Being a Better Writer: Historical Fiction

Welcome back, readers! And sorry for the delay. Life … finds a way. That isn’t always to one’s benefit! This week is just looking crazy.

Which means it’s probably best if I dive right in, given my ticking clock today. So, historical fiction …

Okay, disclaimer. I give these every so often. I don’t write historical fiction. So I’m not the best authority on this subject. While I have written stuff that has taken place in other time periods, both future (Colony) and past (Shadow of an Empire), both of those also deviate quite a bit from what would be considered historical fiction because one’s the future, and the other isn’t Earth, but a fantasy world with magic thrown into the mix.

Which doesn’t mean you can’t throw a little magic into things with your historical fiction—it’s been done. What I’m saying is that my grasp of historical fiction is not as complete as someone who writes historical fiction full-time. I touch on it, they embrace it.

But … even with those who embrace it, there is plenty of historical fiction out there that is truly terrible. Just bad. And if you want to write historical fiction, you’re going to want to avoid stepping into those same mistakes, and into those same pitfalls. So, what are they? Well, let’s talk shop! Writing shop!

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Being a Better Writer: Writing About Injuries

Hello readers, and welcome to … Topic. List. Eleven!

Okay, so it’s probably not such a big deal for those of you who are newcomers or aren’t sitting on my end of the keyboard, but on this side knowing that I’ve made it through ten of these sheets of paper with Being a Better Writer topics on them is a little awe-inspiring. This marks the fifth year of writing these, and from the look if it, I’m not going to run out of topics anytime soon.

So then, let’s talk injuries. Specifically, writing about them, why we write about them, and some of the different ways we can use them in our writing, for good or bad.

Actually, we’re going to tackle this in not quite that order. First up, why write about injury? Why should we be concerned with keeping track of our characters pains and aches, especially if they’re not “important” to the story?

Well, as you can probably guess by the quotes around “important” in that last paragraph, I’d disagree entirely, regardless of the type of story that we’re writing. That’s right, injury and pain are just as important in a story that’s a Regency Romance as they are in a story that’s an action-adventure novel. Do you know why?

Because pain and injury, minor or major, are a part of life. They’re as much as it sounds strange to say it this way, a unique flavor that’s a part and parcel of the experience. Ask yourself how many times you’ve stubbed a toe, burned a finger or palm, or suffered a cut or scrape across your arm. In all likelihood, you probably can’t even remember a large number of those times … but you still know that they happened because they’re part of the experience of life.

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Being a Better Writer: Balancing Readers’ Suspension of Disbelief

“Go! Go! Go!” Natalie didn’t need to be told twice. With the clock ticking, the building was only minutes from coming apart in a blast that would level half the block. If she could get away before then, she had a chance, but if not …

“Go!” the voice in her ear shouted once more.

“I’m going!” she snapped, crouching by the body of the colonel and retrieving his sidearm. Some of his thugs could still be standing between her and the exit.

“Natalie, you need to be moving, and I don’t hear you moving!”

“I’m busy, Jerry,” she muttered. “Maybe you could be useful for once and tell me how to get out of here rather than just screaming in a panic?”

She checked the pistol’s clip. Six shots. It would have to be enough. She rose, grabbing the colonel’s bag and swinging it over her shoulder. She couldn’t save the building … but at least she’d save the gold. Two-and-a-half million dollars worth of gold would set her up for life.

Gold and handgun secure, she began running down the hall, no destination in mind other than away from the bomb ticking down behind her. Her heels sounded out a rapid, staccato rhythm with her steps as she exited the hall into the penthouse atrium.

A loud bang was the only warning she got as the glass near her shattered, a bullet tearing through it. She ducked, crouching as the gunman—one of the colonel’s—continued to spray bullets in her direction.

She didn’t have time to play around. She lifted the colonel’s handgun, made a quick estimation based on the direction the bullets were flying from, and fired off a rapid trio of blind shots.

The gunfire stopped, her assailant either dead or dying, and she bolted back to a sprint.

“Natalie!”

“Kind of busy right now!” she shot back as another gunman opened fire. She fired on the move, spitting several bullets back at him. How long was left before the bomb went off? She wasn’t sure.

“I’ve got a way out,” Jerry continued, heedless of her warning or the shots whizzing past her head. How many men did the colonel have? “You need to get to the elevators. The cars themselves are locked, but you can ride the cable down to the ground floor.

“Too long,” she said, firing again and scoring a direct hit on one of her attackers. They fell with a scream. “What’s outside?”

“What?” Jerry asked as she fired again, downing another mercenary.

“What’s outside?” she asked. “If I jump out of the building—”

“Jump out? Are you insane?”

“What’s outside!?” she demanded, crouching behind a couch as more gunfire tore the expensive leather apart.

“Cars? A parking lot? The reflecting pool? A—”

What side is the pool on?” she shouted as she returned fire, the gun kicking against her hand. Another gunman went down.

“Uh … West side!”

“Got it!” That was the side she was on. She rose form her hiding place, sprinting towards the glass wall, firing on the move. The glass splintered, her view of the setting sun suddenly awash with physical static.

She hit the window at a sprint, glass shattering around her as she fell into open space. She could see the wading pool below her, rushing up at impossibly fast speeds. Ten stories passed in a heartbeat.

She hit with a wet slap, stinging pain erupting across her entire body as she sank into the pool. Her feet touched bottom, and she kicked upwards, her head breaking the surface. How much time was left before the bomb went off? She brought her wrist up, checking her watch and—

Ducked seconds before a faint whump swept through the water, rattling her body like a child’s toy. Seconds later something large and heavy splashed down in the pool, sinking through the water past her, and she kicked off, swimming forward as quickly as she could.

Gradually the rumbling slowed, and she broke the surface again, standing in the pool. Of the ten-story penthouse the colonel had been using for his scheme, all that remained was a pile of twisted wreckage. His scheme was finished.

She almost sat down in the water with relief. It was over. And … She checked the bag still slung across her shoulder.

Two-and-a-half million dollars worth of gold bars glimmered back at her.

Okay, did anyone see anything wrong with all that?

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