Bath Costume Museum by Victoria Chatham

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One of the joys for me as a writer of historical romance is visiting museums. No matter what the era, a museum can be a source of so much material a writer can become spoiled for choice. It is said that the devil is in the details and sometimes an extra detail is one too many, but starting out with a menu of items gives an author so much choice.

I was spoiled for choice when I visited the Costume Museum in Bath, England, last fall. I had not been to Bath for a very long time, over thirty years, but I found it had hardly changed. The sights I

Assembly Rooms ceiling

remembered were not the sights I had come for on this visit. This time my destination was the Costume Museum, housed in the basement of the Bath Assembly Rooms. Yes, dear reader, the very Assembly Rooms where so many of Georgette Heyer's heroines fanned themselves after having tripped the light fantastic with their heroes. 

My daughter accompanied me on this visit and I hoped she would get something out of traipsing around a museum with her mum. If anything, she was more fascinated than I was. Each display was a cornucopia of surprises, from the embroidered fabrics to the intricacies of how each costume was constructed. I have, in my time, been known to sew clothes for my family, all pieced together in next to no time on a trusty Singer sewing machine.

I knew how long a simple dress took me to put together but looking at some of the costumes, I could not imagine how many hours went into stitching them by hand. We spent several hours viewing the costumes, even trying some garments on in the 'dress-up' room. My daughter is small, but even she had to breathe in to do up the corset she tried on and that was after undoing the laces. 

There were bonnets and gloves, including embroidered leather gloves worn by Elizabeth I and Elizabeth II at their coronations. There were embroidered satin shoes that were so small they looked as if they might have been made for a child, but no, they were ladies' shoes. My favourite bonnet was this embroidered satin confection. I don't think I have a big head but this was so tiny I could only perch it on the top of my head. Again, this was a lady's bonnet

which emphasized even more how tiny people were during this era.

The fans were exquisite, from embroidered muslin, like these, to painted silks. In all examples, the ribs and guards were beautifully carved ivory. Parasols were stored in boxes and the ones on display were changed regularly. The young ladies on duty at the museum answered all our many questions. We both could have stayed longer.

After having worked up something of an appetite we made our way to the Jane Austen Centre, and there partook of a Mr. Darcy Special Tea. The crusts were cut off the sandwiches, the mini-cakes were a delight and the warm scones with cream and jam were, pardon me, the icing on the cake.

​Victoria Chatham

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When the Writing Gets Tough, Go Shopping.

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When the writing gets tough, go shopping!

           

What better place to search for characters than a mall, where people of all shapes, sizes, colors and styles happily gather. Without interfering in their enjoyment, I can study and choose from thousands of character traits, personality flaws and secrets – free to the discriminating shopper.

            I’ve tried shopping at home with catalogs. It sometimes works for a minor character, but it’s hard to tell if I have a good fit without seeing the actual character in motion. All those idiosyncrasies that make my characters special come out in public – their walk, laugh, voice. Perhaps what I’m looking for is the way they hold their head, cling to a boy friend, or talk with their hands. Too much personality remains unnoticed on a still life, one-dimensional photograph in a catalog.

            So I settle down to window shop.

My first “purchase” is not your stereotypical hero. His belly’s a bit too large; his face beginning to show the first stages of age. Gray threads his hair and his laugh is a bit too loud. But he also has the nicest smile I can ever recall and the kindest blue eyes. His gentle gaze speaks of trust and honesty and I immediately realize I want him in my book. He will make the best “best friend” anyone can have.

I turn my head at the sound of male laughter. Cowboys. Are they real or wannabes? They lean against the railing and I study them as they study girls. I have my pick of sizes, the tallest being well over six foot. If I take a composite of the group, I just might have my hero. Let’s see – a mustache from the third guy; the blonde’s hair; and the tall one’s smile, his lips lifting a little higher on the right than the left.

I like the tall one’s attitude. As I watch, his face never changes expressions. He’s aloof, trying to look disinterested. His thumbs are hooked in the belt loops of his jeans; one boot crossed in front of the other. While his body language might indicate he’s bored with this activity and wants something more exciting, his eyes tell another story. Twinkling green, slight crinkles at the corners, they laugh and mock and never miss a thing.

As though one entity, they turn to follow a group of girls when they pass. Red-blooded, American boys to the core, but I’m still not sure I can use them, so I study their walks. Only one has the rolling gait of a cowboy—someone who actually spends time on a horse. It’s the tall one; the guy with laughter in his eyes and the crooked smile.

I watch them walk away, and he turns and touches his forehead as though tipping his hat. And then he winks at me.

Oh, yes, I definitely need a cowboy in this book.

Developing characters is such a fun part of writing a story. They soon take on a life of their own and often go in a direction I couldn’t have imagined. I found my cowboy in Tenderhearted Cowboy. Joe is on a quest that I never thought he could complete, but with Sky’s help and love, anything is possible. You can read more about them on my website and I hope you grab a copy of this historical romance and get lost in Joe and Sky’s story.

Barbara Baldwin

www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

           

How long is long enough?

Find all my books here on my BWL author page

What prompted this question was a comment made by a reviewer recently about my Mystic Mountains. This reviewer gave the book a much-appreciated five star rating but said, “I felt it was a bit over drawn in length.” This surprised me, as at 304 pages it is not overly long for a historical.

Asking a writer how long their book is going to be, or should be, is like asking the age-old conundrum, “How long is a piece of string?”

I envisioned a very different ending for Challenging Mountains, my recent release, where Tim’s family would have a get-together, but then as I drew near the final scene it told me that was enough and that is where I should sensibly leave my characters. Publishers have certain rules about the length expected for each genre and most contemporary stories are termed as ‘quick reads’ I guess, and Historicals and Time-Travels are expected to be longer.

One benefit of writing a series, especially one containing members of one family or clan, is that you can always catch up in the next book with characters you have taken a fancy to or hope those you disliked would have a not so happy ending. I fully intended Challenging Mountains to be the final book in my Settlers series, but as happens often with us writers, one of the characters started to play with my mind and insist I write her story next. Because Tiger and Bella (Book 1, Mystic Mountains) ended up with eight offspring I could be stuck with this family heckling me until I am in my dotage (which I fear is not too far away).

Find reviews and excerpts here on my Web Page

A Little Bit About Herbs by Rosemary Morris

To find more of Rosemary's work click on the cover above.

Photo Credit- Nancy Bell

Borage ~ The Herb that Cheers

Herbs
Today, we are concerned about pollution, rivers poisoned by chemicals, the ozone layer which becomes increasingly thinner, etc., with the result that a simple lifestyle is becoming more popular. Wonder drugs and pills available over the counter from pharmacists often have unwelcome side effects, but many herbs from the kitchen, garden centers, greengrocers and supermarkets, or those grown indoors in pots or in the garden are easily available and beneficial for minor, everyday ailments.
A Brief History

During biblical days prophets sanctioned the use of medicinal herbs which grew in the Bible lands and throughout the Middle East where marjoram, mint, sage and thyme grew.
In Babylon circa 2000 B.C, the medicinal use of herbs was recorded with instructions for their preparation and administration.
The ancient Egyptians imported herbs and spices from Babylon and India. Through trade they learned how to use many including anise, caraway, fenugreek, opium and saffron from The Middle East.
Greeks studied herbal lore. The writings of Hippocrates, ‘The Father of Modern Medicine’, a physician and teacher, circa 400 B.C. was the pattern for medicine as we know it today. In the first century A.D. Dioscorides, the Greek physician listed more than 500 plants and herbs in his book Materia Medica, the standard work on the subject which Christian religious orders consulted.
Galen, a physician in Imperial Rome wrote medical books which were consulted for 1,500 years. Wherever Romans went they took medicinal seeds and plants. In Great Britain they introduced more than 200 herbs which included borage, betony, fennel, parsley, rosemary and thyme. After the Romans left, monasteries had ‘physick’ gardens. The monks became famous for their use of herbs to heal the sick. Herbal knowledge was mostly passed down by word of mouth until James Gerard, James 1st’s apothecary wrote his well-known ‘Herball’ in which he drew on the work of a Flemish physician, Dodens. Gerard wrote about plants in ‘that new lande’, America and mentioned the potato and the tomato - ‘The Apple of Love.’
The seeds and roots settlers took to America flourished. Native Americans introduced them to bergamot, discovered by the Spanish doctor call Nicholas Monardes, who wrote the first herbal recorded in America. In the 18th century the Shakers, whose influence lasted 100 years, grew and sold medicinal herbs, they included basil, borage, marjoram, horehound, hyssop, sage tansy and thyme with which they made ointments, pills, powders and salves.
During the Industrial Revolution in the United Kingdom, people moved into small terraced houses without gardens. The use of home remedies that required herbs declined. By the 20th century, scientific advancement meant there was no need to support an expensive herb industry. However, the use of herbs survived to this day in Mediterranean countries and elsewhere.
Ready made food made in large quantities to which preservatives have been added lacks aroma, colour and flavor, so many people try out recipes which include herbs and value their health-giving properties. They also drink herb teas and use other herbal remedies.

Herb Tea
In England a wide variety of herb teas are available from health food shops and supermarkets, and fresh herbs are available from greengrocers and supermarkets.
I often make a cup with herbs from my garden. One of my favourites is made with home grown freshly picked black peppermint or home- grown dried leaves.
To prepare most herb teas add a breakfast cup of boiling water to a sachet, to three teaspoons of fresh chopped herbs or one teaspoon of dried herbs and sweeten the drink to suit your taste. Leave it to brew for five minutes then strain it and drink it. To enjoy a refreshing drink on a hot day put a cover over the cup and put it in the refrigerator and enjoy your tea when it is chilled.

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess

Regency Novels False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child. Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019

Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
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Imagination by Rosemary Morris

Click on the cover to discover more about Rosemary Morris and her work.

Imagination

Sometimes. I can’t decide whether novelists are blessed or cursed by their vivid imaginations.
During a recent holiday at the coast, after we finished a meal at a beachside café, my daughter went up the road to the shops, and leaving me to look after my nine-year-old granddaughter. “I’ll be back just now,” my daughter assured me.
Time passed. I looked at my watch. When I consulted my watch again, another half an hour had gone by.
By the time she returned to a very warm welcome, I had imagined she was injured in a car crash, had either been mugged, or some other disaster had occurred. The creative part of my brain had worked overtime to convert the possibilities into material suitable for a novel.
My imagination is constantly fuelled. While I am out and about I automatically scrutinise people. In my mind’s eye I place them in different historical periods. For example, the young man, with long, black wavy hair, seated at a nearby table in the restaurant could be a royalist. An older man with inch long hair could play a roundhead’s part in a novel. Perhaps they could be relatives divided by politics, religion and the sword. I’m not planning to set a novel in the English civil war, but I might want to write one in future. To remember my thoughts, I set them down in my notebook.
Places also spark my imagination, so I have trained myself to concentrate on the road when I am driving. When the car is stationary I look at houses. Who lived in interesting ones? Later I jot down more notes.
To be brief there is little around me that does not suggest something I could make use of.
I write romantic historical novels in which I delve into the past. While reading non-fiction, either a fact or a small detail catches my attention. What if? I ask myself. The answer triggers an idea for the plot and theme of a book. With great enjoyment, I write the first paragraph and plunge into the story.
By and large, I think my imagination is a blessing because, as Victor Hugo stated, “Writing is the Painting of the Voice.”

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels: Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess

Regency Novels False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child and Thursday’s Child. Friday’s Child to be published in June 2019

Mediaeval Novel Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk
http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

All Hallows' & New Covers

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I'm excited about new covers!

Red Magic recently got a re-brand--a new cover and a re-title. It is now Zauberkraft~Red, just in time for Halloween.  It was initially hard to chose a title for this story, back when I was grappling with that. In my long ago 'tweens, I'd been a fan of Baroness Orczy and so it was tempting to try to write that niche-within-a-niche version of "historical romance." Alpine Austria isn't exactly a popular venue and the books are cross-genre.  I'm the first to admit the Zauberkraft series crosses the abyss from Zauberkraft-Red's witchy romance into the fantasy (with a nice red dollop of horror) that is Zauberkraft-Black.

Zauberkraft-Red began because I had a character who wouldn't stop talking. This was Constanze Mozart's lover from Mozart's Wife (now titled The Intimate Mozart.) This guy was already a tall, dark, handsome and rather dangerous leading man type, who, however, turned out to be have unexpectedly decent, warm-hearted center. By the end of the Mozart story, he is indeed The Rake Reformed. 

When this fellow's property-minded family insist upon his marriage to a pretty, horsey, immature cousin who is just sixteen, he, now on the rebound, decides his roving days are over. She, however, doesn't believe a word he says--as well she might. As you can imagine, there is a book's worth of relationship work ahead for both of them.

At his alpine estate, the young woman finds her surroundings decidedly creepy and lonely. The jagged, snow-capped mountain behind the manor is a palpable presence. The freeman peasants who work the estate celebrate the older, weirder holidays as well as the newer Christian ones. Sighting these, she begins to anxiously ruminate upon a frightening experience from her childhood.

On the day of her arrival, the heroine is given a house tour which ends with her husband's bed chamber, separate from her own. After getting over the shock of his Height-of-Fashion 18th Century French pornographic bed curtains, she finds someone she did not expect lounging on the pillows--a cat, who is large, black and fluffy.

As a proper 18th Century lady she is now surprised to discover that her hunky new husband has such a "feminine" pet. The cat's name is "Furst," which is German for "First," which was often the short-cut title for a leader. I'm not sure where the inspiration for Furst came from, except that I wanted to slightly blow up the image of a romance's leading man with a "wussy" fondness for cats.

Furst is not completely based upon an actual animal companion, as many of the other cats in my books are. He's most like my own over-the-rainbow Katter Murr, who was named for E.T.A. Hoffman's (of The Nutcracker fame) illustrious pet. Hoffman's cat was a gray tiger, but our Murr was a barn-found Maine-Coonish sort of feline.

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Zauberkraft~Black  is is a no-holds-barred All Hallows' Eve story. Here, twenty+ years on from the first book, the now grown soldier son of the original couple returns to his childhood home, just after the last violent gasp of the Napoleonic Wars.

Goran has just left Vienna after discovering that his fiance has run off with an older and far wealthier nobleman. Not only that, but he's wounded from a decade's experience of the brutality of war. He's only twenty-seven, but he's grown utterly cynical about politics. His leader, the Austrian Emperor, switched sides when Vienna was threatened by Napoleon's forces. As a result, he, like other  Austrian military men, had been forced to fight first against Napoleon and then for him, a political decision which is firmly stuck in his craw.

As Goran arrives at at this rural estate where he grew up, he sees that things are in a bad way. Men left for the wars and many did not return, so barns and houses, left empty, are falling into ruin. Not only that, but here, in the mountainous back of beyond, there have been attacks by bandits and roaming gangs-- rogue soldiers for whom looting and killing has become a way of life.

Within hours of Goran's arrival, while he is taking a self-pitying ramble around the land, bottle in hand, he finds a May Day party being celebrated. He decides to party for a time with his tenants, and then, numbed with drink, begin the dreary task of listening to the old men complain about the state of things. Later that night, however, the celebrants let their young master into an ancient secret, one which brings all manner of bizarre changes into his life. Goran discovers that he has even more responsibilities and ties to this land--and to the people who live here than he--or even his parents before him--have hitherto imagined. 

Happy Halloween or Samhain or All Hallows' 

--your preference!

~~Juliet Waldron

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Pantser Confessions

I never thought I could get myself into such a tangle in the course of writing a plain, old-fashioned traditional romance. This book has taken a lot longer than I'd projected, but I think I've finally reached “The End.” After the editor gets it, there may yet prove to be a few slips between the cup and the lip, but that's the way it's been ever since I started this story, a sequel to Hand-Me-Down Bride, which is a story about a German mail order bride, brought to Pennsylvania to marry a wealthy older man. 

Another book, set in Pennsylvania farm country, in the home of the now happily married older sister, in the time just after the Civil War, looked, at first glance, to be a snap. A nice title, Butterfly Bride,  jumped into my head, instead of waiting until the last second to put in an appearance, like so many titles do. 

As you may know, in the writing world, I’m (more or less) a "pantser".  This used to feel easy-peasey, but in this case, it turned out to be a case of "not so much".  There was a sketchy  outline at first but the characters spent a lot of time avoiding me, going into hiding after I wrote the first four chapters.

It’s taken a long time to get to know anything about them.  And I know I’ve blamed the heroine, Miss Elfrieda Neiman, casually called “Elfie.” She’s very pretty and rather immature, this Butterfly Bride. She's not the only one who has fluttered around, though, refusing to follow my nice neat outline, not by a long chalk.

To be fair to my girl, Elfie has three suitors, all quite different, and each one offering things/experiences which are attractive. Of course, all of them are decidedly good looking. 

Bachelor #1 is filthy rich--or at least, lives as if he is. He's the heir-apparent sort of prospect a pretty lady from a down-on-their luck family is supposed to jump at. Bachelor #2 is a muscular smith/farrier, a veteran and proud owner of a winning trotting horse, whose large family works the timber on the nearby ridge. Bachelor #3 is a thoughtful, musical, educated man of the cloth, who lost a leg and nearly died fighting at the Battle of Spotsylvania.

All three of these characters, as soon as I began to imagine them beyond their cardboard cutouts, revealed unexplored depths as well as some serious demons. I was forced to confront the fact that it takes more exposition to establish characters who were so determined to pop into three dimensions.

As a result, what should have been a nice little bare-bones sequel got complicated. I’ve been enduring months of those writer’s nights where you go to bed and lie half-awake, running scenes in your head—some of which, by the light of day, turn out not to be so great. And that’s a pain in the you-know-what, because, despite remaining sleepless until 3 a.m., the nagging problem/plot point remains without a solution.

What are they saying? Where are they now? If it’s a party—and with pretty gad-about Elfie and her social young friends, it often seemed to be. Who else is there in the crowd scene that these willful characters have dragged me into? Are they dancing, eating, or just hanging out?  And, more to the point, what are they thinking? 

Finally, however, after a final week long marathon of 10 hour days and "No More waffling, Mrs. Waldron--FINISH THE STORY", my young heroine started to grow up a tad and at last settled upon Mr. Right. She just needed a few more jolts, some of those "learning experiences" which we all dread so much, to discover the truth of what had always been right there, inside her heart.

 

Juliet Waldron

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Homage to the Firefly

 by Kathy Fischer-Brown

Well here it is, July 30^th…again. Here in Connecticut we’re smack dab in the midst of an extended heat wave (yesterday the heat index reached 103 F). I’ll be out with one of the dogs on our “walkies” around the block when a neighbor invariably asks with a big sweaty grin as he pauses from his mowing, “Hot enough for ya?” My answer, usually, is that I don’t mind the heat and find it preferable to freezing my butt off during our overly long, cold New England winters. No, I never complain about the heat. Not that I enjoy peeling myself from the chair I’m sitting in, or having my glasses fog up when I move from the outdoors to the air-conditioned inside (or vice versa), it’s just that summer happens to be my favorite season.

What, really, is there not to like about summer? The trees are in full leaf, flowers are in bloom, and our garden is producing zucchinis, peppers, tomatoes, and herbs faster than we can eat them. The backyard pool has been open since before Memorial Day and Tim, my husband, and Evie, our mutant springer spaniel, take advantage of a refreshing dip throughout the day. It’s a lazy time of year, a time for taking things a little slower, especially when outside playing ball with the mutant. It’s a time of glowing skies long after sunset, of sitting on the back deck with a good read on my Kindle, a baseball game on the radio…and, my favorite spectator sport: firefly watching.

I can’t remember when I first fell in love with those sparkly little critters, but I have memories

from when I was six-or-so running across the lawn in bare feet as I tried to catch them in my hands. And then there was an Independence Day night some 25 years ago when the sounds of fireworks from the park across town seemed in sync with the flickering of hundreds—if not thousands—of those incandescent insects in our yard. Twelve years ago, after a grueling eight months of surgeries, treatment and recovery from breast cancer, I found myself enjoying a warm late spring evening on the deck with no other thought in my mind except to breathe in the night air and give thanks to whatever powers that be for being alive. As if in answer, and totally unexpected, fireflies—like so many stars—lit up the trees and shrubs and flickered over the grass, a simple reminder that life is good and beautiful. I actually cried from happiness.

The sad thing is that “firefly season” is short-lived. By this time, end of July, the most spectacular displays are over. A few stragglers—those late for the party—appear well past dark, sometimes no more than two or three at a time to signal their desire for a mate. And then, within an hour or so, the yard is dark and still, with only the sounds of crickets filling the night.

Over the years I’ve done some reading up on the Lampyridae family of insects, the winged beetle order Coleoptera. No, they’re not flies, and up close they’re probably among the ugliest creatures I’ve seen. There are over 2,000 species of fireflies in the world, but only a few have the ability to emit the yellow, green or pale blue glow we have here in the eastern U.S. According to scientists, the reaction in their bodies that produces their light (bioluminescence) is among the most efficient in that it is nearly all glow and almost no heat. The light comes from luciferin, a chemical in their abdomens that, when combined with oxygen, produces their characteristic glow.

Among the fireflies in my yard, I count four different varieties. There are the synchronistic pulsers, males which signal the females of the species that they’re ready to mate. The females generally lie low in the grass with their answering flicker. Streakers seem to be in a great hurry, maybe to a party in someone else’s yard. And then there are the seducers, cannibal fireflies that mimic the flash of the female to lure an unsuspecting male to his death.

Unfortunately, due to a host of factors such as pesticide use and light pollution, firefly populations are in decline over most of the planet. But not in my yard. We have the perfect combination of damp creek bed in a forested tract just beyond a stand of willows, where the females like to lay their eggs. The larva and even their eggs are known to produce a glow, protection from other critters that would otherwise find them distasteful, even poisonous. In some species, the larvae burrow underground, sometimes for years, before emerging in late spring.

As writers, we’re told to write about what we know, which is good advice, but only to a certain point. In my fantasy novel, The Return of Tachlanad, I found a place for my beloved fireflies (which you can see on the lovely cover by Michelle Lee). At first glance they appear to be the same flickering, flying creatures that light up my summer nights, but these guys have a whole other personality and a bit of magic.

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh's Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan's Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her The Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon.

Sepia photographs and other stories revisited by Sheila Claydon

Eighteen months ago I wrote about a sepia print I found in a box of old photographs and how the beautiful young woman and dashing young man who were its main characters transfixed me. I was so intrigued by their apparent happiness that I tracked down their story and discovered that while it didn't have a sad ending, it didn't have a happy one either. By the end of their lives they were careworn and frail from years of hard work and semi-poverty. Their lives were typical of many people who lived in rural England in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.  (To read their full story search for Sheila Claydon 14 September 2014 on this website)

Of course research prompts possibilities for a writer and before long I had the beginning of a book. It wasn't the real story of Rose and Arthur, although it borrowed a lot of facts from their lives, it was the one in my imagination.

There were two problems, however. The first was that I was still in the middle of writing Miss Locatelli, my book set mostly in Florence in Italy. The second was that however much I tried to avoid it, Remembering Rose insisted on being  written in the first person, something I had never tried before. It wasn't Rose's voice that was telling the story though, it was Rachel, her great-great-granddaughter.

It took me a while to discover that Rachel wanted to be Rose's mouthpiece across the centuries but when I did I had another dilemma. Time travel! I'd never tried that before either.

There was another problem too. I mainly write contemporary romance, so how was that going to work in a book that was about someone from the nineteenth century?

The end result, after wrestling for weeks with various ideas, is a number of intertwined romances, some contemporary, some historical, as well as a sort of family saga, and of course that elusive time travel. By the time I finished I felt as if I had run a very difficult marathon but it was worth it. I love Rose and Rachel even though they are very far from perfect, and I love their heroes even more.

Writing Remembering Rose has been like piecing together a jigsaw puzzle and although the real Rose and Arthur will never know they were the inspiration for this story, and would probably be horrified at how I've interpreted them, I like to think they would forgive me for playing with their lives if they did.

Sheila Claydon's books can be found at Books We Love and Amazon . She also has a website and can be found on facebook

WRITING GREAT HISTORICAL ROMANCE - MARGARET TANNER

HISTORICAL ROMANCE - DO'S AND DON'TS - MARGARET TANNER.

Why do I write historical romance: Because I love history.

The most important aspects are:

You must be passionate about your subject in a historical novel. You might get away

without this passion in a contemporary, but you won’t in a historical:

Historical Accuracy. Without that, your novel is doomed and so are you.

Write about an era that you are interested in.

I am not into Medieval or Regency, so it would be tedious trying to do the research required for this, and I wouldn’t have the passion about it, and I am sure this would show in my writing.

Research Options:

The internet (use with caution as you can’t be 100% sure that the person who posted knows what they are talking about).

Library reference books – a great place to start.

Museums

Cemeteries

Quizzing elderly relatives (depending, of course, which era you are writing about)

2^nd World War, Vietnam, Great Depression – all o.k. because they would have lived during these times.

Reading family diaries and/or letters.

Actually visiting places where you story takes place or somewhere similar.

e.g. I visited the old Melbourne jail for my novel, Daring Masquerade, set during the 1st World War,  because my heroine was jailed for being a spy. I wanted to see what it was like. The walls were solid bluestone, and cold, even on a warm day. The cell was small etc.

Settings:

Name towns: Know the area. What grows etc. I always set most of my stories in N.E. Victoria because I know the area well. Mention a few main towns, but I never be too specific, because you can get easily caught out.  I always make up a fake town near a main town or city.

In my novel, Allison’s War, set in 1916, I said the heroine lived at Dixon’s Siding (made up name) i.e The left the farm at Dixon’s Siding, and after an hours riding (horses) reached Wangaratta.

I PURPOSELY DID NOT SAY Dixon’s Siding was (10 miles west of Wangaratta on the Greta/Myrtleford Road, because I didn’t know for sure, that there wasn’t a giant lake there or a massive quarry at that time (1916).

QUIZ: WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE STATEMENT?

Lauren’s Dilemma

1.30a.m. 25th April 1915. Gallipoli Peninsula, Turkey

Pte. Danny Williamson shivered in the chilly air as he waited on the deck of the troopship.

A.    0130 hrs – not 1.30a.m. No soldier would say 1.30a.m. The army always uses the 24 hour clock

My novel, A Wicked Deception is set in 1854.

On arrival at the homestead, Melanie unsaddled the mare and let her loose in the stockyards James had constructed from split logs. Surprising how neglected a house became after being left empty for a few days

Within 5 minutes she had dusted the kitchen and was sitting down having a cup of hot milky tea?

A.    Where did she get the milk? She would have had to milk the cow.  

Water would have to be boiled on wood stove? She would have had to light the stove, maybe even cut the wood for it. This would certainly take more than 5 minutes.

In Daring Masquerade 1916. The heroine goes to ring Colonel Andrew Smith. She punches in the telephone number and waits for him to pick up the phone? No.

A.   She rang the operator, dialled the exchange etc. And she certainly didn’t use her mobile phone.

On her wedding night, her nightgown was exquisite, a soft, white polyester, lavishly trimmed with lace.

A.    No polyester in those days.

Beware of modern language and slang.

A poor, uneducated person wouldn’t speak the same way as a rich, educated person.

So, as you can see there are many pitfalls to writing historical fiction, but if you have a genuine love of history it is a pleasure to write in this genre.

 DARING MASQUERADE

When Harriet Martin masquerades as a boy to help her shell-shocked brother in 1916, falling in love with her boss wasn’t part of the plan.

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