“…she went across the street to the Eaton Groceteria, “Where it pays to Shop”, as the slogan would have it. They claimed to be a modern food centre, unhurried and unhampered by clerks. You made your choices and checked out. Sliced lunch ham was thirty-three cents a pound, and Mayfair tea at thirty-nine cents for half a pound sealed the deal.” Scene from A Peculiar Case, An Elizabeth Grant Mystery set in Cornwall, Ontario, set in 1933.
When Elizabeth Grant walks down Pitt Street in 1933, the smell of the bakery, the rattle of streetcars, and the glow of neon hotel signs do as much storytelling as any line of dialogue. Readers don’t just follow her footsteps—they inhabit her world. For me, that’s the magic of historical fiction: transporting readers so completely that they can smell the coffee, hear the jazz, and feel the fabric of the era brushing against their imagination.
Creating that illusion of time travel begins long before the first word is written. All the details that add authenticity can be found in older maps and newspapers.
Over the years, I’ve created fictional worlds across different decades—ranging from the smoky 1930s Montreal in my Elizabeth Grant Mysteries and Crime Noir series to the small-town Ontario of the mid-1980s in my DS Henry Stafford Mysteries. Each era requires its own rhythm, language, and atmosphere. The challenge isn’t just getting the facts right—it’s making the world feel authentic and lived-in.
Here’s how I create that sense of authenticity, and how you can too.
The Power of Setting in Historical Fiction
In historical fiction, setting isn’t just the backdrop—it’s the heartbeat of the story. It shapes your characters’ choices, limits their freedoms, and gives emotional colour to every scene.
Readers forgive small plot twists or even a bit of artistic license. What they won’t forgive is an anachronism that shatters the illusion. A 1980s detective can’t send a text. A 1930s journalist can’t hop into an Uber. These details, small as they seem, can break the spell.
When I write the series set in the 1930s, I have to remind the characters to stick by the phone — the landline of olden days. If they are stuck on a small country road, they have to wait for a passerby, no cell phone to dial back then!
But when done right, setting becomes invisible; it seeps into the tone and dialogue until readers feel they’re walking those streets themselves. In the Crime Noir Series, the grime and grit of Depression-era Montreal mirror the moral murk of the cases he solves. In DS Henry Stafford, the muted palette of a small Ontario town in the 1980s reflects a world where change is slow, gossip is quick, and justice often arrives by way of persistence rather than flash.
The recruit in Stafford’s story must find her way to the crime scene using landmarks and maps, as GPS was not available back then.
Digging into Local Archives and Newspapers
Whenever I start a new book, my first stop isn’t a plot outline, it’s the archives. Old newspapers are my favourite time machine. They’re more than headlines; they’re the heartbeat of daily life.
For my 1930s stories, I spend hours with editions of The Montreal Gazette and The Ottawa Journal, hunting through pages that reveal far more than breaking news. The advertisements are often what bring the world to life. You’ll find everything from “New permanent waves that last through humidity!” to “Men’s felt hats—stain-resistant, $2.49 at Morgan’s.” Those tiny glimpses of consumer life reveal what people valued, what they could afford, and what captured their imagination. The Eaton’s catalogue is often mentioned.
While researching a Crime Noir novel, I stumbled upon a 1935 ad for “The Silver Slipper Cabaret,” which boasted an all-girl orchestra. That single ad inspired a nightclub scene and the creation of a jazz singer whose sultry voice became central to the mystery.
Online sources are also useful for finding menus and seeing what was offered back in the day. When I sent my 1930s detectives on stakeouts, I had to think about to-go cups, not styrofoam, and thermoses. What did they do for coffee in the office? No Keuring there either. How and what they pack for quick bite on a long stakeout?
For my DS Henry Stafford series, I turn to local Ontario papers from the 1980s—The Winchester Press, Chesterville Record, and Cornwall Standard-Freeholder. The tone is immediately different. The classifieds show small-town rhythms: farm equipment for sale, curling bonspiels, bake sales, and the occasional scandal about a zoning dispute. Those snippets remind me of how communities actually sounded. Everyone’s favourite restaurants often place ads with daily specials, including pricing. It’s not critical, but it adds a sense of reality.
And yes, I use real places in my historical fiction. For local readers, it’s excellent; they recognize their own history in the narrative. For others, not from this area, those details still provide a sense of the real experience anywhere for that time period.
The ads in the local papers were great for the 1980s mysteries. The family went to the local video store to rent machines and movies! Betamax or VHS!
Even weather reports help. “Unseasonably warm January—ice hut season delayed again” tells me more about the setting’s atmosphere than a dozen photographs could. I often borrow those small factual details to ground my scenes.
There is nothing wrong with using the real names of businesses as they appeared in ads. But I make sure to use them positively, as the backdrop of a story.
Writer’s Tip: When you find a newspaper gem, save a screenshot or clipping and tag it with a note about how you might use it—whether it’s a slogan, an ad, or a turn of phrase. These fragments often spark entire scenes later on.
Fashion as Time Travel
Fashion is storytelling through fabric. It reveals who your characters are, what they can afford, and how they navigate their world.
For instance, when Henry Warner takes Elizabeth Grant to the Chateau Laurier Hotel in 1934, she fusses about what to wear. The dress becomes an integral part of that scene. I searched online for the perfect gown and described what I saw. It was better than my imagination and accurate for the time and setting.
I keep Pinterest boards for every significant time period I write in: one for 1930s men’s and women’s fashion, one for the 1980s, and another for uniforms and workwear. The visual reference helps me avoid vague descriptions like “she wore a dress” or “he wore a suit.” Instead, I can picture the cut of a 1937 bias gown or the shoulder pads of an ’80s power suit.
In the Elizabeth Grant Mysteries, clothing often signals class and independence. Elizabeth might wear practical tweed suits with sensible shoes, an understated choice for a woman detective who must move easily between social circles. In contrast, Blake Lowry’s trench coat and fedora aren’t clichés—they’re tools of anonymity in a world where secrets are traded like currency.
By the time we reach the 1980s in DS Henry Stafford, the shift is evident. Detective Fenshaw’s neat blouses and slacks represent the early years of women carving space in male-dominated workplaces. In the first book, Stafford’s clothes make a statement; he wears pants that are too high and too big. He can’t match colours. That shows a bit of his personality. Don’t worry, he gets better over time. In the 1930s, black stockings with a seam at the back conveyed a great deal about the woman wearing them.
🪡 Writer’s Tip: Don’t just describe what they wear—explain how it feels—the itch of wool, the static of nylon, the weight of a trench coat after rain. Texture is time travel.
Maps, Landmarks, and Street Life
Once I understand how people looked and talked, I turn to where they walked. Maps are my compass.
For 1930s Montreal, I rely on fire insurance plans, a Red-Light-District map showing brothels, and city directories. They help me pinpoint real street names, churches, and factories that existed at the time. Some streets no longer exist—but that’s where imagination steps in. I can rename them, make slight geographical adjustments, and still retain historical truth.
In the Crime Noirs, I often mention the Lachine Canal, St-Dominique Street, or Chinatown, not just for flavour, but to orient readers spatially. Knowing where the nearest tram line runs lets me pace a chase scene realistically. Knowing which neighbourhoods were industrial or residential helps me choose where a suspect might hide.
For DS Henry Stafford, the setting is smaller and more personal. Winchester, Chesterville, and Cornwall are real Eastern Ontario communities I know well. I use old municipal maps to confirm where a curling rink or railway line stood in 1986. That’s how I ensure Stafford can drive from his home to the scene of a crime without having to create a fictional route. It helps in keeping distances relatively accurate.
Maps also offer sensory cues: the echo of church bells, the hum of factories, or the quiet along the St. Lawrence River. I like to think of each scene as a miniature diorama, with every building and sound placed with intention.
🧭 Writer’s Tip: Walk your streets, physically or virtually. Google Street View and local archives are your best allies. Even if modern buildings have changed, the bones of the city remain.
When I needed to find two 1960s bungalows in Winchester for the first Stafford book, I actually went down and drove around until I found the perfect setting on Clarence Street. That also happens to be within walking distance to the police station, the hospital and the library—all locations I use in the books.
Blending Fact and Fiction
Writers often ask: How much accuracy do I need? My answer: enough to make your lies believable.
You don’t need to name every street correctly or replicate every headline. What matters is that the world you build could have existed. I often create fictional cafés, hotels, or houses inspired by real ones. The Fairmount Café in the Elizabeth Grant Mysteries is a blend of two real 1930s establishments. In DS Henry Stafford, I fictionalized a house fire scene by merging two real incidents reported a year apart.
The same principle applies to dialogue and slang. Too much era-specific jargon can alienate readers; too little, and the story feels modern. Balance is key. When I write Blake Lowry’s clipped, cynical narration, I use period-appropriate idioms but keep them accessible. For Stafford’s 1980s police banter, I sprinkle in casual phrases from the time—enough to set tone without turning the book into a nostalgia reel.
Be careful of information dumps, where you write things to fill space; it has to be relevant. Yes, I have been accused of info-dumping in my first fiction book. But I don’t feel bad about it, I learned from it and streamlined. In the first book, I believed the additional information provided the necessary context to set the scene. Some people loved it, others skipped through some of it, I’m sure. You need to find a balance you are comfortable with.
Writer’s Tip: When in doubt, choose mood over minutiae. Readers want to feel the time period, not study it.
Tools and Resources for Writers
Over the years, I’ve assembled a small “research toolbox” that keeps my historical settings consistent. Here are some of my favourites:
Archives and Libraries
Local archives and historical societies (ask about photo collections and city directories)
Provincial or national archives (digital access is growing every year)
University libraries—many have microfilm readers and digitized periodicals
Online Resources
Newspapers.com and OurOntario.ca for digitized Canadian papers
BAnQ numérique (Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec) for Montreal material
Library and Archives Canada photo and census databases
Visual Aids
Pinterest boards for fashion and interior design by decade
Vintage maps (many free online) and Google maps for modern times.
Local Facebook “Then & Now” groups for crowd-sourced memories and photos.
Collecting these isn’t just research—it’s creative fuel. Every headline, photograph, or map can spark a new subplot or character. All that research has also given material for more stories.
Bringing It All Together
When I sit down to write, I’m not thinking about every historical fact I’ve gathered. I’m thinking about atmosphere. The research lives beneath the surface, guiding tone, rhythm, and choice of detail.
Each scene becomes a mosaic made from small, authentic pieces of history.
The most rewarding moment is when a reader says, “I felt like I was there.” That’s the payoff for all the hours spent chasing ads, poring over maps, and pinning vintage hats to Pinterest boards.
Because authenticity isn’t built in grand gestures—it’s built in crumbs: the price of coffee in 1935, the hum of a streetcar, the smell of Old Spice in 1986.
And once you learn to weave those crumbs into a story, your readers will follow you anywhere in time.
Final Thoughts
Whether your novel unfolds in the roaring 1930s or the neon glow of the 1980s, creating the ideal setting in historical fiction isn’t about accuracy alone—it’s about immersion. Research gives you the framework, but emotion breathes life into it.
So go ahead—get lost in the archives, wander old maps, fall a Pinterest rabbit hole of vintage hats. Those details aren’t distractions; they’re the threads that tie your reader’s imagination to your fictional world.
When you invite them into your story, make sure the door opens onto a place that feels utterly, undeniably real.