When Google Earth Lied to My Novel

The Annapolis River had the nerve to disagree with my novel.

I discovered this standing on its actual banks near Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia, squinting at a landscape that bore no resemblance to the vivid descriptions in my published book. The gentle meadows I'd written about? Rocky outcrops. The sweeping curve toward town? The river runs straight as a judgment for half a mile.

My wife snapped a photo of me holding Tides of Acadia like a map that had led me slightly astray. I'm smiling, but my eyes suggest a man reconciling with evidence.

Six months earlier, I'd been confident in my research. Google Earth had become my cartographer, historical websites my travel guides. I'd virtually toured 17th-century Acadian settlements, traced river routes on satellite maps, and even found period artwork showing the valley's "rolling farmland." My descriptions practically wrote themselves.

"The Annapolis winds through meadowland like a lazy serpent, doubling back on itself before spilling into the basin," I wrote, pleased with the metaphor. I could see it perfectly on my laptop screen—the satellite view confirming what historical maps suggested.

I'd done everything right. Cross-referenced three sources. Downloaded topographical maps. Found a virtual museum tour that showed Acadian dyke systems. When my protagonist escaped through "marshland that squelched underfoot," I was describing terrain I'd studied for hours.

Standing there with mud on my hiking boots, I realized I'd confused confidence with knowledge.

The actual marshland was drained decades ago. My serpentine river? Channeled straight in the 1960s for flood control. The rolling meadows existed, but two miles inland, where my characters never ventured. I'd written a Nova Scotia stitched together from 1680, my imagination, and thin air.

A woman walking her dog stopped to chat. When I mentioned I was visiting from California, she brightened.

"Tourist season! What brings you here?"

"Research," I said, holding up my novel. "I wrote about this area."

She glanced at the cover. "Oh, how nice! I love historical fiction."

I waited for her to mention geographical inaccuracies. She didn't. She recommended a local restaurant and moved on, leaving me wondering what readers want from historical fiction. The atmosphere of the past? Emotional authenticity? The sense that someone did their homework, even if they got the geography wrong?

The irony wasn't lost on me: I was now a tourist in a place I thought I'd already invented, discovering my imagined Nova Scotia bore little resemblance to the actual one. My characters had fled through a landscape that existed primarily on my hard drive.

That evening, I sat in my hotel room updating notes for the sequel. The river runs straight. The marshland is gone. The town sits higher than Google Earth suggested. My protagonist would need a different escape route.

However, what bothered me most was that the story still worked. Readers in California weren't fact-checking Annapolis River tributaries. The chase scene remained thrilling, whether the terrain was accurate or invented. My lie had served the truth of the narrative.

I still use Google Earth for research, but I do it differently now. It's a starting point, not a destination. Those satellite images show what is there today, not what was there in 1680, and certainly not what best serves the story.

For my next historical novel, I plan to take a research trip before writing the first draft of the first chapter. Some lessons stick, especially when they cost you the price of Canadian airfare.

Though I have to admit—my fictional Nova Scotia was prettier than the real one. Sometimes the lie improves on the truth, even when reality catches up with you.