What color were Henry the Seventh’s eyes? 

My young read­ers often ask me about the details in my nov­els, every­thing from where I find them, to how do I choose what to include. These ques­tions come up often in the con­text of appre­ci­a­tion. I have rarely heard a com­plaint that there are too many or unnec­es­sary details in my books. (Edi­tors tell me that.)

As to why they are there, I think details help the read­er to locate a char­ac­ter in a unique phys­i­cal real­i­ty. This becomes even more impor­tant in the con­text of his­tor­i­cal fic­tion, par­tic­u­lar­ly when aspects of that phys­i­cal real­i­ty are not know or are unfamiliar.

There is anoth­er rea­son why details are impor­tant to include: they help me, the writer. In part, it is for exact­ly the same pur­pose, as for the read­er: they help me locate my char­ac­ter (and plot) in a dif­fer­ent real­i­ty. There is com­fort, so to speak, in know­ing you have some­thing right. It sup­ports your writ­ing. Thus, in my forth­com­ing book, Old Wolf, I need­ed to know what a for­est looks like in the time between win­ter and spring. What does it feel like to walk on land that is only part­ly unfrozen. Are there unique smells to that sea­son? In addi­tion, just how wide is the wingspan of a raven?

Also, in a new medieval nov­el I am work­ing on, what might it feel like to wear shoes for the first time? What do you see if you observe a real city (in con­trast to a town) for the first time? Does it mat­ter which city you see. Moreover—if Hen­ry the Sev­enth glares at you, what col­or are his eyes?

They were blue.

For this writer, that is impor­tant. I am will­ing to bet the read­er will like know­ing this, even if they have nev­er asked the ques­tion. Because one of the jobs of the writer is to answer ques­tions that have not been asked.