The Semiotics of Setting

I have a terrible confession to make. I don’t know history.

I mean, I know some stuff…I’m not completely inept. But I don’t know what happened the Friday after Hitler died, or how quickly the use of the light bulb spread through the world following its invention.

Why is this a problem?

Well, it’s a problem because, on occasion, I pretend to write historical fiction.

I say ‘pretend’ because I’ve never quite gotten there. I can’t figure out the correct circumstances of characters in the times they supposedly live because I don’t know the history surrounding those times well enough to do so convincingly.

Also, I don’t really care.

History was and is important. But in my fiction, the (non-fictional) facts don’t matter to me. So I use history and geography for their semiotic value.

By which I mean: How do the historical and geographical signs (say, a kerosene lamp) relate to the reader, the characters, and the story in general?

The simple existence of a kerosene lamp speaks a great deal to a modern reader. It means the story is taking place somewhere unlike the world we live in. It is probably many years ago, and there is likely greater adherence to social structure and propriety. Also, the story probably takes place within a settled society, not a primitive environment.

If I am writing a story that has need of these elements, can I choose to convey them by setting my story in a world where a kerosene lamp is an everyday item for my characters? Or does my use of a kerosene lamp require me to include the kind of historical details of the events that took place when kerosene lamps were commonly used.

I personally champion the first of these, and not just because I’m too lazy to research all the details necessary. Using such elements is common in sci-fi and fantasy. The reader gets signals from the weaponry and technology and clothing and manner of speech in these worlds which do not really exist. In literary fiction (eep, just called my fiction literary) these elements do not lose their ability to signal the reader simply because the story takes place on earth.

Or maybe I just tell myself that so I can stop buying history books.

The Bouquet Wrapper

Every now and then a hand reached across my view, pulling a wrapper from the top of the stack. Each time, the fluorescent light on the ceiling grew brighter and clearer. I never knew what detriment it was to be stuck at the bottom of a stack of cellophane wrappers; and as the top of the stack shrank shorter and shorter, I never knew I could see so clearly: flowers were not colored balloons.

Eventually a human hand slipped me from the wooden counter and pulled me out into cone shape, slipping thorny stems near my delicate skin. A silver ribbon cinched me snugly against the thorns, and I held my breath, longing suddenly for the days of blurry fluorescent lighting. Embracing the stems, I was shoved against other wrappers, held in a bucket, wet and crowded.

Not long after, I found myself between the smooth fingers of a man in a suit. He laid me carefully on top of his briefcase in the passenger seat of his car as I marveled at my speed and surroundings. Trees! Clouds! Wildflowers!

The car slowed and I nearly tumbled to the floor before the man caught me. We entered an elevator, climbing till it chimed at our destination. I bounced lightly, upside down, against his briefcase as we approached a dark wooden door.

He knocked. “Charlotte?”

Charlotte opened the door.

“I brought you these,” he said, holding me out toward her.

Charlotte grimaced. She grabbed ahold of me and closed the door before he could continue speaking.

Laying me on the counter she untied the ribbon and pulled the stems from inside my protection. She left me wet and wrinkled on the counter while she cut the ends off the stems and placed the bouquet in a vase.

She then swept the stems that were left on the cutting board into the trash. She rinsed the scissors and placed them back in the drawer. She picked up the ribbon and folded it smoothly, placing it in the drawer with the scissors.

Finally, Charlotte noticed my shimmer under the kitchen light and rolled her eyes. Unceremoniously, she crumpled me in her fist and let me float into the trash can beneath her sink. From among the scent of coffee grounds and moldy bread, I heard her let out a sob. She sniffled, and her footsteps plodded farther away into silence.