I’ve started work on my latest novel, and the initial chapter opens in the middle of a rainstorm. My poor main character – in this case, one Vasily Korsokovach – is in no way prepared for the deluge and finds himself grumbling about Mother Nature while he attempts to gather clues.
Writing that sequence brought me back to the weekends I’d spent camping as a kid, which in Maine, invariably included more than a few that were essentially wash outs. It got to the point where it would be a given that the family would wind up huddled beneath the tarp hung across the lone picnic table our site might have provided; in later years, when we were fortunate enough to have a tow-behind camper trailer, that mutated into crowding around the small table in the kitchenette, trying to see if it was possible to pick up any radio station that deep in the woods.
We had the best time in those outings, rain notwithstanding. I fell far short of staying at least one night in each state park we had to offer, but did have the chance at least to visit a fair number of them. Some of that knowledge is coming into play as I send Vasily down the rabbit hole of another investigation…