Historical fiction is a popular genre in American literature, and has been, almost from the beginning of the American lit tradition. Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter is historical fiction. It was written in the 19th century, written about events placed much earlier in this country’s history. By contrast, Dickens’ novels seem to us today to be historical, but they are not; they were contemporary when they were written.
Writing historical fiction is trickier than it might seem to be. If one is writing a western, for instance, it isn’t enough to base the depictions on material garnered from Hollywood. Film makers mess things up on a regular basis. In my youth, I dated a man who was something of a gun nut–um, pardon–a student of firearms. Going to films with him was frustrating. If the movie involved firearms of any sort, he’d comment on the authenticity of the weaponry. “He can’t be using that rifle. This movie is set in 1865. That rifle wasn’t invented till 1873.” So much for appreciating the film after that.
Still, I suppose I’ve done my share of film spoiling for others. I once turned off a movie on TV when the hero announced, in a film set in 1867, “My father died last year with Custer.” Since Custer’s demise took place in 1876, ol’ dad should have had ten more years.
But writing historical fiction takes more than just getting the dates right. It’s complicated by things we think we know about the past, things we believe that are not true, and our inability to understand a concept called “tacit knowledge.” Tacit knowledge is information that everyone in a particular time and place shares, knowledge that is so common that people of the time would probably not bother writing it down. Suppose I write a line that goes, “She walked into the room and turned on the light.” I would not consider writing, “She walked into the room, reached for a plastic plate mounted on the wall and raised a toggle switch to the on postion, thereby completing an electrical curcuit which enabled the ceiling fixtures to emit light.” I don’t have to say all that because we have tacit knowledge about what “turning on the light” entails. If , however, I’m writing a novel set in the 16th century, I may have to elaborate on the procedures required for the production of light, if those procedures are necessary to my plot.
Sometimes tacit knowledge is important; sometimes it isn’t. I learned in my research on 1866 Wyoming that playing cards of that day did not have numbers or letters on them. A king was just a picture of a king, no K in the corner. A three of hearts just had three hearts–“pips” as they’re called–no 3 in the corner. Did this get mentioned in my book? No. Everyone of the day would have known it, and no one now needs to know it. Interesting bit of info, but nonessential.
With historical fiction, the devil is, indeed, in the details. If I mentioned a man riding across the 1866 western plains wearing a rubber poncho and green goggles, readers would probably hoot. Those items, however, did indeed exist at that time and were worn, though probably not commonly.
Speech, too, lends itself to error. In my first published work, I had a character say, regarding mistakes he’d made in his life, “I’ve made some beauts.” I think I could defend that expression, a shortened version of “beauties.” An editor, however, changed “beauts” to “doozies,” and I missed the change when I proofed the book. Given the time of the book, the late 1870’s, “doozies” was an anachronism. That term came about when the Duesenberg automobile was invented, many years later. I got some static about that.
Tricky stuff, history. It’s so seldom what we think it is.
Romance novels have a bad name among serious readers because as genre fiction, so many of them are—well—bad. Theodore Sturgeon, a name writer of science fiction, was addressed by a critic who said, “Ninety percent of science fiction is crap.” He replied, “Ninety percent of everything is crap.”
Well said, sir. His point was—you know this already—that 90 percent of movies, books, magazines—name it—are barely worth your time.
That certainly includes romance novels, many of which are a disgrace to the sacrifice of the trees that provide their paper.
Still, there are some good reasons to include them in our reading, and I’m suggesting the following.
- Many romance novels are classics. You know why you had to read Jane Eyre in high school/college? Because it’s a classic. And you know what else? It’s a romance novel. So is Wuthering Heights. So is about everything Jane Austen wrote.
- Many classics are romance novels in disguise. You think The Scarlet Letter was about a bunch of Puritans persecuting an adulterer, don’t you? What if I told you it was about a woman and a man who loved each other so much that they were willing to cross social and religious boundaries to be together? Make it sound a bit better? Worse? Different? I’d think so…
- Romance novels have satisfying endings. Don’t discount this. A former college roommate of mine refused to go to some “realistic” film with the rest of us. She said, “I have to live with reality. When I go to a movie, I want entertainment.” I understand that entirely.
- You may already be reading romance under another disguise. I discovered, a few years back, a writer named Rafael Sabatini. He wrote many years ago, so don’t be perturbed if you’ve never heard of him. He wrote all those books that were turned into Errol Flynn swashbucklers—Captain Blood, for instance—and Scaramouche, with Stewart Granger. Written for men, they’re called “adventure” novels. But get over it, kids. A romance by any other name is still a romance. Show me a Hemingway novel without a romance, or a Louis L’Amour western with no love interest…I rest my case.
- Find out what the women you know are thinking. The main readers of romance novels are women. Why do they do that? Even if you are, yourself, female and do not read romances, wouldn’t you like to know why your grandmother/mother/aunt/friend does? Get some of the good stuff. Don’t just pull bodice rippers off the shelf; go to Amazon, read some reviews, and find out what’s good. Start with classics if necessary.
I think you might be in for some pleasant surprises.
My book deals with the difficulties of a young woman named Jessalyn Kirke. Jessalyn believes herself to be the daughter of an English tenant farmer and a woman who was the former governess of the children of the Duke of Bennington. When Jessalyn’s brother, Jamie, is arrested for robbing the duke, she tries to save him in the best way she knows. She fails, but she learns that the duke is her real father. Her brother is hanged, and Jessalyn takes the money he has stolen and flees on the first ship she can find, headed for Trinidad. She has a difficult trip; when the captain fails in his attempt to seduce her, he throws her into the hold.
The rest of the story is purposeful: Jessalyn is married, a marriage of convenience, to Dominick Reynolds, a wealthy plantation owner on Tobago. She is threatened with death several times, and death does indeed come to Alida Fitzhugh, who would have married him, had she been able. Alida is murdered. Jessalyn is threatened with murder several times.
The face is, this book is one I hope that women will read and take to heart. I hope also that men will read it, with the notion of considering how helpless women can be when their lives are threatened and they have no recourse.
I like to tell a good story, and hope this is a good story. Those who have read it have liked it very much. Even though I meant it as a book for women, the men who have read it have been very taken by it. One wanted me to write a prequel and a sequel.
I invite you to read this book, and I hope you love it as much as those who have read it.