, and that when I get back to them we’ll get this novel done together.

Communications, 1909 Style

kg-grabaphone-1909-th-300Today I wrote a scene in my work in progress in which my heroine receives a telephone call. The year is 1909. Of course, I knew that there were telephones, and she is from a wealthy family in New York City, so they would undoubtedly have one. But then I wondered how common it was to speak by telephone, and how many households actually had them. I stumbled upon this wonderful encapsulation of the United States in 1909:


  • The average life expectancy was 47 years.
  • Only 14 percent of the homes had a bathtub.
  • Only 8 percent of the homes had a telephone.
  • There were only 8,000 cars and only 144 miles of paved roads.
  • The maximum speed limit in most cities was 10 mph.
  • The tallest structure in the world was the Eiffel Tower!
  • The average wage in 1909 was 22 cents per hour.
  • The average worker made between $200 and $400 per year .
  • A competent accountant could expect to earn $2000 per year,
  • A dentist $2,500 per year, a veterinarian between $1,500 and $4,000 per year, and a mechanical engineer about $5,000 per year.
  • More than 95 percent of all births took place at HOME .
  • Ninety percent of all doctors had NO COLLEGE EDUCATION!  Instead, they attended so-called medical schools, many of which were condemned in the press AND the government as ‘substandard. ‘
  • Sugar cost four cents a pound.
  • Eggs were fourteen cents a dozen.
  • Coffee was fifteen cents a pound.
  • Most women only washed their hair once a month, and used Borax or egg yolks for shampoo.
  • Canada passed a law that prohibited poor people from entering into their country for any reason.
  • Five leading causes of death were: 1. Pneumonia and influenza 2. Tuberculosis 3. Diarrhea 4. Heart disease 5. Stroke
  • The American flag had 45 stars.
  • The population of Las Vegas , Nevada, was only 30!!!!
  • Crossword puzzles, canned beer, and iced tea hadn’t been invented yet.
  • There was no Mother’s Day or Father’s Day.
  • Two out of every 10 adults couldn’t read or write.
  • Only 6 percent of all Americans had graduated from high school.
  • Marijuana, heroin, and morphine were all available over the counter at the local corner drugstores. Back then pharmacists said, ‘Heroin clears the complexion, gives buoyancy to the mind,regulates the stomach and bowels, and is, in fact, a perfect guardian of health’
  • Eighteen percent of households had at least one full-time servant or domestic help.
  • There were about 230 reported murders in the ENTIRE ! U.S.A. !
  • Read more:

That’s a pretty good snapshot to compare that time to ours in a meaningful way. And yet, it still isn’t enough to give me a sense of how my heroine would feel about getting a telephone call, where the telephone would be in her house, what kind of telephone she would have, or even what she would say when she picked it up and before she hung up. In my mind I pictured the archetypal Candlestick phone. But Rose could have used one of the early “grabaphones,” phones where the mouthpiece and receiver were in one handset. Although dial telephones had been invented by 1909, in New York, the exchange was a manual one, where calls were completed by operators, not by patrons dialing a number. So Rose’s phone would most likely not have had a dial. Then there is the issue of how people used phones. One blog features a series of postcards showing how having a telephone could help one out in any number of emergencies. In these days of ubiquitous cell phones, it is hard to imagine that anyone would need to have the use of a phone explained. Already by that time telephones featured in silent films, in the media, and in the iconography, and the job of telephone operator was well established as a female occupation. I wonder how that came to be, exactly. Perhaps the servility of the job was seen as suitable for women, or there were some who were simply smart enough to see a good opportunity and cornered the market. At the time, textile worker, domestic servant, shop girl, teacher, nurse were the most common occupations. Of course, the story of how Edison suggested saying “hello” instead of “ahoy” to answer the telephone is pretty well known. I can easily imagine people shouting when they spoke, too, not quite believing that the person so far away could hear them. I’ve assembled lots of images of 1909 phones on my Pinterest page. Nowadays, when even the idea of a dial is fairly antiquated, I always find it refreshing to dig around and really try to put myself in the mindset of someone for whom a phone call was a momentous occasion.