Before I signed my first book contract (nearly twenty years ago!), I’d read a ton of books about How to Find an Agent and How to Write a Book Proposal. But after I signed it, I could find nary a one about How to Actually Write a Book. So it was a learning process for me, and for each book, the process has been a little different. For example, writing about Robert Kennedy’s tour of eastern Kentucky in 1968 afforded me ample opportunities to interview people who’d witnessed the event (in fact I was even lucky enough to meet with the aide who arranged it). This was of course a rich source of material for the book (and, I hasten to add, a priceless opportunity to meet good people doing God’s work in Appalachia).
My next book takes place in the early 1870s. Writing about events that took place 150 years ago makes it impossible to interview firsthand witnesses, obviously, so my approach is necessarily different, relying much more heavily on archival research. But in all cases, my books have started with a process I’ll call “sponging.” That’s when I go foraging for anything that might be even remotely useful for the book: facts, ideas, places, people, statistics, books, articles, images, letters, etc. I soak up every crumb of data I can find.
But first, of course, I need to buy a new notebook—I mean, a new project deserves its own notebook, right? So I bought a stone paper notebook, size A5, with dotted pages. The paper is made from recycled stone; in fact it’s made from karst, which is appropriate, since that is the rock on which Manhattan is built. (It’s also the rock that underlies much of western Bosnia, something I discussed in an episode of the podcast Undark.) Stone paper is more durable than conventional paper, and I find it easier to write on since it seems (to me anyway) more “slippery” too. Anyway, this is the notebook I have begun to fill with my sponging (as well as random doodles).
This is research as stream of consciousness (or what the late David Candow, who trained many of us in public radio, called “radiant thinking”): nothing is off limits. Go to Paris to see the new Metro line being constructed? Sure! Find a physicist to explain pneumatics? Of course! Interview a pneumatic tube salesman? Why not!1
A lot, even most, of this stuff is harebrained. But I think it’s quite helpful for getting into the “mood” of the book, for trying to get myself into the mindset of the setting, in this case 1870s New York. I’ve done a lot of sponging on the history of New York: how much horse poop collected on the streets every day (more than two million pounds), what the fare was for a horse-drawn omnibus ride (about 12 cents), what the coins looked like (I bought an 1870s quarter on eBay to get a feel for that; it was very worn, so it was cheap).
I really enjoy this part of the process. It’s like surfing the web all day but with a purpose (ostensibly). Plus I can do it while Maury’s on in the background. But after sponging, it’s time to move on to the next phase of the writing process: Serious Research. More on that next time.
Please share this email with anyone you think might be interested in it, and if you have questions about the research, writing, and publication processes, just ask and I will be happy to answer if I can. For more about me and my books, please visit my website at malgeo.net.
I actually did interview a pneumatic tube salesman last week, Brad at Eagle Pneumatic. Nice guy. He told me something that would make a great story for Marketplace (I call dibs): many marijuana shops install pneumatic tube systems to comply with regulations that require the product and the cash to be kept in separate locations. You never know what you’ll learn!
Now I know what to call what I've been doing for years. Can't seem to move to the next stage!
Love the doodles!