Mapping San Raimundo County
I spent my developmental years reading the atlas. Well, perhaps not the atlas, either in the sense of a Titan or of some end-all-be-all definitive volume, but any map I could get my hands on. Historical maps, Thomas Bros, textbooks, the first page of wordy fantasy novels I wouldn’t read. I traced the course of rivers with my fingers and memorized the names of cities, comparing them to lists of population in a worn-covered almanac. I remember when the 1990 census became official and Los Angeles passed Chicago, turning the Second City into the Third City.
These are the sorts of things nerds who hadn’t heard of Dungeons and Dragons did in the days before the internet. It’s proved occasionally beneficial over the years: in a game of Scattergories, for example, where I won a round (“Cities starting with the letter “J”) by pointing out Julian, California was in fact not a city but rather a census-designated place. My opponent looked the fool not only for their mistake but also for somehow agreeing to marry me. In other cases I have been abandoned by my maps, such as when I flopped out of my seventh-grade geography bee because, despite being able to clearly picture its location and outline in my mind, I couldn’t find the words “Hudson Bay.”
Occasionally, my parents would insist I close the atlas and go outside. Then I would create my own maps in the mud, building cities out of mud and digging rivers from the creek, floating leaves around my little world to see where the currents would direct trade. I was also fascinated by doll houses, drafting, cartography, miniature railroads, LEGOs, anything I could use to create a space.
Somehow, despite my love of writing, I never united the two purposes. Maps, I thought, were for Tolkienesque epic fantasy, not for humble little stories of modern people trying to live their lives. It’s not that I was ever adverse to fantasy; on the contrary, I admired the craftwork of true artists and appreciated their work even if I rarely consumed it and didn’t dare emulate it.
I turned instead to the real world, researching (thankfully we had the capital-I Internet by then) at a rate of an hour or two per word written. My first stab at a manuscript took place in a city I knew well. I knew it so well, in fact, as to realize I didn’t know nearly enough. There are some people with a delicious sense of self which allows them to assume expertise about any subject they’ve casually engaged with. I worried that by projecting an incomplete level of verisimilitude my work would cross the uncanny valley for people who had more experience in an area while sounding obnoxious and self-indulgent to those who had less.
That’s why I invented San Raimundo County. Although obviously based on the suburban and rural inland hills of Southern California, there I could tweak history, geography, architecture, and culture to fit my own needs. Research became less important than creating a sense of atmosphere. I spent less time trolling through old newspaper articles and clicking along street view and more time working on characters, their lives, and how they integrated into the larger world. I started basing every new story in San Raimundo county.
The towns themselves became characters. Rancho Valdez, the humble cow town which became a commuter suburb; Zenith, the gas station that fancies itself a quaint tourist destinations; San Raimundo, the glittering metropolis with promises just beyond the reach of every character; Los Terrazas, where multimillion dollar estates perch on a crumbling cliff; Rancho Feliz, the yuppie suburb of Lexus drivers who “moved for the schools;” Berrendo, the dusty pesticide-choked farm town in the desert; and Cuernavaca, the hardscrabble home for people who can’t afford to “move for the schools.” There are more towns, I’m sure, and I’ll get to them eventually.
I’m keeping the map I drew to myself, for now at least. It’s rendered in cheap pen on computer paper, with names crossed out and freeways scribbled over and redrawn. There will perhaps come a day where I’m willing to pay someone who knows what they’re doing to pretty everything up for me, but that day has not yet arrived.
Speaking of things to come, this is my first article in a series I’m planning on the geography of fiction. How I create worlds, how I attempt to make them feel inhabited and cohesive, and how I integrate world-building into the actual narrative of the story. I’ll see you in the New Year for Part II of San Raimundo County.
