Category Archives: Historical Fiction

Captain Kirk to the bridge, please

by Tracy Barrett, W&M contributor

 

On Star Trek (and by this, children, I mean the real Star Trek—the one captained by James T. Kirk, and with cheesy special effects and constant violation of the Prime Directive), a lot of strange things happen (I’m referring to the strange things that the producers intended to happen, not the accidental ones). The audience has to understand these strange things to make sense of the story. But there are no footnotes in a television show, and a voice-over to explain what’s going on would be even more intrusive than mid-60’s hairstyles and encounters with space-hippies.

So how to explain?

Enter Captain Kirk. He’s got the smarts to run a spaceship but doesn’t know a whole lot about the new lives and new civilizations that he encounters. Luckily, he has Mr. Spock, who patiently explains and theorizes about these mysteries to his captain, and hence to the audience. Kirk isn’t stupid—he’s just a military man whose interests lie elsewhere.

Writers of historical fiction face a similar problem. My Princess Anna of Anna of Byzantium wouldn’t think, “Wow, the palace I live in is huge!” But I want my readers to know that it is. Ariadne of Dark of the Moon wouldn’t question the human sacrifice that her religion demands every spring. But I want my reader to picture Anna in a huge palace, and Ariadne being a prime player in the sacrifice. So they need someone to explain to: a slave from a distant part of the empire in the first case, Prince Theseus in the second.

It’s been said that there are only two plots: A stranger comes to town, and Someone takes a journey (some have said that this is really one plot, but from two points of view). I doubt that this is true, but the device is a common one. I wonder if the need for a stranger in town is so the person whose POV informs the story can either explain things to the stranger or be the one who receives an explanation.

My thousand historical research books

some of my book shelves

by Stephanie Cowell

1848 Lady Book with old pressed flowers

I have been accumulating research books or, when they are very rare, consulting them since I first began to write historical novels. In the late 1980s when I began we still had many used book shops in New York City with wood shelves too high to reach but by ladder, shelves often sagging with the weight of books and with that definite smell of wood, dust, old paper, old bindings. Each new book was an enchanted encounter.

I have published five historical novels and have more in draft than I’m willing to admit. Each began with a history book: a rare volume on Elizabethan London printed about 1894 with a red binding which I found I don’t recall where, a biography with fragile pages of a 17th century English archbishop which was waiting for me in a very small shop for very little money. A small book with leather covers and gilt-edged pages by Marcus Aurelius discovered in a cold, empty New England book barn where there were tens of thousands of books and the footsteps of one lone browser…me. The original 1665 book on the early microscope by Robert Hooke (Micrographia) in the New York City Arents Collection and one of the thirteen extant copies of Shakespeare’s 1609 sonnets perused and almost wept over at Yale. (Was this WS’s own copy perhaps?) And the rather astonishing heavy Victorian Godey’s Lady Book printed in 1848 and given to me by a friend, between whose pages I found a sheath of very dry flowers and leaves, almost colorless. (Who pressed them there and tiptoed away?)

I bought more books by catalog in the 1990s: newer books but on rare subjects such as a history of English workhouses, the Glastonbury Tor. In my travels I bought books. On my trip home from England I brought twenty-seven books. That was before the planes weighed your luggage or perhaps the weight allowance was higher. (I think I gasped with delight when I found a map of Elizabethan London.)

Then came the fabulous internet and every book I ever dreamed of waiting in some shop in Arkansas or the Cotswolds for me. I ordered How Shakespeare Spent the Day. I ordered an old book on the daily lives of French artists. And now my husband has given me a Kindle and I have found to my extreme delight a number of books on 1860’s Florence published in that time and all for free. One has a list of banks and food shops of the period and where you can hire a donkey cart.

And when I finish a historical novel, what happens to the books? Well, I give some away sometimes. I truly recall giving several away which I had used for my Monet novel so do not understand why a huge pile of them still weigh down the top of a file cabinet in the den. My books on the Brownings are scattered all over the house but my English history books are mostly in one whole shelf. Sometimes I wander from room to room touching the book spines. I hear the books murmuring softly, “And when will you write me? There is a story waiting within my pages! What are you doing researching that other book in the next room…I know all about you, you see!”

And I tell them, “Perhaps 2012 will be a good year for your story!” I know they are patient books though they do grumble in their dusty way and that they know in their inky souls that I truly love them and that I will come back.

Historical novelist Stephanie Cowell is the author of Nicholas Cooke, The Physician of London, The Players: a novel of the young Shakespeare, Marrying Mozart and Claude & Camille: a novel of Monet. She is the recipient of the American Book Award. Her work has been translated into nine languages. Her website is http://www.stephaniecowell.com.

Emotional truth

By Tracy Barrett, W & M Contributor

One factor that draws many people to historical fiction—and Civil War reenactments, the Society for Medieval Anachronism, Renaissance Faires, etc.—is curiosity about how it felt to live at a different time. I share this curiosity; I love to be so immersed in a former time that I’m startled to look up from a book’s pages and find myself in the twenty-first century. I first experienced this when reading Lucile Morrison’s The Lost Queen of Egypt, and then with Sigrid Undset’s Kristin Lavransdatter and Robert Graves’ I, Claudius.

Part of my fascination is the evocation of the time—the houses the characters lived in, the food they ate, the clothes they wore, the games they played. But what really draws me in is the feeling that I’m sharing the characters’ emotions.

Avoiding anachronism in emotion is one of an author’s most difficult feats. How, we wonder, could parents of the past have survived the death of one-third of their children? How could a teenager have accepted without question that she was to marry a man many years her senior, who had been chosen for her by someone else? If the character is horrified, we’re not being true to the time. But if we present a child’s death or an arranged marriage to an unpleasant old man matter-of-factly, we risk jarring the reader at our character’s perceived callousness.

I try to come up with a situation analogous to one today and have my characters react appropriately for that. For example, until modern medicine improved infant mortality rates, parents might react to the death of a child the way most Western people would react to the death of a pet: you’d be sad, you’d probably cry, you’d tell your friends, you’d never forget that pet, you might keep its collar in a special place—but you would move on, in a way that the parent of a dead child could rarely manage to do today.

I think of an arranged marriage as being similar to having parents choose a teenager’s high school. The teen might have some say, and if she really, really hated the idea of a particular school and another one was available, the parents might yield to her wishes. But they might not, and that wouldn’t be child abuse.

Here’s how I handled my main character’s reaction in my work in progress to hearing that an acquaintance had lost her husband and children to an illness several years earlier. She thinks: “Not unusual, but sad nonetheless. No wonder the woman had an air of bitterness about her.” I hope that reminds my reader that this kind of loss was common, while preserving my narrator’s humanity.

Who “Owns” a Story?

BarrettTracyRT

By Tracy Barrett, W & M Contributor

I occasionally get questions from readers of my historical fiction asking why I deviated from the real story of the Minotaur or the Odyssey. By “the real story,” what they mean is a familiar telling. But the version that my questioners think is the authentic tale is just one in a long line of tellings of a myth or legend, and my books are merely the most recent addition to that line.

Myths were told orally, most of them for centuries, before someone wrote them down. What that writer set down on paper (or clay, or parchment) was only one version, neither more nor less authentic than any other version that either didn’t get written down or whose written form has been lost. Usually the same basic story elements persist from one telling to another, but sometimes they are drastically altered. Look, for example, at three different (ancient) endings to the Odyssey, all found in ancient written sources of equal “authenticity”:

  • Odysseus ruled in Ithaca until the end of his days
  • being sick of the sea, he walked inland until someone didn’t recognize the oar over his shoulder and asked, “What are you doing with that winnowing-fan?”
  • he sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar and never returned

or the two descriptions of Ariadne’s fate after she was abandoned on the island of Naxos by Theseus after he killed her brother, the Minotaur:

  • she hanged herself
  • she married Dionysus/Bacchus and became immortal

or three levels of Helen’s culpability in the Trojan War:

  • she went willingly to Troy with Paris
  • she  was abducted by Paris and went to Troy against her will
  • she hid out virtuously in Egypt, while a phantom double went to Troy.

If the ancients didn’t find one version more true, more original than the others, why do modern readers?

In my young-adult novel King of Ithaka, Telemachos is indignant that bards change the details of stories. He is told, “Nobody expects a poet to tell the truth. It’s a better story this way.” This is even more true when a writer is retelling story that was fictional to begin with. What “authentic” story am I deviating from if I create a centaur sidekick for Telemachos, if I have Ariadne choose willingly to stay on Naxos, if my Minotaur in Dark of the Moon is no monster but a horribly deformed man? I’m not changing the “real” story. I’m making a new one, just as the other tellers before me have done.

Before they were themselves

Washington IrvingIn the summer of 1817, two men hiking in the Scottish countryside ducked out of a rainstorm by huddling close together beneath a nearby thicket. One of the men pulled his thick tartan cape over the head and shoulders of the other, protecting them both from the wind and the wet until the storm had passed.

They were Washington Irving and Walter Scott, although even they hardly knew it yet.

At the time, Washington Irving was just another struggling American expat, desperately trying to beat the post-war economic slump and save the floundering family business abroad. He had always been a lousy student, despite having (eventually) passed the bar, and though he now gamely embarked on a crash course in bookkeeping and business, it would not be enough to save the business from bankruptcy.

And he knew it.

He’d been living on the residual fame of his earlier literary success for years now, having achieved some fame and notoriety as the barely pseudonymous author of A History of New York, the book that gave us the words Knickerbocker and Gotham as synonyms for New York. Following that, he had served as the editor of a reasonably successful American literary journal, mostly confining himself to pirating and reprinting works from England before they were published in America, and writing sentimental biographies of the naval heroes of the War of 1812.

It was hack work, but he didn’t honestly have much else to do. And he needed the money.

When his brother Peter’s shipping business in Liverpool starting circling the drain, he tried to help. He wasn’t much good at it, though, which was depressing, and he took to brief respites of travel during which he might forget his troubles and scribble down half-formed bits of ideas in his journal.

The writing wasn’t coming easy for him these days, either.

A friend had given him a letter of introduction to Walter Scott, who was living about twenty miles southeast of Edinburgh, and who had expressed himself an admirer of Irving’s History of New York. Irving set out for Edinburgh, determined to make the man’s acquaintance if he could.

Scott was not yet Sir Walter Scott. He had not yet published Ivanhoe, or Rob Roy, or Kenilworth. He was widely acclaimed as a Romantic poet, though, and it was in this role that Irving knew him. Admired him. Okay, he idolized him. Irving disliked Coleridge, disliked Wordsworth, disliked Shelley. But Scott, he adored.

So he appears on Scott’s doorstep, letter in hand, heart pounding, waiting to see if his idol will deign to see him.

He does more than that. Scott insists that Irving join him and his family for breakfast, then keeps him as a close companion for the next three or four days, introducing him to his daughters, showing him the local landscape, and going over with him the drafts of Rob Roy that he was finalizing at the time.

The incident of the rainstorm, the thicket, and the tartan cape was one that Irving would retell over and over throughout his life. He always felt that Scott had taken him under his wing — literally and figuratively — from that time on, and counted his friendship as among the most important and influential in his life.

More immediately, Irving took heart — and inspiration — from his visit with Scott.

His mood improved, and he finally decided that he would earn his living as a writer, or not at all.

In short, he got down to the business of his life.

Several weeks later, Irving’s writer’s block crumbled into dust. He stayed up all night and into the next morning, setting down in nearly final draft form the story that would become known as Rip Van Winkle. Shortly thereafter, he began work on The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. 

Both men would eventually become the literary heroes of their respective countries, inspiring and influencing countless writers and readers who followed in their wake.

Charles Dickens was a big Irving fan, and admitted that he was inspired by the Christmas stories in Irving’s Sketches when he wrote A Christmas Carol.  Mark Twain would later claim — disparagingly — that Scott’s writings formed the foundation of the character of the American South, so widely were they read there.

Scott would receive his baronetcy, and Irving would be hailed as the first true American man of letters, his warm, graceful home in New York’s Hudson River Valley becoming nearly as famous as he was.

But they both always remembered their first meeting in the summer of 1817, how instinctively and immediately they became friends, and how much they valued each other’s company and support throughout all the long, complicated years ahead.

 

Beth Dunn is a blogger, novelist, and geek. She writes at An Accomplished Young Lady, travels frequently to the Hudson River Valley, and presents herself unapologetically on the doorsteps of her literary heroes from time to time, quite often with absolutely marvelous results.

 

The woman who almost married Mozart

MARRYING MOZART

by Stephanie Cowell (Wonders & Marvels contributor)

Mozart almost didn’t marry his lovely wife; he almost married her older sister. And if he had married the sister, I believe we’d be missing a great deal of his music today.

When Mozart was twenty-one and unemployed, he was invited to the home of a violinist Fridolin Weber who had four musical daughters, ages fourteen through nineteen. Aloysia was sixteen: she was gifted with a gorgeous voice and quite ravishing. The other three Weber sisters could not come close to her and she knew it.

Mozart was so much in love that he wanted to turn over his own struggling career to promote her singing. (Again, think what music we may have lost!) But there were several obstacles in his path. Her mother was a bit crazy; she thought Mozart would never make a penny and wanted her beautiful daughter to marry a wealthy man. His father was controlling; he didn’t want his son to marry anyone but to send all his money home (if Mozart ever made any).

Mozart had to travel in search of earnings, and when he finally found his love again in Vienna, she had forgotten him and was now pregnant by a tall and handsome actor. Mozart was not very tall and not very handsome. When his heart healed a little, he found himself as a boarder in the house of the three remaining Weber sisters. He could have married any of then, but that is a complicated story, so complicated that I wrote a novel about it called Marrying Mozart. He settled on the third sister and had a happy life. He also began to make a good deal of money now and then.

Mozart died at the age of thirty-five and his wife spent the remaining fifty years of her life preserving and sharing her husband’s music. By the time Aloysia was quite old, Mozart’s name was famous throughout Europe. One of his admirers came to visit the aging prima donna in Salzburg and Aloysia swore to them that Mozart had never ceased to love her. “But why did you refuse him so many years ago?” the admirer asked bewildered and she replied that at that time she was not capable of appreciating his talent and character…” Hmm.

So he didn’t get the first girl he loved but he got the right one for him and the right one to save his work for posterity. And if it were not for the music Mozart wrote for Aloysia Weber Lange, history would scare remember her name.

About the author: Historical novelist Stephanie Cowell is the author of Nicholas Cooke, The Physician of London, The Players: a novel of the young Shakespeare, Claude & Camille: a novel of Monet and Marrying Mozart. She is the recipient of the American Book Award. Her work has been translated into nine languages. Her website is http://www.stephaniecowell.com.

 

Wandering the Virtual Stacks

By Tracy Barrett, W & M Contributor

I love poking through library shelves, stumbling on books whose existence had never occurred to me; finding, next to the book I’m looking for, an even more interesting one; marveling at titles (a recent favorite: The Thirteenth: Greatest of Centuries—take that, people who call the Middle Ages barbaric!); feeling somehow proud that the book I’m clutching was last checked out during the Second World War.

Now I do most of my research by typing keywords into little boxes on a screen. But it’s occurred to me that the way one on-line hit leads to another that leads to another is the same process, and can take you to—well, not to entire books extolling the brilliance of the 1200’s in Europe, but to a fact that will make a scene or a character gain that little bit of depth that will bring it to life.

Case in point: the copy editor on my young-adult novel Dark of the Moon pounced on a passage where I said that Theseus’ stepfather grated cheese over a bowl of lentil soup. “Did the ancient Greeks have cheese graters?” she asked.

Well, of course they had some way of consuming hard cheese—they wouldn’t throw it out. But that got me wondering about how exactly they made it edible, so I set out to look for an answer.

Here’s what I learned:

  • Not only did the ancient Greeks have cheese graters, they looked remarkably like the ones we use today.

    A knestris!

  • The Greek word for “cheese grater” is κνήστις (knestris, in the Latin alphabet) or τυρόκνηστις.
  • When the women in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata go on a sex strike to force their husbands to quit fighting, they renounce a sexual position called “the lioness on the cheese grater.”
  • The spot on your back that you can’t reach to scratch is called the “aknestris.”

How many of these facts did I wind up using in Dark of the Moon? Only the first, and it all it did was confirm that what I had already figured out must be accurate. But the search gave me a lovely wander through the virtual stacks.

 

Tracy Barrett is the author of numerous books for young readers, most recently two young-adult novels set in ancient Greece, King of Ithaka and Dark of the Moon. She lives in Nashville, TN, where she teaches at Vanderbilt University.

Contributor Q&A: Tracy Barrett

Another in our series of introductions of new contributors to Wonders & Marvels: introducing Tracy Barrett, award-winning author of books for young readers, both fiction and non-fiction. Lately she has been concentrating on young-adult fiction set in the ancient Mediterranean.

Q: You have an A.B. in Classics from Brown University and a Ph.D. in Medieval Italian literature from U.C. Berkeley, you teach Italian at Vanderbilt University, and you’re also an award-winning author. Could you tell us a little bit about your career trajectory? How have these two seemingly different lives intersected?

A: Actually, there are many similarities! My favorite activity is poking around dusty old books that nobody else has looked at since 1951, finding an intriguing fact that makes the past come alive, and communicating that fact to a receptive audience. That’s what I did when I investigated the medieval poet Cecco Angiolieri for my dissertation, and that’s what I do now when I find out something about Bronze Age Crete to round out a character in a novel.

Q: Of the many books you’ve written, which one has been the most interesting to write?

A: Like most authors, I usually find my most recent book the most interesting, so for me, that would be Dark of the Moon, releasing—ta-da!—tomorrow! It’s a retelling of the myth of the Minotaur, which is itself a Greek retelling (or misunderstanding) of now-lost Cretan rituals, most likely concerning the worship of a bull-god, whose priest might have worn a bull costume during rituals. It’s possible that Greek travelers garbled the story and came up with the marvelous tale of the Minotaur, a half-man, half-bull who devoured human children. Their inaccurate but exciting retelling gave the world one of its most popular myths.

In my imagined Minoan civilization, Crete is ruled by a moon goddess and Asterion is no monster, but a deformed and nearly mindless man who has to be confined under the palace for his own and others’ safety. Everyone is terrified of him except his beloved sister Ariadne, and eventually, Prince Theseus of Athens, who has been sent to kill him.

Told in alternating points of view by Ariadne, a lonely teenager who is also priestess of the moon, and Theseus, who has rediscovered his father only to be sent by him to almost certain death, Dark of the Moon explores the issues of love, faith, and betrayal. Ariadne must decide what her obligations are toward her heritage and her religion. Theseus must discover how much he owes his absent father, his neglectful mother, and his kind stepfather. It’s been getting some great reviews, including a star from Kirkus Reviews.

I’d love to share the book with you! I’ll send signed (or unsigned, if you prefer) copies to two people who comment on this post over the next week.

Q: You’re “retiring” from Vanderbilt at the end of this year to focus on your fiction writing. How will you start transitioning to life as a full-time teacher to life as a full-time writer?

A: I’m weaning myself from teaching and amping up my writing while not shortchanging my students and colleagues at Vanderbilt, which means that I’m working at one or the other job pretty much all the time. Life will be difficult for the next seven months, but I care a lot about both teaching and writing too much to want to do less than my best at either one.

I’m blogging about my last year at Vanderbilt at Goodbye, Day Job!. Guest posts alternate with my own posts about preparing to leave a “regular” job with a paycheck, benefits, social contacts, and interesting coworkers (I’m including my students in that group!) for the uncertain world of working for myself. A new post every Wednesday!

Q: I know that you’re deeply connected to the YA writer community. What are the benefits of engaging with author writers? And what’s the best way for a new author to reach out to others?

A: You’re asking this at a very good time. I just spent the weekend at the annual conference of the Midsouth (Tennessee/Kentucky) chapter of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, a 22,000-member international organization. As always, the conference was stimulating and educational, but above all a wonderful networking opportunity. Children’s writers are the most generous and interesting people I’ve ever met, and I’m thrilled that I’ll be able to spend more time with them. You don’t have to be published to join, so if this is something that interests you, I highly recommend that you join.

Q: Inquiring minds want to know. What do you have in the works? What can we look forward to?

A: I’m working on a YA manuscript set in the Roman Empire. It’s still too new and fragile to talk about, but it involves an Etruscan slave girl, a mysterious prophecy, a guilty secret, murder, love, teen angst—I’ll share more when I think it’s sturdy enough to bear a little scrutiny without bruising!

I look forward to posting here on the 20th of every month on all aspects of young-adult historical fiction.

 

Location Research in 140 Characters or Less

Map of London

By Beth Dunn

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m addicted to the internet. I spend pretty much every minute of the day online, unless I’m sleeping, driving, or exercising. But it’s not all funny cat videos and screencaps of sexy British leading men in cravats.

It’s also surprisingly useful for doing in-depth location research when I’m writing. Social media lets me spend lots of time in lots of different places at once, and more than once, it’s helped me decide where to set a story.

You might think that’s putting the cart before the horse, but it’s not. I’ll let my old graduate school advisor tell you why.

Vienna is lovely in the summer

When I was in grad school for geology, lo these many years ago, one of the first things I needed to do was decide where I was going to do my field work. So, being a logical, methodical kind of person, I thought long and hard about what my research interests were, checked the literature, and made a list of topics that I thought might be fruitful for new contributions in the next year or two. Then I made a list of some of that places where that research might be done, and showed it to my advisor.

She scanned my list, sighed deeply, and handed it back to me. Then she asked me a question.

“Where do you want to spend the next five summers of your life?”

I might have blinked. She went on.

“See, I like my creature comforts, I like to know I can get a decent hotel room and a good meal, so I do research in Europe. I’ve done field work in the desert, and I hated it. If I read my dissertation now, I’d be able to feel the sand grit between my teeth again in an instant, and I’d want to punch something. If you want to love your work, choose a place that you love. Trust me: There are interesting questions to answer everywhere.”

I glanced down at my carefully assembled list. Only one of the places I had come up with even sounded slightly appealing to me, on reflection.

“Vienna,” I said.

She smiled. “Vienna is lovely in the summer. And the museum is open later than most. Excellent. Write it up. I’ll see you next week.”

So I did my field work in Vienna.

Now, I ended up not pursuing the life of a paleontologist, as you’ve probably already guessed. But my advisor’s words have stayed with me. It sounds frivolous on the face of it, but obviously she was right — if you’re going to be spending lots of time in a particular place (real or imagined), you’d better be damn sure you like it there.

But as a geologist, I needed to physically visit a place in order to research it. Nobody else was going to climb those mountains and bash a rock hammer against some limestone and ship it home for me. I needed to get on the plane and do it myself.

Fiction writing leaves us a few other options. Writers have long used other books, of course, to research their locations. Maps, timetables, local histories, biographies — the list goes on, and it’s a familiar one.

But the internet opens up a whole new world for location research. Social media — Twitter in particular — has been phenomenal in helping me better understand a place I’ve never been before, often in very fine detail.

Twitter is great for field research

My  stories take place in England, so I maintain Twitter lists of a bunch of different groups of people, all composed of Twitterers based in England. I follow a Bath list, a Bristol list, a London list, and a Yorkshire list of folks on Twitter, because I’m currently writing stories that take place in those locations.

I can hear you scoff:  Just how helpful is it to know what people in Bath are having for lunch? Or to learn that there’s a chronic problem with rubbish collection in Norwich? Or that traffic is absolutely mental today on the M1?

Well, it’s actually a lot more helpful than you might think.

First, listening in on conversations on Twitter gives me a great sense of the vernacular of a place. You’d be surprised how well regional differences in speech come through in just 140 characters. And how little these cadences are likely to have changed over time.

Second, I can ask questions about simple things if I’m curious. Folks are usually happy to reply to things like “How long a walk is it from the High Street to the waterfront?” or “What’s the weather usually like there at Christmas?”

Third, I’ve now got friends I can meet up with when I do buy that plane ticket and do the serious, hands-on research. And there’s nothing like knowing a local for really getting a feel for a town. I’ve met up with teachers, librarians, baristas, and garbage collectors in my travels.

I can assure you, garbage collectors give excellent street tours.

Social media is great for meeting people, forming relationships, and establishing professional ties. But it can also give you an ear to the ground in a bunch of different locations at once, providing you with an unmatched opportunity to get a sense of a place, an insider’s view of a town, and a local guide when you’re passing through.

It’s like remote sensing for writers. I dig it.

How do you use social media — or even just the internet in general — to help you in your research?

Movies, History, and Books for Kids

By Melissa Luttmann

Don’t you just love the movie Gone with the Wind? The beautiful costumes, the intriguing heroine, the quotable lines…it’s a great work of fiction. And I wish that more people would take notice of those last three words: work of fiction. Gone with the Wind is a delightful movie, but not every detail in it is historically accurate.

If you write a novel set during one of Hollywood’s favorite historical periods (of which the Civil War is one), your young readers may come to it thinking that they know everything there is to know about that time. After all, they saw it in a movie, and Hollywood wouldn’t lie. As historical fiction writers, there isn’t much we can do about the way films portray history, but we can and should be aware of the notions our readers may have gotten from them.

If there are well-known films set during the same time period as your novel, watch them, whether they’re recent releases or classics. Sometimes you may be pleasantly surprised by how many historical details the filmmakers got right.

At others you may find a major misconception you’d like to clear up. (I personally am grateful to the authors whose books showed me that not all Southerners owned plantations with hundreds of slaves.) But either way, you’ll know what impressions your readers may have of your time period.

DISCUSSION:

Do you agree that kids’ impressions of history can often come from movies?

Do you think most films are fairly accurate in how they portray history, or do they often get the details wrong?

Melissa Luttmann is the YA Editorial Assistant for Wonders and Marvels. You can read more about her here: Editorial Staff.